Woolielegs was a round ball of black and white fur who lived wild at the bottom of Jimmy and Martin's garden in Barbaraville.
She ate birds (left the wings), bacon and other bits she could scrounge from Jimmy and Martin, sunbathed like tame cats do, and had that odd self-possessed air (some call it arrogance) that is a feature of feline creatures.
She survived outdoors most winters but had recently moved in to Jimmy's house, I hear, where she actually played around like a domesticated cat.
She survived some horrible injuries (possibly being attacked by a seagull, or maybe being hit by a passing car) but could not survive her own illness.
She was like a little guardian of the cottages, wandering around doing her cat-chores, following the cat map, running through wild animal routines and communicating with humans when necessary in a squeaky little voice.
Poor Woolielegs, I will miss you, and the idea of you too.
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
DJ Sonny's Review
DJ Sonny sent me this lovely review from Bangkok, and says its OK to put his translation up here. It is from Thailand's Esquire magazine; what a perfect place to be reviewed!
> Helen McCookerybook
> "Poetry & Rhyme"
> [Barbaraville]
>
> For those who were willing to part with their hard-earned
> to own a legal
> copy of Helen McCookerybook's last CD "Suburban
> Pastoral" from the strength
> of our review, would not believe how lucky they are - as
> they have been
> rewarded with one of the most sublime and beloved music
> albums. The same
> group of people will definitely be delighted to learn that
> Helen is now
> releasing her new album, "Poetry & Rhyme".
> This latest one shines brighter
> than other recent releases. Much credits are due from
> Martin Stephenson,
> Elle Osbourne and Gina Birch, but Helen's precious
> voice and
> wildflower-scented melodies remain highlights. Gina's
> bass in "Screaming"
> distills a lover's rock feel over Helen's folky
> guitar licks. "January In
> Paris" reminds us somehow of a lost scarf once owned
> by The Style Council
> circa "Cafe Bleu" sessions. "A New Day"
> promises a shining hope, thanks to
> Martin which contributes his guitar magic to this catchy
> song. Title track
> mid-album is full of grace, something similar to angels
> singing during one
> of lover's London afternoons. Closer
> "Silkworm", just Helen and her
> keyboards, could well be a lost, much-heralded balearic
> track for this
> winter. Like loving and caring as poetry and rhyme.
Monday, December 01, 2008
Winter Melody: Song Club hits the studio
I spent the morning wrestling with the click-track of Garageband, trying to make a backing track to take into the studio in the afternoon; not being a strummer, my timing was drifting hither and thither, with the blip blip blip of the metronome nagging me at the centre of my skull.
Then I did a perfect version minus a verse; then a version where I lost my place in the chorus and couldn't remember if I'd already played a bit of it or not; then I realised that I was recording it through the computer microphone and not the line-in.
Exasperated, I made a giant cupatea and the ears-rest did me good.
The next version was fine and I burned off a CD and stuck an MP4 on to my USB drive as a back-up.
I'd forgotten Chuck Warner was going to call from the States, but we had a nice chat about all things female-musical 1970s/1980s, and I know we will talk again soon. He's going to send me some music and I'm looking forward to that.
It was time to go down to the school and collect the children. They were all there, loud and with their packed lunches, and Sejal was there to help. We made a shouting crocodile and shouted up the road in the bitter cold (why didn't their voices scare the frost away?), crunching to a shouting halt at the kerbside, folding together like an accordion before expanding again as we crossed. They stumped down the narrow stairs to the studio and into the live room, and subsided on to the floor where they rummaged in their Tesco bags for their peperamis and crisps. Lee had set up a couple of microphones and we did coats-off (no velcro, zips or rustling anorak material to spoil the singing), and launched straight into it. The song came together second-take, and we managed to do a harmony too before they trooped into the control room for a fidgety listen. It's more of a boisterous shout than a song, in places, but I felt proud of them because they are so young and they got into their gig like a bunch of mini-pros. In less than an hour, the lyrics were de-blutacked from the wall and we were off back down to the school, much too fast because it was downhill on the way back and childrens' legs are set to auto-run on downward gradients, pre-fall. Every so often I had to slow them down as the angle between their heads and their feet became dangerously acute.
