Tonight At The Waiting Room

https://dice.fm/event/yow2w2-caroline-trettine-12th-sep-the-waiting-room-london-tickets

Looking forward to this unique night!

Invisible Photographs

For some reason, Blogger's not uploading photographs at the moment. I have a great photo of Gran's banjo, which I went to collect yesterday and which has a new bridge, tuning peg and fake-gut strings. It sounds lovely. I can't remember how to play one, but it can sit beside me on the sofa until I work it out!

Well, there you go. You now have to upload your photos to the Google Drive. What a fuss.

I wonder how long it will be until people stop using the Internet altogether?

Reminder To Self

This is a reminder-to-self to always make my own audio recording of Zoom calls in which agreements are made, because the link to the recording made by the other party won't turn up in your inbox. Stealing ideas is unethical; flaunting the fact is dishonourable. That is all I have to say on the matter.

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.