Quick money running out at Prestwick airport
Tonite- Accies Glasgow
Tomorrow
Village, Edinburgh
New cds with me
Hope you camne come!
Friday, August 29, 2008
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Thorts: Meowmachines, Munchausen and Mellotrons
Ha Ha- my friend Kim sent me a wry observation about artists and musicians and their generosity- and how sometimes this is not so welcome! The boundary between sharing and blowing one's own trumpet is very quivery indeed, I agree.
That was a thort on the way back from Tom's.
He is going to New York in October for good and I'm scurrying to finish stuff before he goes. I was re-doing the vocal on The Apple Tree which I've tried to put on Myspace but not sure if it's there.
There were other thorts; as the furious cats realise they're off to the cattery again (gigs in Scotland this weekend), I thought of them yelling in their boxes and how funny it would be to march into a poncy studio with a cat carry-box and announce that it's a Meowmachine and I want it on my track. A bit like the human piano in Munchausen that prod-uces sound when the poor caged captives are jabbed in the bum with a sharp bumjabber operated by the person playing the piano keyboard. Which made me think of its similarities to the Mellotron, whose tapes had to be re-wound at the end of every gig.
Ah, technology! Good old Rabelais, predicting the recording of sound with his story of frozen battle sounds melting in the sun years later and being perfectly preserved, even though the battle was over centuries ago.
Meanwhile there has been more interest about a Chefs compilation. And Amazon has listed Poetry and Rhyme as Poems and Rhymes. That's hilarious, as I'd changed the name from Polyhymnia because I thought it would be difficult!
That was a thort on the way back from Tom's.
He is going to New York in October for good and I'm scurrying to finish stuff before he goes. I was re-doing the vocal on The Apple Tree which I've tried to put on Myspace but not sure if it's there.
There were other thorts; as the furious cats realise they're off to the cattery again (gigs in Scotland this weekend), I thought of them yelling in their boxes and how funny it would be to march into a poncy studio with a cat carry-box and announce that it's a Meowmachine and I want it on my track. A bit like the human piano in Munchausen that prod-uces sound when the poor caged captives are jabbed in the bum with a sharp bumjabber operated by the person playing the piano keyboard. Which made me think of its similarities to the Mellotron, whose tapes had to be re-wound at the end of every gig.
Ah, technology! Good old Rabelais, predicting the recording of sound with his story of frozen battle sounds melting in the sun years later and being perfectly preserved, even though the battle was over centuries ago.
Meanwhile there has been more interest about a Chefs compilation. And Amazon has listed Poetry and Rhyme as Poems and Rhymes. That's hilarious, as I'd changed the name from Polyhymnia because I thought it would be difficult!
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Antiques and Old Songs
I'm having a troublesome day today; whichever way I turn there's a prickly barbed-wire bush throwing out its sharp tendrils to entangle me.
I think they call it One Of Those Days.
I was thinking about antique furniture and how people value a rare and old object for things aside from its functionality, and how one of the things they value most is their exclusive ownership of that object.
It's very different with old songs, the audio antiques, because their value is in their generality and the way people want to share them. Sometimes I think about owning nothing but the thoughts in my head and the words that come out of my mouth, and how different that would be.
I am throwing away masses of stuff at the moment- old memories, clothes that no longer fit, things that I thought would be useful but weren't; the charity-shop bin bag is puffed up and bloated with my past, fake valuables and awkward disappointments.
Just think, if you owned nothing, you could imagine your environment in a different way every day! Sometimes, in order to be a better guitarist, I pretend I'm someone else who plays better than me, or in order to be unafraid in certain situations, I pretend to be someone I know who isn't frightened by anything. I find this works very well. You should try it.
I think they call it One Of Those Days.
I was thinking about antique furniture and how people value a rare and old object for things aside from its functionality, and how one of the things they value most is their exclusive ownership of that object.
It's very different with old songs, the audio antiques, because their value is in their generality and the way people want to share them. Sometimes I think about owning nothing but the thoughts in my head and the words that come out of my mouth, and how different that would be.