We had a listen when we got back. It was great. I had had a nice day, and so had they.
Then I did a perfect version minus a verse; then a version where I lost my place in the chorus and couldn't remember if I'd already played a bit of it or not; then I realised that I was recording it through the computer microphone and not the line-in.
Exasperated, I made a giant cupatea and the ears-rest did me good.
The next version was fine and I burned off a CD and stuck an MP4 on to my USB drive as a back-up.
I'd forgotten Chuck Warner was going to call from the States, but we had a nice chat about all things female-musical 1970s/1980s, and I know we will talk again soon. He's going to send me some music and I'm looking forward to that.
It was time to go down to the school and collect the children. They were all there, loud and with their packed lunches, and Sejal was there to help. We made a shouting crocodile and shouted up the road in the bitter cold (why didn't their voices scare the frost away?), crunching to a shouting halt at the kerbside, folding together like an accordion before expanding again as we crossed. They stumped down the narrow stairs to the studio and into the live room, and subsided on to the floor where they rummaged in their Tesco bags for their peperamis and crisps. Lee had set up a couple of microphones and we did coats-off (no velcro, zips or rustling anorak material to spoil the singing), and launched straight into it. The song came together second-take, and we managed to do a harmony too before they trooped into the control room for a fidgety listen. It's more of a boisterous shout than a song, in places, but I felt proud of them because they are so young and they got into their gig like a bunch of mini-pros. In less than an hour, the lyrics were de-blutacked from the wall and we were off back down to the school, much too fast because it was downhill on the way back and childrens' legs are set to auto-run on downward gradients, pre-fall. Every so often I had to slow them down as the angle between their heads and their feet became dangerously acute.
We had a listen when we got back. It was great. I had had a nice day, and so had they.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Bellows
I've just got back from the vintage fair, a chaotic affair for me as my teeny technology let me down , and since there were stalls all over the stage this time I had to station myself in the corridor leading to the Gents, much to the embarrassment of the gents-in-need who had to sidle past me.
My babiest amp, the one that I was going to put the microphone through, had a case of suddenly dead battery, and the multi-adaptor I'd brought just in case was so multi-pronged it wouldn't fit into the socket. Oh well, I thought, I'll sing unplugged.
At least the micro-cube guitar amp was working, although it's power switch had displayed an appalling design fault as it had switched itself on in the box and drained a full set of batteries.
But I'd forgotten my guitar strap in a case of hasty packing, and adapted to that by resting my foot on a chair, only to find that the battery of my guitar tuner had packed up too.
Those Luddites had something, you know.
However, there was a good reverb in the stairwell and I serenaded Monty, my niece and nephew, assorted children and babies, embarrassed gents, the person on the door taking the money and the stylish Ma'ams who had nipped out the front door for a quick fag from time to time. I played some of the more rockin' songs and had a good old bellow.
It was ok, you know.
And tonight I'm off to Daniel Takes a Train's single launch.
My babiest amp, the one that I was going to put the microphone through, had a case of suddenly dead battery, and the multi-adaptor I'd brought just in case was so multi-pronged it wouldn't fit into the socket. Oh well, I thought, I'll sing unplugged.
At least the micro-cube guitar amp was working, although it's power switch had displayed an appalling design fault as it had switched itself on in the box and drained a full set of batteries.
But I'd forgotten my guitar strap in a case of hasty packing, and adapted to that by resting my foot on a chair, only to find that the battery of my guitar tuner had packed up too.
Those Luddites had something, you know.
However, there was a good reverb in the stairwell and I serenaded Monty, my niece and nephew, assorted children and babies, embarrassed gents, the person on the door taking the money and the stylish Ma'ams who had nipped out the front door for a quick fag from time to time. I played some of the more rockin' songs and had a good old bellow.
