Charged and out on bail: the main offender and his sidekick, a young girl.
They are not allowed anywhere near Offsprog 2, who is out again tonight.
Thank you for wishing us well.
I had an interesting day today; I had a meeting at The Premises studio in Hackney, and was shown around afterwards.
It has a great little cafe downstairs, and upstairs there are rehearsal studios and a recording studio on the top floor that is solar powered.
The Puppini Sisters were in there, recording their Christmas album in the sweltering heat.
There was tinsel wrapped around the mic stands and some rather flabby-looking pink balloons attached to music stands and the piano, so they could get into that wintry groove.
A very old and distinguished-looking double bass lay sideways on the floor, and an old sunburst Gibson semi-acoustic perched on a guitar stand ready for action.
They have a remix room stuffed with vintage effects units and a reconditioned Trident desk, massive and imposing like something from the Starship Enterprise, buttons and faders galore.
The engineer's chunky reindeer cardigan hung from a peg, waiting for winter.
Someone was shooting a video behind a closed door; glistening dry-cleaning bags were draped over the banisters, their wire hangers tumbling to the floor.
The studio tabby cat lay flattened by heat exhaustion beside a large amplifier in a corridor.
'Watch out, she'll scratch you!', said Viv, who was showing me round. But she was too knackered: she flattened herself even more and stretched herself out for more.
I cam away bearing a CD of jazz singers who had been doing a course taught by Ian Shaw, so I'll listen to that tomorrow.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Making a Video in Vintage and Rare Guitars
Finally, I gave up, and splodged some make-up on my face before heading down to Denmark Street to my fave shop, Vintage and Rare Guitars, who had very kindly given permission for Gina Birch to make a video of my songs, The Song of the Unsung Heroine.
Gina did some shots of my feet dancing as we chatted to an ex-film student from the University of Westminster, who played us a couple of country songs, and who could yodel.
'I'm sixty-two, you know', she told us.
Customers drifted in and tried out guitars; from time to time we switched the fan off and filmed the song all the way through.
A young American lad came in with his father and tried out a 1930s Martin; he left again. Someone came in and tried out a Dobro; most people ignored what was going on completely, most appropriately considering the subject matter of the song, observed Gina.
A snotty chap in a pin-striped shirt and coloured trendy spectacles came in and ostentatiously put his hand over the light Gina had brought, looking at the guitars beyond. He glared at us from time to time before settling on the settee with a Strat.
The young American lad came in again, and had another play of the Martin, this time for more than half an hour.
We went to the 12-Bar for a coffee and a break, where we met a band from Hartlepool, The Dirty Water Blues Band, who knew Martin and who were down for the day to look at guitars.
As we went back to the shop to finish filming, they came in, looking for a guitar that cost £1100 on the internet, and £1500 not. 'Just ask them to take the money off', I said.
Had the young American lad bought the Martin?
No; 'Slow sale', remarked the shop guy, laconically.
Back home, Offsprog 2 wasn't back.
When she came in, she said the mugger, who had already come up to her in the street last week and called her by her name, had been outside her school.
She had gone to the police station and reported seeing him, and been asked to go out in a car with an officer to look for him. Frightened, she said she didn't want to be recognised.
'Don't worry', said the police officer, who promptly jumped out of the car to arrest him as soon as she saw him.
Of course, both he and his large bunch of mates saw Offsprog 2; some of his friends got their mobiles out to film her, she thought.
He is in custody, and we don't know if they are going to charge him.
I am frightened; she is not. She is angry, and has gone out with her sister.
I have persuaded her to let me pick them up later on from the station.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Friar's Carse Songwriting Weekend
There it was again, tranquil, Scots baronial and stone-pink in the assorted greenery on its corner of the River Nith: the Friar's Carse Hotel, waiting for its influx of song writers and its famous song writing competition, the result always fiddled (according to the losers).
It was warm and sunny when we rolled up, and the guys turned up one by one, plonking themselves on the cast iron chairs on the lawn with a cold beer and catching up with each other.