I am throwing away masses of stuff at the moment- old memories, clothes that no longer fit, things that I thought would be useful but weren't; the charity-shop bin bag is puffed up and bloated with my past, fake valuables and awkward disappointments.
Just think, if you owned nothing, you could imagine your environment in a different way every day! Sometimes, in order to be a better guitarist, I pretend I'm someone else who plays better than me, or in order to be unafraid in certain situations, I pretend to be someone I know who isn't frightened by anything. I find this works very well. You should try it.
A Present from Peter and the Penguins
Look what Peter and the Penguins sent me, all the way from their fjord in Norway!
Something is happening in the world of Penguins; first, one gets knighted, and next, they learn to paint!
Listen to their sunny music at
http://http://www.myspace.com/peterthepenguins
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Rochefort en Accords part three
Left: Karel Beer, facilitator of the festival and general catalyst
Below left: BJ Cole and Martin Stephenson relax together. BJ accompanied lots of different artists throughout the festival in spite of having to play a borrowed pedal steel guitar, after Ryanair damaged the pickup on his own. Apparently there are only 40 pedal steel players in the whole of France, so he was lucky to find one.
Discovery of the festival was Gabriel Yacoub, a singer songwriter whose music had a real mediaeval feel to it. It actually sounded really French and fitted in perfectly. As for the audiences- they were great: they listened, laughed, and danced in all the right places.
That's not a miniature rhinoceros standing on Martin's head- it's part of the decor of the hotel, that he was sitting in front of!
The fantastic sax player, Rob from Canada, said that he'd learned age 14 with Clarence 'Gatemouth' Brown, to play in three part harmony in Clarence's brass section; Clarence would sing and the three of them would have to mimic his line, which was nearly always improvised, in harmony straight away. No wonder he's such a good player!
Rochefort en Accords part two
Left: on the main stage sound checking ('balance' en francais). The sound guys were great- they turned up at the shows that they weren't doing the sound at, just out of interest. I don't think I have ever been to a friendlier gig
Above: On the stage at the garden of the museum; I sang a spectacular bum note but managed to pull myself together; it was a lovely afternoon, with Angie Palmer doing a set (liked the train song!) with the house band, then I did a couple of songs and Martin Stephenson did a set too, which went down really well.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Rochfort en Accords
Just got back yesterday from the festival at Rochefort; it was an amazing experience and I will take a bit of time tomorrow to write about it properly. Hats off to Karel Beer, who was one of the main organisers. I have some great photos and it will be hard to decide which ones to post here but I'm sure there will be a festival website.
I've just spent the day writing songs and eating cake with Jane (Morvern Callar) which was a pretty damn good way to spend a bank holiday. She brought round a lovely pear and almond cake, and in between stuffing our faces with that and strawberries and raspberries, we wrote a folk song (2 guitars, 2 voices) and a punk song for a special bingo evening in South London (Jane on bass, me on guitar, both of us shouting and singing). We filled the kitchen with instruments, even carrying in the wheezy harmonium from the front room that requires the energy to power six exercise bicycles to get a squeak out of it. She'd brought her violin and clarinet, and after the writing bit, I showed her how to play Two Strings to Your Bow on the guitar.
The other bit of news was receiving a box of preview copies of Poetry and Rhyme. The official release date is the 4th October and I still have to find a suitable place for a launch. The CD looks and sounds beautiful and I am really proud of it and the musicians who played on it, Tom who recorded it and Em who did the cover. It will be available on Amazon (isn't that amazong?).
I'm tired. Goodnight.
I've just spent the day writing songs and eating cake with Jane (Morvern Callar) which was a pretty damn good way to spend a bank holiday. She brought round a lovely pear and almond cake, and in between stuffing our faces with that and strawberries and raspberries, we wrote a folk song (2 guitars, 2 voices) and a punk song for a special bingo evening in South London (Jane on bass, me on guitar, both of us shouting and singing). We filled the kitchen with instruments, even carrying in the wheezy harmonium from the front room that requires the energy to power six exercise bicycles to get a squeak out of it. She'd brought her violin and clarinet, and after the writing bit, I showed her how to play Two Strings to Your Bow on the guitar.