It was ok, you know.
And tonight I'm off to Daniel Takes a Train's single launch.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Sonnabend
I've cobbled together a duo of teeny amps for tomorrow's Vintage Clothing Fair gig. They are so small they will probably have the opposite effect to amplification, and will actually make my guitar and voice quieter than they really are instead of amplifying them. This should be an interesting scientific phenomenon and I will take a photo of it if it proves to be true.
I think I will play at about 12.30. I'll put the dinner on first, then hoof it up to the church hall with a big bag with the little amps in it. My nephew and niece have been staying- I taught him how to make spaghetti bolognaise this evening- and if he wakes up in time tomorrow I will teach him some chords and he can strum along on his left-handed guitar. He also plays trumpet but he hasn't brought that, more's the pity. That would make those cool vintage shoppers leap out of their Betty Barclays! (pardon the vintage-shopper in-joke).
We drove round all afternoon trying to ice-skate. The queue at Alexandra Palace was massive and it was bitterly cold, so we went to Parliament Hill Fields because it said on the Internet that their open-air rink was there today, but there was no ice to be seen, so we went back to Alexandra Palace, only to find they had no skates left in our sizes. I had been entertaining them with stories about me falling over backwards and learning to prevent that by skating with my chest and bum poking out so I look like a stupid duck, so this was a disappointment for all.
They are comfortably seated at the Odeon now with a bag of toffee popcorn, watching the new James Bond, while I wait in trepidation for 25 school kids to turn up to celebrate a birthday here. Don't ask- it's complicated! My ban on Singstar has been over-ruled, and I'm just hoping the journey back from Pizza Express takes them as far as the eleven o'clock curfew when the carriages appear to take them home where they will turn back into mice, pumpkins, &c
Where's my guitar? I feel the blues a-comin' on.
I think I will play at about 12.30. I'll put the dinner on first, then hoof it up to the church hall with a big bag with the little amps in it. My nephew and niece have been staying- I taught him how to make spaghetti bolognaise this evening- and if he wakes up in time tomorrow I will teach him some chords and he can strum along on his left-handed guitar. He also plays trumpet but he hasn't brought that, more's the pity. That would make those cool vintage shoppers leap out of their Betty Barclays! (pardon the vintage-shopper in-joke).
We drove round all afternoon trying to ice-skate. The queue at Alexandra Palace was massive and it was bitterly cold, so we went to Parliament Hill Fields because it said on the Internet that their open-air rink was there today, but there was no ice to be seen, so we went back to Alexandra Palace, only to find they had no skates left in our sizes. I had been entertaining them with stories about me falling over backwards and learning to prevent that by skating with my chest and bum poking out so I look like a stupid duck, so this was a disappointment for all.
They are comfortably seated at the Odeon now with a bag of toffee popcorn, watching the new James Bond, while I wait in trepidation for 25 school kids to turn up to celebrate a birthday here. Don't ask- it's complicated! My ban on Singstar has been over-ruled, and I'm just hoping the journey back from Pizza Express takes them as far as the eleven o'clock curfew when the carriages appear to take them home where they will turn back into mice, pumpkins, &c
Where's my guitar? I feel the blues a-comin' on.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Reprise of Christmas Joke, Just 4 U
The children at Song Club loved this joke so much it stopped them from being able to think of any others to tell me in return.
The burly Viking Rudolf the Red was looking out of the window at the falling snow.
"Ahhh", he said to his ever-loving wife, "Look at the rain!"
'You are very much mistaken, darling', said his wife, "That is snow!"
He turned to her, pityingly.
"Rudolf the Red knows rain, dear".
The burly Viking Rudolf the Red was looking out of the window at the falling snow.
"Ahhh", he said to his ever-loving wife, "Look at the rain!"
'You are very much mistaken, darling', said his wife, "That is snow!"
