Pink Tulle Dress, Trans Pride 2025

 

Recording Again

The computer is out on the kitchen table; the guitar is ready, the ideas are in my head.

Let's get started! 

More Unused Drawings

 

Jeff Tweedy

This is the last of twenty drawings of musicians that I'm going to exhibit in La Batisfera bookshop in Valencia from the 15th of April onwards, with a gig on Friday 17th. Most of the musicians are buskers and street musicians, but there are a few famous ones in the mix at the request of the bookshop owner.

Hors D'Hoovers

 

Good Moaning

Most of the blog postings that don't see the light of day are the moany ones. I usually feel that there's enough of that going on already, but this morning for some reason moaning seems funny! Here is my moan.

When I was in Newcastle a couple of weeks ago, I got up very early one sunny morning and went for a walk in the centre of the Toon. On every bench in the big shopping centre (the Eldon Centre), there was a duo or sometimes a trio of elderly men, moaning. Sometimes there was a walking stick, sometimes a flat cap, often a tweedyish jacket. And it wasn't just there: in the old Grainger Market, the same thing was going on. Sitting down together, looking around, and having a bloody good old moan about everything.

In the street walking back on the roadside benches? The same thing.

I talked to someone about it and they reckoned that their wives had probably chucked them out for the day, which is very possible.

What made me think of it was having to change the day and time that I go swimming, because here in the south of England the same thing happens. There was a particular duo of chaps with voices that carried across the peaceful waters of the swimming pool, who carefully positioned themselves halfway down so they could intercept innocent swimmers with their forthright and very Reform-focused opinions. I realised that their aim was to catch your eye and get you to agree with them. The weekly swim stopped being an endorphin-inducing pleasure, and became an exercise in swimming very quickly past them to avoid getting caught in their noxious net of opinions.

Greeting each beautiful morning with grumpiness seems to be an accepted practice at the moment. Perhaps we could reintroduce Morning Assembly, with cheerful singing of All Things Bright And Beautiful, Morning Has Broken or the perhaps the more emotionally stately Wonderful World, plus a short moment of silent and positive reflection to begin the day. 

Yes, let's do that!

Pop Star, Captain Scarlet

 

Jazz Band, Flamstead

 

Le Chat Noir, The Old Oak And The Little Buttercup

Last night we went to see a preview of the 'immersive dining' show, Le Chat Noir, in West Kensington. It was a chance for the company to effectively do a dress rehearsal to a full house, feeding us three courses of French-themed food and putting on a slightly bawdy show of songs, dance and magic based on the idea of the original Chat Noir nightclub in Paris.

In a very similar way to the London version of the show Cabaret, we were led through fabric tunnels with Art Nouveau-style paintings on the canvas, and greeted by a French-speaking chap before being seated. 

I've been to one of these shows at The Lost Estate before: it's essentially a cunningly-designed small warehouse building that holds probably around 180 people. The dress rehearsals are run-throughs that are attended by people from the local community (or honorary locals like me), and so the audiences are diverse in age, social background and heritage: probably quite hard to please, in some ways, but also rewarding in others. 

Just as with the previous one, it was remarkable how well the lighting was designed in the area where we sat at tables and ate together. We were mixed in with other people we didn't know, a charming couple of courting elders and a woman who had come on her own. There was a VIP section too, but there wasn't a feeling of segregation.

The food was nice: paté to start with, with bread and cornichons and tiny pickled onions. We were introduced to 'Erik Satie', and the show began. It was a slow take-off, although the Master of Ceremonies gave it his all right from the beginning. There were four main characters apart from him: a Pierrot, a woman Opera Singer, a woman Burlesque Dancer, and a Magician. There was an excellent band: a violin, a cello, drums and an accordion. In fairness you could say the first section was very much about introducing us to the performers, though it was a little light on energy. You could see that the performers knew what they were doing, but the stops hadn't yet been pulled out to the full.