The other bit of news was receiving a box of preview copies of Poetry and Rhyme. The official release date is the 4th October and I still have to find a suitable place for a launch. The CD looks and sounds beautiful and I am really proud of it and the musicians who played on it, Tom who recorded it and Em who did the cover. It will be available on Amazon (isn't that amazong?).
I'm tired. Goodnight.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
I almost forgot...
... every L-driver in the whole of North London, stalling just as the lights turned green (at least ten of 'em), and the dear little ancient old man and old lady who were stranded on a traffic island. looking beseechingly at the oncoming traffic as it whizzed past, dangerously close to their bunions. Conscience made me stop, but I sweated buckets as they edged painfully slowly across the road, and I couldn't start up again until they were both safely standing on the pavement, much to the annoyance of the car behind, which was probably being driven by an even more stressed person than me!
Whooshing through Wednesday
Calm, calm, calm... calm,calm,calm...
The cattery called last night.
'Where are your cats?', they asked.'We've had a power cut and want to go out for something to eat'.
DRAT!!
I had forgotten to take them; I'm going to play at a festival in France tomorrow.
They kindly offered to keep open till 1.30 this lunchtime, so I whizzed over to Dalston first for Headway East's Songwriting Workshop.
The guys were amazing- in an hour we wrote an entire song, verses, chorus and other bit (bridge?) and more importantly, everyone joined in singing it at the end. It was really, really fun and I hope to go back there and do more.
After, I leapt into the car and sat behind every slow dust truck in London, every little old man driving at 20 miles and hour in a 30 mile an hour zone, at least four slow u-turns, a half-hour traffic-light controlled roadworks at East Finchley and a series of annoying red traffic lights till I got home, threw the poor cats, who had been snoozing peacefully on the chairs they're not allowed to sleep on, into their cat boxes and roared up the road to South Mimms, getting there in the nick of time.
'What?, asked the cats sleepily as I vanished over the horizon.
Meanwhile, member of the household had locked themselves out and was sitting sadly on the doorstep, sending forlorn texts.
I put my foot down on the accellerator, screeching to a halt outside the front door, receiving a text as I turned off the engine, 'Mannged to get spare key from neighbour'.
Stressed, moi?
I tried to go to sleep for a nap, which I just can't do; I don't know why I ever bother. I wrapped the arms of my spare sweatshirt round my head several times and it was still too light. I could hear every grain of dust (and there are many) rustling around the house, the windows rattling, the little boy next door having a funny game, cars bumping past the window and then the phone rang.
How I wish I had a multi-pack of walnut whips! I ate seven of them the other day, one by one, and they improved the flow of the daily angstfest no end. Note to self: lay in supplies for the Winter now, while they are on special offer!
The cattery called last night.
'Where are your cats?', they asked.'We've had a power cut and want to go out for something to eat'.
DRAT!!
I had forgotten to take them; I'm going to play at a festival in France tomorrow.
They kindly offered to keep open till 1.30 this lunchtime, so I whizzed over to Dalston first for Headway East's Songwriting Workshop.
The guys were amazing- in an hour we wrote an entire song, verses, chorus and other bit (bridge?) and more importantly, everyone joined in singing it at the end. It was really, really fun and I hope to go back there and do more.
After, I leapt into the car and sat behind every slow dust truck in London, every little old man driving at 20 miles and hour in a 30 mile an hour zone, at least four slow u-turns, a half-hour traffic-light controlled roadworks at East Finchley and a series of annoying red traffic lights till I got home, threw the poor cats, who had been snoozing peacefully on the chairs they're not allowed to sleep on, into their cat boxes and roared up the road to South Mimms, getting there in the nick of time.
'What?, asked the cats sleepily as I vanished over the horizon.
Meanwhile, member of the household had locked themselves out and was sitting sadly on the doorstep, sending forlorn texts.
I put my foot down on the accellerator, screeching to a halt outside the front door, receiving a text as I turned off the engine, 'Mannged to get spare key from neighbour'.
Stressed, moi?