He turned to her, pityingly.
"Rudolf the Red knows rain, dear".
Pootling, and the Strange World of Music Shops
I woke up with a sore throat and realised that perhaps it WAS a good idea to get a microphone for Sunday's show at the Barnet Vintage Fair. I had changed my mind about getting one after experiencing Digital Village's rude staff yet again.
So I checked in on my University of the East students, who are recording their songs, and then hopped on the DLR to Denmark Street in the West End to see what I could see.
I had called yesterday and discovered I could get an SM58 for £79.00 (a lot of money, yes, but actually very reasonable for such a robust and useful microphone), and I went into the shop I thought I'd phoned.
After much umming and ahing, dramatic peering at the computer screen (which may or may not have been on) and tapping away at a calculator with a clickety clackety flourish, the guy informed me in a sorrowful tone that the cost was £89.00, and that I would find this to be true wherever I went, because that's how much they cost these days. I explained about my phone call and he said, 'Well, perhaps you mean the shop downstairs, but we are part of the same company and I know they won't sell you one any cheaper'.
Worth a try anyway, I thought, and lo and behold, downstairs the microphone cost £79.00.
Do you think they added a tenner for every flight of stairs you ascended? Just imagine how much it would cost by the time you'd got to the tenth floor!
Music shops have always had their own logic, which often involves their salesmen being contemptuous of their customers, particularly the female ones. I mentioned this in my book. But it works the other way, too; the guy in Sound Control in Oxford Street (sadly no longer in existence) was so easy to talk to and so accepting of the fact that I am a guitarist who knows about guitars, that I bought my lovely green Gretsch from him without a murmur, on interest-free credit sure enough, but I expect that he probably did a lot of business with girl guitarists by being the way he was.
It was such a relief not to have to climb the mountain of someone else's prejudices before being able to get on with what I wanted to do!
Denmark Street is fun, though, even with the comedy shop assistants, and the journey lifted my spirits so much that I didn't even mind getting on the wrong branch of the DLR to get back, and the train breaking down for ten minutes. I watched a man in an orange fluorescent jacket looking down a huge hole while I was waitng for the train to start working again. I wonder what he was looking for?
So I checked in on my University of the East students, who are recording their songs, and then hopped on the DLR to Denmark Street in the West End to see what I could see.
I had called yesterday and discovered I could get an SM58 for £79.00 (a lot of money, yes, but actually very reasonable for such a robust and useful microphone), and I went into the shop I thought I'd phoned.
After much umming and ahing, dramatic peering at the computer screen (which may or may not have been on) and tapping away at a calculator with a clickety clackety flourish, the guy informed me in a sorrowful tone that the cost was £89.00, and that I would find this to be true wherever I went, because that's how much they cost these days. I explained about my phone call and he said, 'Well, perhaps you mean the shop downstairs, but we are part of the same company and I know they won't sell you one any cheaper'.
Worth a try anyway, I thought, and lo and behold, downstairs the microphone cost £79.00.
Do you think they added a tenner for every flight of stairs you ascended? Just imagine how much it would cost by the time you'd got to the tenth floor!
Music shops have always had their own logic, which often involves their salesmen being contemptuous of their customers, particularly the female ones. I mentioned this in my book. But it works the other way, too; the guy in Sound Control in Oxford Street (sadly no longer in existence) was so easy to talk to and so accepting of the fact that I am a guitarist who knows about guitars, that I bought my lovely green Gretsch from him without a murmur, on interest-free credit sure enough, but I expect that he probably did a lot of business with girl guitarists by being the way he was.
It was such a relief not to have to climb the mountain of someone else's prejudices before being able to get on with what I wanted to do!
Denmark Street is fun, though, even with the comedy shop assistants, and the journey lifted my spirits so much that I didn't even mind getting on the wrong branch of the DLR to get back, and the train breaking down for ten minutes. I watched a man in an orange fluorescent jacket looking down a huge hole while I was waitng for the train to start working again. I wonder what he was looking for?