After the first course though, things really took off. It's very hard to describe it all. The woman singer with the excellent voice suddenly turned into a Principal Boy, lustily singing the song from Carmen that we all know with such an erotic charge that she ended up performing it as a series of meows to the very flirtatious Burlesque Dancer, who turned out to be very good at 'acting face'. The Pierrot donned a pair of horns and took part in a very funny mock bullfight, and the MC declaimed a completely obscene poem about his aunt's pussy. Oh deary me! All in the name of art, I believe. The magician did an impressive trick involving a picture of a beach with a skull on the shore, and another where he shot a pack of cards that he'd flung in the air and caught the correct one that an audience member had chosen on the point of his sword. It all ended in a mass humpathon, then a lusty round of applause from a pretty sozzled audience. Along with way we'd sung a song in meows ourselves, cheered an execution, got to know our neighbours and had a jolly good, if confusing, time. The design was classy, the serving staff were impeccable, and it was a lot of fun in the end.

Picture of the MC drawn on paper napkin: there were no phones allowed. He didn't have a top hat- that's artistic licence on my part. At one point he had a microphone inside a tuba, which was very Thomas Truax. I also drew the dancer, who was the favourite performer of a woman sitting at the table with us, so I gave that one to her to take home. 

In total contrast, this afternoon was spent watching the Ken Loach film The Old Oak. His films are completely pitch perfect; it's hard to believe that the cast are acting. Even in the background of crowd scenes, the cast utterly believe in what is happening in the story. No-one zones out, not even the children. It made me cry and reminded me of all the other real-life people who are just naturally kind, and don't get rewarded for it in any way; it is the way they are made. Unkind people often have the loudest voices and the most bombastic self-belief, but it doesn't mean that they are right. So a night of artificiality was followed by an afternoon of authenticity. What an intense weekend. It will take at least a week to recover from.

Postscript: I've just remembered that on Batman this morning, our superhero attempted to sing I'm Little Buttercup (from the Gilbert and Sullivan opera HMS Pinafore) to Robin, with a red rose clasped in his hand. I'm pretty confident that this wasn't a dream, but it sure as heck felt like it.

RNLI, Whitstable

 

Charity Collector

 

Green Hair

Passing thoughts drifted through my head last week like clouds through the windy sky... 

I remembered working in a Bed and Breakfast in Brighton as a cleaner when punk first came to the town. Horrible job, actually. The owner, a woman who I got on really well with, asked me to look after it for the weekend while her family went away. The permanent residents (men on the dole) went out to the pub on the first night, came back, fried up the breakfasts for the whole weekend, and ate up all the food.

At 5 a.m. I had to charge around Brighton looking for eggs, bacon, bread and milk so I could make breakfast for the holidaymakers. Urgh. I managed to do it just in time.

I had green hair, dyed with food colouring: it dyed every pillow that I rested my head on. No need for tech tracking!

Tina Weymouth

 

Baby Brain

Well, I suppose you can't challenge the science, but I completed my MA when I was six months pregnant with my second child, and passed my driving test when I was nine months pregnant (she was a week late). It was the 5th attempt; I hadn't managed to pass when I wasn't.

I'm writing this because I'm doing lots of housework today; woman's work, you know. So I'm all cross about everything.

Unused Art

Quite often I get asked to illustrate various things, and the drawings don't get used. 

Same with music: I've got all sorts of collaborations that never see the light of day; they are all on a computer upstairs. This is a series of drawings that I did for a music video.

Cogs, Ratchets, Daffodils

It's interesting the way that memories and experiences recalibrate suddenly when you have a change of scene, then return to 'normality'. For some people, going somewhere else is better than a thousand therapy sessions. Sometimes, I think therapists throw a bunch of explosives into people's lives, and then simply go home for a cup of tea. It's not them who have to live with the consequences of their sessions. Sometimes, it seems the people whose lives they have disrupted need more therapy to recover. And so on, and so on. Anyway, I am probably prejudiced after having so many conversations with people who have been victims of the fallout from therapy sessions their children or partners have had, and yes I had a very good counselling session at one point, but I think that might be a slightly different thing.