I tried to go to sleep for a nap, which I just can't do; I don't know why I ever bother. I wrapped the arms of my spare sweatshirt round my head several times and it was still too light. I could hear every grain of dust (and there are many) rustling around the house, the windows rattling, the little boy next door having a funny game, cars bumping past the window and then the phone rang.
How I wish I had a multi-pack of walnut whips! I ate seven of them the other day, one by one, and they improved the flow of the daily angstfest no end. Note to self: lay in supplies for the Winter now, while they are on special offer!
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
The Zombies
My friend in the USA, photographer Daniel Coston, has sent me a whole bunch of CDs. At the moment I'm listening to the Zombies, who feature the wonderful Colin Blunstone on vocals, and a string quartet. The music is utterly delicious- I bought Colin's single, Say You Don't Mind from a record sale in Barnet about a year ago; it was a huge lesson in songwriting for me when I was a little girl, because it is all there as clear as daylight, and has his beautiful, easy, soaring voce overlaid on it to make you want to listen to it over and over again. You MUST listen to them, they are fabulous, like sun-warmed raspberries and fresh cream on a sunny day.
Daniel takes distinctive photographs- he did some in the USA when I was over there. He is mostly non-digital, which means his pix have a dreamy feel that you just don't get with high-definition digital photos.
(I like this style of photography; when I was at art college in Brighton I took loads of photos with my grandpappy's old camera which didn't focus properly, and they were most unusual, misty and overcast and odd).
Daniel came to the UK a few months ago to see the Zombies with his wife, Sandra, and we wnet out for lunch on a cold rainy London day, and that's when we discovered that we were all Blunstone fans.
He's sent a load of other music too, which is a lovely treat. Diana's coming over this afternoon to edit some film about Indian musicians, and we will listen to it together, eating raspberries of course, even though it's raining.
Above: one of Daniel's photographs, taken on Dolph Ramseur's porch in North Carolina
Monday, August 18, 2008
Why I Ranted
It was because I got to work at the University of the East this morning and dumped in a pile on my desk were:
The wooden babushka Elvis Presley-through-the-ages set;
The plastic Vincent Van Gogh with a replaceable head with/without ear;
The plastic Spice Girls with heads so huge in comparison with their bodies that they tumble over unless supported;
The tin robot Little Bruv gave me;
The Bratz Rock Star Doll, still in its pack;
My bunch of red Valentine roses (now dried)
My postcards
They had left Colourchange-hair Ken in his red suit made from an old sock with holes cut in it (YES!)
But where all the other things had been was a cardboard 2007/08 calendar from a printers, neatly assembled, as a Statement.
Somebody thought I was silly to have those things on my shelf in the office, didn't they?
The wooden babushka Elvis Presley-through-the-ages set;
The plastic Vincent Van Gogh with a replaceable head with/without ear;
The plastic Spice Girls with heads so huge in comparison with their bodies that they tumble over unless supported;
The tin robot Little Bruv gave me;
The Bratz Rock Star Doll, still in its pack;
My bunch of red Valentine roses (now dried)
My postcards
They had left Colourchange-hair Ken in his red suit made from an old sock with holes cut in it (YES!)
But where all the other things had been was a cardboard 2007/08 calendar from a printers, neatly assembled, as a Statement.
Somebody thought I was silly to have those things on my shelf in the office, didn't they?
Putting My House In Order
I've spent the day looking through the CD collection, intending to throw some out, but that time will come when I finally move house. It was interesting, though- I found a lot of missing darlings and I'm gonna have a good old play through them when I have finished the current stage in the operation, Sitting Down For A While.
I found a couple of Helen and the Horns Etc CDs which I'm not sure whether to take down to Rough Trade or not- I will have to check to see if it's still up on their website. I found two Christmas ones (I wonder if Bendi want some new Christmas tracks? That was a lot of fun!).
Nude Magazine have been in touch to say they are going to review Poetry and Rhyme in their September issue. I'm dead pleased because I really like the magazine; they do a lot of stuff about illustrators and artists at the margins, and I love all that. They also advertise lots of weird clothing and jewellery and I love all that too.