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Rantfiltering
First of all, this blog was for bigging-up my gigs and other musical activities; it then turned into a diary-cum-autobiography with a bit of early-morning positive therapy thrown in from time to time.
Once, I had the idea of the negative-personal blog, Helancholy McMelancholy's Miserablog.
Parallel to this one, there are a series of ranting drafts, where I have vented my spleen and then not seen the point of publishing the results! They are saved as a cautionary series but will never see the light of computer screen.
I can be a meanie and a moanie, as my bitter 500-word non-posting about the sexist smirking staff in High Barnet's Digital Village music shop would have attested to, should you have read it.
As it is, feel at liberty to create a negative mirror image of every positive posting here, along with a positive mirror image for all the negative ones!
Once, I had the idea of the negative-personal blog, Helancholy McMelancholy's Miserablog.
Parallel to this one, there are a series of ranting drafts, where I have vented my spleen and then not seen the point of publishing the results! They are saved as a cautionary series but will never see the light of computer screen.
I can be a meanie and a moanie, as my bitter 500-word non-posting about the sexist smirking staff in High Barnet's Digital Village music shop would have attested to, should you have read it.
As it is, feel at liberty to create a negative mirror image of every positive posting here, along with a positive mirror image for all the negative ones!
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Good Things
I had been unreasonably upset by Gordon Ramsey's (alleged) affair, not because I know or like him, but... well, everybody's at it, ain't they?
Anyway, yesterday evening changed the icy headwind. First of all, I'd booked Jo Thomas to come to talk to the M.A. Audio students at the University of the West. She is a composer in sound who uses processed vocal signals to create music, and her talk was technically fascinating and really absorbing.
Unforchly I had to leave halfway through to head down to Balham (I only got lost twice) where one of the undergraduate songwriters I taught last year, Alex Lipinsky, was a finalist in a songwriting competition organised by the Musician's Benevolent Fund, The Peter Whittingham Award. I'd never been to the Bedford before- it's much smaller than I'd thought, but the better for it. The finalists were a mixed bunch; no black performers, which was a shame, and one pretty dirgey pianist, but the winners, a band from Liverpool with a very charming singer, deserved to win.
What thrilled me to bits, though, was that Alex got a special award to research and develop his songs. He'd submitted what I thought were fairly standard sounding songs, but the performance of his second one was amazing. Last year he composed a whole bunch of songs featuring the ukelele, and managed the coup of not sounding like George Formby at all, but sounding like what he is, a young and talented singer-songwriter. So I know he deserves the money and he's shortly to go off to the States, where I think his sunny nature and positive songs will go down very well.
Richard Lobb was there (he is a songwriter friend of Lucy Silvas, one of the judges along with Nick Heyward and Joan Armatrading) and we swapped venue reviews. He plays with a band that is financed by Damian Hearst and who have been recently supporting Oasis. But I can't remember what he said they were called!
Anyway, yesterday evening changed the icy headwind. First of all, I'd booked Jo Thomas to come to talk to the M.A. Audio students at the University of the West. She is a composer in sound who uses processed vocal signals to create music, and her talk was technically fascinating and really absorbing.
Unforchly I had to leave halfway through to head down to Balham (I only got lost twice) where one of the undergraduate songwriters I taught last year, Alex Lipinsky, was a finalist in a songwriting competition organised by the Musician's Benevolent Fund, The Peter Whittingham Award. I'd never been to the Bedford before- it's much smaller than I'd thought, but the better for it. The finalists were a mixed bunch; no black performers, which was a shame, and one pretty dirgey pianist, but the winners, a band from Liverpool with a very charming singer, deserved to win.
What thrilled me to bits, though, was that Alex got a special award to research and develop his songs. He'd submitted what I thought were fairly standard sounding songs, but the performance of his second one was amazing. Last year he composed a whole bunch of songs featuring the ukelele, and managed the coup of not sounding like George Formby at all, but sounding like what he is, a young and talented singer-songwriter. So I know he deserves the money and he's shortly to go off to the States, where I think his sunny nature and positive songs will go down very well.