Maybe because I'm arty-farty, the stuff that I do acts as a form of therapy in itself. So I should shut up, really.

What I meant to say is that I've returned from being away with a sense of calm and clarity. Before I left, I felt that someone had attached a drawstring to my face and pulled it tight so my features were scrunched up in a bundle of worry. Everything that passed my senses overloaded them and folded into the confusion. It's easy to forget that you have inner strength; when it comes back, it's a bit like being ironed from within and meeting the world with ease.

I know it won't last long; life will throw its spears again: the most important thing to remember is to get away when it happens, and clear my head. The machinery returns to its 'reset' mode, reboots, and normal function returns.

Meanwhile, here are the Trent Park daffodils, looking absolutely gorgeous and smelling gorgeous too.

Bang

This hotel has very loud doors; when they close, the floor shakes. I was awoken just after 6.30 by my neighbour leaving their room but it was a huge relief, because I'd been having a nightmare about the University where I used to work. 

Someone had moved into my office; they were a ceramicist, and they'd filled the drawers on the desk with blocks of fresh clay. This is the result of becoming over-engaged with the Channel 4 show The Great Pottery Throwdown, perhaps. I was able to rescue some tiny things from one of the drawers, but there was nobody around to ask why it had happened. The University was functioning, with assistants at the desk, security guards and all of the people-machinery to keep it ticking over, but there were no students and no lecturers. That this seemed so frustratingly normal might give you an inkling of how it feels to work in HE at the moment. Talking to people who are still in these places, you get the feeling that they are standing on one of those cliffs in Norfolk that are being brutally reclaimed by the sea.

It's going-home time and the sun is shining! What a lovely day to wake up to.

Newspaper and Cheese Scones

It's the last day of songwriter's exile and I suppose if I were a sculptor, you could say that I've cut the quarried granite blocks to shape and just need to join them and finish them.

I went for a walk this morning very early, thinking that I couldn't write another song in this location, but just as I was thinking that, and idea slid into my head from some brain branch where it had been perched waiting, so I came back and started working on it.

I've stopped again because I became stuck in a mire of trite rhymes, and I'm not aiming to write the message inside a Hallmark greetings card. It's OK, I have done enough for now. I compiled everything this morning and was shocked at how something that has felt so intense has resulted in so little material- but then I remembered that I have been writing lyrics too (until I got to the trite rhymes bit), and if I thread the lyrics on to the music, or vice versa, there is something there to work with. As for this morning's idea, it's almost like taking back a bit of treasure to gloat over when I get back home; this one, I don't want to finish so quickly. I want to savour it, which is the exact opposite of the tumbling-out of ideas for the other songs.

Isn't it wanky, a non-famous person like me burbling on about songwriting as though I am Burt Bacharach! Ha ha! Actually my favourite songwriter is Lionel Bart, because he could do everything, lots of different styles, and still sound like him.

Going out early was a mixed blessing: I thought the Grainger Market would be bustling, but in actual fact when I got there at 9 a.m. it was still yawning and didn't want to get out of bed. It's a strange mixture of harsh and sleepy, this city, and has been invaded by what must be sites of money laundering activities. I counted loads of Newsagents but not one single newspaper within them: lurid-coloured bottles of pop and shelves of sweets and crisps were lined up as far as the eye could see. There were no customers. It was worse than an indie merch stall, seriously! And the vacuum: 'What's happening in the world?' I don't know, have a sweetie!'. I know we are all supposed to scroll through ads and shouty headlines on our phones, but I wanted to unfold a rustling newspaper next to a cup of coffee, and read articles juxtaposed next to each other. That way, you can digest different perspectives that have been through some sort of gatekeeping process, even though you might not always agree with the gatekeepers' points of view. It took me ages to find one but finally I did, and I sat in the café with a giant cheese scone (Geordie caviar) and failed to complete the crossword, which felt like utter luxury.