Anyway... off to Rochefort en Accords on Thursday to a collaboration festival that will have to be my holiday this year too. BJ Cole's going, who played on Songbird, and lots of other people too. It will be fun.
I'm going into the studio again next week to finish a song off because Martin and myself have almost finished our distance-collaboration album. He is recording in Ross-shire this afternoon; I shall be recording in good old Kenton above the pub and the Indian sweet shop. You know the one.
Rant
I understand that musicians and artists are Up-Their-Own-Arseists. We were born this way and we can not help it. I remember being shut in a room at the Employment Office in the 1980s, the door bolted by a man in a pale blue nylon shirt who proceeded to harangue me for ages about how I saw myself as an artist in a garret, and how I should just get a normal job like everyone else.
He summed up something during that shoutfest: some people hate artheads because they can not understand them. They think we want to deliberately get up their noses by sewing our embroidery on the bottom left hand corner of our shirts instead of in the middle like everyone else (seriously, that was another one!!). But I hereby make a statement for our rights! Not for nothing did we get bullied mercilessly at school and despaired of by our parents! We are here, on our own planets while simultaneously treading the Earth with you; tolerate us, love us and we will share everything with you because part of being a true artist is a massive generosity of spirit, and we would like nothing better than for everyone we meet to enjoy the pleasures of creativity as much as we do.
So there.
I found a couple of Helen and the Horns Etc CDs which I'm not sure whether to take down to Rough Trade or not- I will have to check to see if it's still up on their website. I found two Christmas ones (I wonder if Bendi want some new Christmas tracks? That was a lot of fun!).
Nude Magazine have been in touch to say they are going to review Poetry and Rhyme in their September issue. I'm dead pleased because I really like the magazine; they do a lot of stuff about illustrators and artists at the margins, and I love all that. They also advertise lots of weird clothing and jewellery and I love all that too.
Anyway... off to Rochefort en Accords on Thursday to a collaboration festival that will have to be my holiday this year too. BJ Cole's going, who played on Songbird, and lots of other people too. It will be fun.
I'm going into the studio again next week to finish a song off because Martin and myself have almost finished our distance-collaboration album. He is recording in Ross-shire this afternoon; I shall be recording in good old Kenton above the pub and the Indian sweet shop. You know the one.
Rant
I understand that musicians and artists are Up-Their-Own-Arseists. We were born this way and we can not help it. I remember being shut in a room at the Employment Office in the 1980s, the door bolted by a man in a pale blue nylon shirt who proceeded to harangue me for ages about how I saw myself as an artist in a garret, and how I should just get a normal job like everyone else.
He summed up something during that shoutfest: some people hate artheads because they can not understand them. They think we want to deliberately get up their noses by sewing our embroidery on the bottom left hand corner of our shirts instead of in the middle like everyone else (seriously, that was another one!!). But I hereby make a statement for our rights! Not for nothing did we get bullied mercilessly at school and despaired of by our parents! We are here, on our own planets while simultaneously treading the Earth with you; tolerate us, love us and we will share everything with you because part of being a true artist is a massive generosity of spirit, and we would like nothing better than for everyone we meet to enjoy the pleasures of creativity as much as we do.
So there.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Sunday Prayer (suburban)
Lord be Praised for Vanish stain remover, for its help in purging carpets of bilious cat vomit.
Amen
Amen
Venues and Sock
1. Anyone suggest a good venue for my CD launch in October? I'd like somewhere not too fancy but a little unusual: close to a tube station and fairly central London so people can get to it!
2. I have just put my one hand-knitted odd sock on eBay!
2. I have just put my one hand-knitted odd sock on eBay!
Bohemia, the words
What a beautiful place! Mown green lawns glowing in the overcast light, a quaint chocolate-box cottage, woods, sky, balmy breezes, old fashioned tents and bunting, and the air scented by Hampstead money; the minibus from the car park rolled through secret woodlands with shady ponds and sunbeam-lit glades into Eridge Park.