Richard Lobb was there (he is a songwriter friend of Lucy Silvas, one of the judges along with Nick Heyward and Joan Armatrading) and we swapped venue reviews. He plays with a band that is financed by Damian Hearst and who have been recently supporting Oasis. But I can't remember what he said they were called!
Monday, November 24, 2008
Don Juan Who?
I've been mulling this over for a few days. I rarely go to the theatre; if I do, it's to the pantomime, which I love more than anyone else, especially if it is small, regional, and the leading lady is getting rather long in the tooth. Generally, I avoid it like the plague, and I particularly dislike musicals and especially the awful cheesy version of Grease that I went to see in the West End a few years ago. I almost forgot- there was a really good play called A Play What I Wrote; that was brilliant, especially as on the day we went, the guest actor was Miranda Richardson, who played the Queen in Blackadder. It made me weep with laughter, and a chronically ill member of our party guffawed all the way through.
Anyway... Sara, who used to play percussion and sing in No Man's Band, a pre-punk all-female Brighton band, invited me to make up a group of people to go to see this play at the Riverside Theatre in Hammersmith; her sister had devised it, directed it and was also acting in it. Sara's such fun, I couldn't say no ( A New Day was written about her), even though I had misgivings, and wasn't sure I could sit through an hour and forty minutes without fidgeting or falling asleep and snoring.
Well, I did neither of those things. It was a very funny play, is a kind of sly way sometimes, and a boisterous way at others. It had been devised on the internet by British and Slovenian actors. It was very feminist without telling anybody- the nudity (lots of it) was male and at at one point, when I thought 'Oh no, they are going to show the tits now', a woman's body was revealed to show flesh-coloured binding on her chest and a hilarious fake willy-and-balls set made of beige nylon.
There was one pillow fight (looked like a hundred pillows) in which the women buried the men, and a later one where the men buried the women. Sometimes there seemed to be too much writhing, but then there were some very funny 'to camera' type confessions, a dual text with words projected n the backcloth (often mocking the storyline), and constant translation into Slovenian which sometimes turned the English words into a joke, just by clever use of facial expression.
What did I think? It was very well done, and I found the actors' faces fascinating. I didn't feel enlightened, but I did feel amused, and the wry cynicism poked fun at both men and women, highlighting cliche without resorting to it. I didn't fall asleep, snore, burp, fart or doodle; it was interesting all the way through, so I didn't look at my watch; there was something very up-to-the-minute about it, as though all the ideas were hot off the press, and it was really energetic. So for a rare foray to the theatre, it was definitely worth it, and all the better for catching up with Sara too.
Anyway... Sara, who used to play percussion and sing in No Man's Band, a pre-punk all-female Brighton band, invited me to make up a group of people to go to see this play at the Riverside Theatre in Hammersmith; her sister had devised it, directed it and was also acting in it. Sara's such fun, I couldn't say no ( A New Day was written about her), even though I had misgivings, and wasn't sure I could sit through an hour and forty minutes without fidgeting or falling asleep and snoring.
Well, I did neither of those things. It was a very funny play, is a kind of sly way sometimes, and a boisterous way at others. It had been devised on the internet by British and Slovenian actors. It was very feminist without telling anybody- the nudity (lots of it) was male and at at one point, when I thought 'Oh no, they are going to show the tits now', a woman's body was revealed to show flesh-coloured binding on her chest and a hilarious fake willy-and-balls set made of beige nylon.
There was one pillow fight (looked like a hundred pillows) in which the women buried the men, and a later one where the men buried the women. Sometimes there seemed to be too much writhing, but then there were some very funny 'to camera' type confessions, a dual text with words projected n the backcloth (often mocking the storyline), and constant translation into Slovenian which sometimes turned the English words into a joke, just by clever use of facial expression.