It's started to rain out there: there are drops of rain clicking agains the window because it's windy too. Outside my hotel room I can hear the cleaners whooshing about with their Henries, and in adjacent rooms they are running water to clean the bathrooms. The sign on my door handle says that I am asleep and don't want to be disturbed. There wasn't a sign that said 'I am writing songs and don't want to be disturbed', otherwise I'd use that instead.

This morning's song is hovering about but I can't let it land just yet. I've arranged to meet Pauline at lunchtime, so I'm going to read a crap detective novel until then. 

Ta-ra pet-lambs!

Hexham, and a Vacant Head

When I opened the curtains this morning, it was a beautiful sunny day. It looked so enticing out there that I decided against hiding away and writing songs, and walked up to the station and caught the train to Hexham.

We used to go there every Saturday with McMum and McDad when we were little, and I used to hover in the stationery department of Robbs department store (now no longer there) while McMum did the food shopping. We'd see a little old lady with grey hair in a horse and cart clopping along the road to go to the market. Once, a bunch of us children from the village danced as the Pied Piper's rats in a show in the Hexham theatre (before it became a cinema), and the Wylam Girl Guides all dressed as monks for a procession in Hexham Abbey, singing a dismal chant, monks-habit costumes made as instructed from old white bedsheets.

I noticed a record shop across the way from the coffee shop, and it turned out that it belongs to Jamie Harwood and his partner Moira. What was intended to be a solitary amble through the streets sadly peering into long-gone shops turned into a jolly conversation about music instead. We talked about song writing too; how very nerdy!

Moria recommended a shop across the road that sold homewares; the man whose shop it was asked if my husband or male partner was across the way looking at records while I looked at the clothes, candles and cushions. I was incredibly polite under the circumstances, and it turned out that he is a musician too. 

So much food for thought! I'd probably be writing songs about all that if I wasn't already preoccupied with other matters. I bumped into Pauline Murray again on the way back to finish the morning's song, then went out to the Grainger Market and bought three bananas and a box of fresh blueberries of two quid, which seemed remarkably reasonable.

There is literally nothing left in my head. I'm sitting here with the window open listening to the gulls barking outside on the river Tyne. I know that I can write better lyrics than I've written, I know I'll have to change lots of things about the songs so far, and I know there's going to be a day of pouring rain tomorrow so I may well be holed up here just writing. For tonight, I'm going to fill my head with rubbish TV and read a bit of a crime novel, and you can't say fairer than that.

Two Gigs with Pauline Murray

It's going to be great to do these gigs with Pauline- we played together in London a few years ago at the Betsey Trotwood and it seemed as though every Geordie in town came along- and a few honourable Geordies to boot! A matinee in Brighton, and an evening gig on the Golden Hinde in London (no, autocorrect, it really isn't called the Golden Hinge!)

Posters nicked from Instagram, so don't click on the arrow, plz.

Brighton ticket link: https://www.seetickets.com/event/pauline-murray-helen-mccookerybook/the-prince-albert/3616963

London Ticket link: https://www.eventbrite.com/e/pauline-murray-penetration-helen-mccookerybook-live-on-the-golden-hinde-tickets-1984895127759

All Out Of Chords

I have a few beginnings, hip hip hooray.

I'm out of chords and out of energy, but happy to have made a start.

I met my friend today for a coffee break. It's so good to see someone that I've known since I was seventeen. We used to share a room in Sunderland at Mrs Hugie's house, and tried to share dreams but that didn't work. We have both had uppity-downity lives but here we still are, laughing and horrified in turn.

Will it rain tomorrow? The weather is lying about what it's going to do- even the weather. Truth is a very wobbly concept at the moment!

Writing Songs

I have come away on my own to write songs. Surprisingly, I got stuck in straight away yesterday afternoon when I got here, which was exhausting and I slept like a log last night.

I did something similar two years ago, but was much more relaxed about everything and went for copious walks in the sunshine (it was January in Devon and freakishly beautiful).

This time around the songs are for a specific purpose, and break the usual mould of chord sounds and imagery: they are storytelling songs that reject metaphors. One of yesterday's efforts was utter rubbish, but in an odd way that was quite a good result; the rubbish has to go somewhere, and out on a page is better than inside your head messing everything up in secret. At least I recognise rubbish when I hear it!