Nobody seemed to quite know what was going on; I was tired from a round trip to Leeds the previous day and was tempted to be grumpy but I inhaled the 1940s Sussex atmosphere, all of it, counted to a hundred and marched to a tent with a PA, where I announced that I was due to play at 3, and found a PA guy with a very cross face. So I played for half an hour, to the copious bar staff and a charming little girl who took to the dance floor and danced all the way through; people wandered in and out; a woman in a red coat sat at the back and a couple of guys in forties garb supped pints to my right. I sang to the invisible hordes and out of the hole in the top of the tent.
After I'd finished, I strolled past people playing ancient games that involved items on the grass and shouting, past the lawn tennis, and spied Katy in the distance, clearly not enjoying having to organise her tent. Yes: I discovered that I'd played not only in the wrong tent but also at the wrong time! Katy got me a coffee, we sat on a swingy seat for a while and chatted, and then went on down to her tent where Steph West had struck up on her harp.
The only other harp player I have seen recently is Serafina Steer, who is funny and loud; Steph's style was very different and probably a lot more traditional. She has a lovely aura about her and sings a combination of achingly sad folk songs and merrier music in a beautiful clear lyric voice, at one with her harp and at ease in front of her audience. She is very much a pastoral performer; where Serafina is brittle and urban; Steph's music fitted in perfectly with the dreamy atmosphere of the late afternoon and the assorted Bohemians loved her.
Afterwards, I played some songs (Little England, Temptation, Love on the Wind and Heaven Avenue), and I was glad I did; Katy danced like the free spirit that she is, and a singer-songwriter called Sarah Spade asked if she could do some of my songs in her set. I was absolutely delighted and now have to find out what the chords are so I can send them to her.
So what looked like being a disaster for a weary person turned out quite well in the end; pity I was too knackered to stay the night.
Just one thing though, posey men with waxed moustaches: there is no such thing as ironic vanity, you know. Billy CHildish allows his moustache to flop and floff about his mouth when it is off-duty. I saw enough self-admiring gentlemen there yesterday to take me through to the end of the year. Hats off to the baffled-looking chap who had come dressed as a 1960s doctor!
Nobody seemed to quite know what was going on; I was tired from a round trip to Leeds the previous day and was tempted to be grumpy but I inhaled the 1940s Sussex atmosphere, all of it, counted to a hundred and marched to a tent with a PA, where I announced that I was due to play at 3, and found a PA guy with a very cross face. So I played for half an hour, to the copious bar staff and a charming little girl who took to the dance floor and danced all the way through; people wandered in and out; a woman in a red coat sat at the back and a couple of guys in forties garb supped pints to my right. I sang to the invisible hordes and out of the hole in the top of the tent.
After I'd finished, I strolled past people playing ancient games that involved items on the grass and shouting, past the lawn tennis, and spied Katy in the distance, clearly not enjoying having to organise her tent. Yes: I discovered that I'd played not only in the wrong tent but also at the wrong time! Katy got me a coffee, we sat on a swingy seat for a while and chatted, and then went on down to her tent where Steph West had struck up on her harp.
The only other harp player I have seen recently is Serafina Steer, who is funny and loud; Steph's style was very different and probably a lot more traditional. She has a lovely aura about her and sings a combination of achingly sad folk songs and merrier music in a beautiful clear lyric voice, at one with her harp and at ease in front of her audience. She is very much a pastoral performer; where Serafina is brittle and urban; Steph's music fitted in perfectly with the dreamy atmosphere of the late afternoon and the assorted Bohemians loved her.
Afterwards, I played some songs (Little England, Temptation, Love on the Wind and Heaven Avenue), and I was glad I did; Katy danced like the free spirit that she is, and a singer-songwriter called Sarah Spade asked if she could do some of my songs in her set. I was absolutely delighted and now have to find out what the chords are so I can send them to her.
So what looked like being a disaster for a weary person turned out quite well in the end; pity I was too knackered to stay the night.
Just one thing though, posey men with waxed moustaches: there is no such thing as ironic vanity, you know. Billy CHildish allows his moustache to flop and floff about his mouth when it is off-duty. I saw enough self-admiring gentlemen there yesterday to take me through to the end of the year. Hats off to the baffled-looking chap who had come dressed as a 1960s doctor!
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