What did I think? It was very well done, and I found the actors' faces fascinating. I didn't feel enlightened, but I did feel amused, and the wry cynicism poked fun at both men and women, highlighting cliche without resorting to it. I didn't fall asleep, snore, burp, fart or doodle; it was interesting all the way through, so I didn't look at my watch; there was something very up-to-the-minute about it, as though all the ideas were hot off the press, and it was really energetic. So for a rare foray to the theatre, it was definitely worth it, and all the better for catching up with Sara too.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Weather Vanes
When my cats stamp on my head with their sharp and spiteful little feet in the mornings as they try to 'persuade' me to get up and feed them, I can tell by the temperature of their paws what sort of day it is outside. Warm and dry? Gonna be a sunny day. Cold and dry? Sunny but chilly.
Cold and wet?
Get lost, you little brutes, I've got mud all over my face and now I'm gonna have to wash the pillowcase!
Cold and wet?
Get lost, you little brutes, I've got mud all over my face and now I'm gonna have to wash the pillowcase!
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
Teenager
When you are a teenager, everything seems wrong with you, physically and mentally.
I had long brown wavy hair, which was wrong, so I decided it needed to be curly.
I wetted it and plaited it in lots of little plaits tied up with string; next morning, I untangled it.
'You look like a sheep', said McDad.
Because it was wrong for my hair to be curly, I decided it needed to be straight.
I got the ironing board and spent an evening ironing it with McMum's iron, which involved excruciating bodily twistings and stretchings and pulling my hair so hard it hurt.
It still didn't look any better.
I n the end, I cut it all off.
That taught it a lesson!
I had long brown wavy hair, which was wrong, so I decided it needed to be curly.
I wetted it and plaited it in lots of little plaits tied up with string; next morning, I untangled it.
'You look like a sheep', said McDad.
Because it was wrong for my hair to be curly, I decided it needed to be straight.
I got the ironing board and spent an evening ironing it with McMum's iron, which involved excruciating bodily twistings and stretchings and pulling my hair so hard it hurt.
It still didn't look any better.
I n the end, I cut it all off.
That taught it a lesson!
Mosaic
Well, life is a many-splendoured thing indeed, featuring today in my case a morning lecture on how to write about the music technology used in pop and rock, through a depressing staff meeting, through an 18-mile rush round the North Circular, to the final day of Song Club in which the children blew the roof off their computer suite with their lovely singing, then choc chip cookies all round. Hats off to their singing teacher for holding the fort unexpectedly yeaterday.
I can't believe that the end of the week has come.
The DJay Buddha has sent some rough mix tracks through from last weekend's amazing sessions and I'll put one up on Myspace this weekend; the low point of the week was the shenanigans surrounding the Chefs album, which got so close and then fell away again; when I've recovered a bit I will try a different approach, perhaps, but disappointment takes it out of you.
Some nice gigs have accumulated for next year; I was hoping for a review of Poetry and Rhyme in Mojo (I know Lucy O'Brien did one) but it's not there; instead I have a review of the book in Popular Music!
Tonight it's time to relax. I will cook something that involves lazily chucking items into a pan at ten minute intervals, listen to the Zombies compilation that Daniel Coston sent me, look at my clothes (I like that, after a week of grabbing what comes first when I open the cupboard door; it's fun to find the clothes that have been hiding all week), drink tea, drink more tea, watch a small amount of crappy TV and wander round the house from room to room experiencing the different flavours of silence.
My luxury, which now replaces chocolate and ice cream, will be phone conversations with a couple of friends about nothing in particular. There is nothing like the sound of a friend's voice on a Friday night to soothe the prickly problems accumulated over the week.
I can't believe that the end of the week has come.
The DJay Buddha has sent some rough mix tracks through from last weekend's amazing sessions and I'll put one up on Myspace this weekend; the low point of the week was the shenanigans surrounding the Chefs album, which got so close and then fell away again; when I've recovered a bit I will try a different approach, perhaps, but disappointment takes it out of you.