Annoyingly, I managed to leave the book that lyrics belong in at home, and had to go to buy a cheap notebook. It's got rough paper (supposedly for drawing on), but it's quite satisfying to scribble upon, making a scraping, scratchy sound with a suitably irritable timbre.

One of the things you realise is that you can't just sit there and 'songwrite' for hours on end; you need thinking time, so you need to wander around outside and daydream. That's one of my favourite activities, and even though I've booked a fairly grim, cheap hotel to stay in, the sun is shining and the walking around bits are fun. I've drunk the tea of three people (it's a last minute room with lots of supplies) so will have to take a proper break soon.

I've seen some astonishingly weird things: a young embarrassed-looking man in a short-sleeved polo shirt, carrying a tiny white-painted metal cage with a bright yellow cockatiel inside it down the very busy high street (the cockatiel looked very happy and self-important); a busker unpacking an acoustic guitar from its case, strumming a few chords, then burping really loudly; a serious-looking woman with an absolutely enormous stuffed plush duck attached to her wheelie suitcase, very early this morning; and two abseiling engineers in orange hi-vis sliding themselves up the very thin wires of the bridge in the sunshine, looking like some strange musical score that moves up and down before the instrumentalists can catch up with it.

For once, writing a blog post doesn't feel like procrastination. There's a mist of song ideas swirling around inside my head, and I have to wait for it to settle. Ideas that 'belonged' to one song have landed on an entirely different one. I've also written a guitar part that is impossible to play with my current skills, but that's probably a good thing too, because it'll have to be rehearsed until it comes easy.

I wonder if I can intercept one of the cleaners, and ask for some more tea bags.

Accordion Player, Quayside, Newcastle

 

Women of the World for International Women's Day

https://helenmccookerybook.bandcamp.com/track/women-of-the-world

March Bandcamp Friday Tomorrow

My own copies of this 7" vinyl single showed up yesterday. It's pressed on beautiful translucent blue vinyl, and is a collaboration between me and Willie Gibson, the analogue synth wizz that I've worked with before. I sing both tracks in Scottish Gaelic, which took a long time to learn!

https://helenmccookerybook.bandcamp.com/album/cailin-moruin-sa-ailein-duinn

Café

 

Neil Young (young)

 

Daffodils and the Car Wash

I'm swerving past the charity shops today just in case they grab me and force me to take back the many bags of some-people's-rubbish-other-people's-treasure. 'Gotcha!'. Will they recognise me? I hope not!

I drove to Trent Park: it's very rare to drive close to home, but it's a long walk and a complicated bus trip. Would the sea of daffodils be there, even though the main building (supposedly in trust for educational purposes) has been turned into luxury flats? Yes, they are still there, though only 50% in bloom at the moment. It's a bit early for them, I think. Enfield has not yet noticed climate change, although it has taken on board ethics change. 

There are murals by Rex Whistler in that building; I know this because not only did I study there, I also taught there. Studying there was wonderful; it involved a long journey from filthy Camberwell, via my sister-in-law's to drop off Offsprog One, up through infinite tube tunnels and out into what seemed like paradise. It wasn't just the lovely surroundings (actual SNOW in winter!) but it was a paradise of knowledge, of a brain finally being ready to learn really complex theories, and a mind broadening to enjoy art-forms I'd never previously seen the point of. Teaching, too: students turned up early for lectures, loved the knowledge, showed off their new tattoos, made eye-contact, asked questions and gave a round of applause at the end of each lecture. It was really stimulating. Then you got to walk down the hill to Oakwood tube station, through the actual oak woods, in a part of Greater London where people didn't strangle each other and steal each other's wallets.

In about ten days time the full display of daffodils will be ready, and people who know about them will make a pilgrimage to see them. Then you'll be able to hear their loud trumpets, playing a joyous spring chorus as they point to the left, point to the right and point up at the sky.. 'Look at us! We're here again!'

And here is a silly thing. I took my car to the automated car wash. It is just so much fun! I remember how thrilling it was when we used to go with McDad when we were children; I couldn't believe that such a mundane thing could be so entertaining. Enormous thundering brushes spin at a relentless speed and approach the windscreen; detergent sprays, water squirts. The car feels little (it is, anyway): over the roof and down the sides the huge brushes sweep simultaneously, whacking the car clean. Maybe time will stop and you'll be stuck there in an endless cycle! Oh no! Help! Finally, the air blows the water off the windscreen, and you're done. What an exciting adventure on a Tuesday afternoon.

It's not that clean, actually. It was shamefully grubby after a couple of long motorway journeys in torrential rain a few weeks ago and there hasn't seemed to be any point in getting in washed while it's been raining so much. This wash is a precursor to a Hungarian hand-wash that I hope might finally remove the moss from around the windows. It's kind of lovely to see it there, but it's probably not very good for the rubber seals. That's what happens when you drive to Scotland: you bring back souvenirs from the countryside and redistribute it darn sarf.

So that's today's adventures. 

Man on Tractor on Hot Day

 

Mad March Hare

https://helenmccookerybook.bandcamp.com/track/hare

Snowfall in the House

Triumphant after taking six bags of charity-shop stuff to three different shops, and collecting McMum's coat which I'd had taken up 14 centimetres (the moths were consistent), I unloaded Monday's washing.

Oh no.

Someone left a tissue in a pocket, and that someone was me. Snow all over the kitchen floor.

Two Bags Full

That's two bags of vintage clothes delivered to the Oxfam shop. 

A fine mist of dust is still floating around the house from yesterday, making everything look like a Vermeer painting. Some of it has settled and I've had the Henry (or rather the Henrietta: I wanted a pink one), out for a dust-slurping adventure. 

It's very vacuum-cleaner smelly, because it's a recycled one. I was a bit annoyed when I discovered that a new one would have cost the same amount to buy, but I consoled myself with the fact that there is one less Henry floating around in the Pacific Ocean with all the ancient Duplo and the discarded water-bottles.

Shall I take another couple of bags out? Maybe. I'll have a cup of coffee and make a decision. 

Kojak or charity shops?

Next Week

Next week I'm going away on a solo song writing retreat. I have so many ideas but it's impossible to even start them properly at home because there are so many distractions. 

I did this in 2023: I went away in January that year, and only really wrote one complete song- but somehow the cogs in my mind adjusted themselves and when I got back I just sat down and wrote a whole lot of 'em.

The funny thing is that as soon as I decided what I was going to do, even more ideas popped up. This means that I will have to edit which songs I finish and which I don't. This always feels alarming at the time, but is actually a really good thing to do. I remember when Beyoncé brought out her Lemonade album, it got so many excellent reviews that I really wanted to listen to it. I was fascinated by the song-house idea, too: the problem was that I didn't  know where to start, so I didn't start at all!

Simon Frith, the academic and rock critic, once said that Garageband was the worst thing that had happened to music, because there was a complete flood of DIY music with no mediators. Taking into account that he himself is a mediator and perhaps has a vested interest in protecting opinion-formers, I started to see his point, until I realised that I am one of the guilty parties (though in my case, it's Logic Audio). 

Right from the start, I've filled the cutting room floor with rejected songs, middle eights, lyrics and harmonies. I once overstuffed a song so much that I couldn't decide what to lose and dumped the whole thing. When I did the Showtunes from the Shadows album, I shelved two songs completely. I also chopped out verses and backing vocals, and in one of the songs completely re-wrote the lyrics because they were potentially contentious, and some people didn't want to be associated with it.

Sorry to burble on. Both Offsprogs came here and cleared stuff from the loft yesterday- impressively, they managed to empty about five boxes, but I've now got a very large number of bags to take to charity shops this week, and writing this post is part of an elaborate plan to put that off. I must make a start: I can't go off on a song writing retreat with Toy Story DVDs and redundant costume jewellery piled up in the room to come back to. Such things are energy vampires. Begone!