Some nice gigs have accumulated for next year; I was hoping for a review of Poetry and Rhyme in Mojo (I know Lucy O'Brien did one) but it's not there; instead I have a review of the book in Popular Music!
Tonight it's time to relax. I will cook something that involves lazily chucking items into a pan at ten minute intervals, listen to the Zombies compilation that Daniel Coston sent me, look at my clothes (I like that, after a week of grabbing what comes first when I open the cupboard door; it's fun to find the clothes that have been hiding all week), drink tea, drink more tea, watch a small amount of crappy TV and wander round the house from room to room experiencing the different flavours of silence.
My luxury, which now replaces chocolate and ice cream, will be phone conversations with a couple of friends about nothing in particular. There is nothing like the sound of a friend's voice on a Friday night to soothe the prickly problems accumulated over the week.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Treading Water
Tough week; the Chefs album has been shelved, due to copyright issues. What a disappointment!
I've also ended up running Song Club on my own after being let down by both of the students who should have been involved. I can't believe it, but I realise my mistake was to employ students and not ex-students as I used to. The children are great though and adore silent head-and-shoulders (the knees and toes one, not the shampoo). You should try it sometime, it rocks, especially when you start taking bits away.
I spent early morning doing a rapid Garageband emergency recording of their song, with harmonies, so their music teacher can take over tomorrow.
I found a good review of The Lost Women of Rock Music in a pop music academic journal that's just come out more than a year after the book came out, but better late than never. It's particularly interesting because the Typical Girls discussion group is absolutely bubbling with stuff about the Slits, some of which made me so fed up I almost unsubscribed: people were making wish-lists of different line-ups, completely ignoring the fact that Anna and Dr No (who I know) and Adele have done a fantastic job of being as Ari says, 'new blood' and have helped to get the band going again. However, the discussion calmed down and became more interesting, talking about the idea of not being able to play and what the band actually sounded like way back then, and how they evolved musically. Meanwhile it seems their management or publicists or whoever are so rubbish that the gig they had planned in London has been cancelled because nobody knew about it and nobody bought tickets. It must be damnably frustrating to be in such a band, wanting to play and wanting to record, and having those things made impossible for you to go forward with.
Meanwhile the DJay Buddha has done a great mix of Rockin' Girl. Should be interesting to hear Joe's mix too! I'm still running on energy from that weekend, actually.
I've also ended up running Song Club on my own after being let down by both of the students who should have been involved. I can't believe it, but I realise my mistake was to employ students and not ex-students as I used to. The children are great though and adore silent head-and-shoulders (the knees and toes one, not the shampoo). You should try it sometime, it rocks, especially when you start taking bits away.
I spent early morning doing a rapid Garageband emergency recording of their song, with harmonies, so their music teacher can take over tomorrow.
I found a good review of The Lost Women of Rock Music in a pop music academic journal that's just come out more than a year after the book came out, but better late than never. It's particularly interesting because the Typical Girls discussion group is absolutely bubbling with stuff about the Slits, some of which made me so fed up I almost unsubscribed: people were making wish-lists of different line-ups, completely ignoring the fact that Anna and Dr No (who I know) and Adele have done a fantastic job of being as Ari says, 'new blood' and have helped to get the band going again. However, the discussion calmed down and became more interesting, talking about the idea of not being able to play and what the band actually sounded like way back then, and how they evolved musically. Meanwhile it seems their management or publicists or whoever are so rubbish that the gig they had planned in London has been cancelled because nobody knew about it and nobody bought tickets. It must be damnably frustrating to be in such a band, wanting to play and wanting to record, and having those things made impossible for you to go forward with.
Meanwhile the DJay Buddha has done a great mix of Rockin' Girl. Should be interesting to hear Joe's mix too! I'm still running on energy from that weekend, actually.
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