Martin and myself had picked up my nephew Alex on the way, who plays guitar but hasn't really written songs before. He was mildly worried but was welcomed as the baby of the group (teenage one) and soon settled in.
We had a gentle concert in the evening after dinner (with the by-now traditional profiteroles, if you know what I mean), before retiring to bed to gee-up for the next day.
Next morning, Martin taught the early risers the five Tibetans, which we did on the lawn with the sky already clear and blue above us.
That was where I ran my first two workshops, getting the groups to write songs about the town and the country and play them to each other- in half an hour! The grass was podgy with moss and the area was fringed with foxgloves and pines: what bliss to be singing in the great outdoors!
In the afternoon, the serious and competitive work began: my group hid round the front of the hotel in the shade of a dark pine tree, writing a sure-fire hit for Britain's next entry to the Eurovision Song Contest, entitled 'Nul Points'.
We decided to bounce, and unfortunately my sunglasses seem to have bounced out of my pocket! (second pair lost in a week). After much confusion and many sheets of paper, we settled on a structure that we could all follow, and stopped for tea.
In the evening, I got the Las Vegas rope lights out of the boot of the car, and we set off.
Martin's group had written a blues that showed off the great guitar playing of its members. Scott MacDonald's group, who won, had written a song about the song writing weekend with just the right amount of comedy and harmony.
We had heard them rehearsing relentlessly; Scott was a hard task master, but he needed his win this year.
Word was, there had been a bribe involved.....
Then it was us, with our silly Euro-song, which we played perfectly, apart from the fact I caught Martin's eye halfway through and bust out laughing. I guess we won't make it to Europe, as prophetically our song scored nul points.
But we still thought it was the best one.
Of Course.
The last day came round very quickly. We sat in a circle, playing a sequence of chords one after the other and taking it in turns to sit in the middle, eyes closed, and listen. Some French guests were intrigued and we invited them in to experience it for themselves. They loved it.
It was sad to leave- it had been a lovely weekend, sunny and positive, almost not like work at all. All the people who came along were really up for everything. It's always like that, which makes it a really special event.
Why did I get home so quickly? There were no cars on the road at all. I didn't realise till I got to the services on the M6 Toll (which I needn't have bothered with) and saw them all watching the match on a giant screen.
I'm glad I missed it.
Knackered, I went to bed early, waking in a panic at 4.45 wondering how Offsprog 2 was going to get home.
I knew she was still alive, as my one text a day was responded to: 'no battery' (just in case I cramped her style by phoning, I think).
Fifteen minutes later, she slumped in, smelly and tired and very happy.
Good weekend, all round. Thanks to Andrew Bailey for organising it, and thanks to Martin for being a fantastic host.
It was warm and sunny when we rolled up, and the guys turned up one by one, plonking themselves on the cast iron chairs on the lawn with a cold beer and catching up with each other.
Martin and myself had picked up my nephew Alex on the way, who plays guitar but hasn't really written songs before. He was mildly worried but was welcomed as the baby of the group (teenage one) and soon settled in.
We had a gentle concert in the evening after dinner (with the by-now traditional profiteroles, if you know what I mean), before retiring to bed to gee-up for the next day.
Next morning, Martin taught the early risers the five Tibetans, which we did on the lawn with the sky already clear and blue above us.
That was where I ran my first two workshops, getting the groups to write songs about the town and the country and play them to each other- in half an hour! The grass was podgy with moss and the area was fringed with foxgloves and pines: what bliss to be singing in the great outdoors!
In the afternoon, the serious and competitive work began: my group hid round the front of the hotel in the shade of a dark pine tree, writing a sure-fire hit for Britain's next entry to the Eurovision Song Contest, entitled 'Nul Points'.
We decided to bounce, and unfortunately my sunglasses seem to have bounced out of my pocket! (second pair lost in a week). After much confusion and many sheets of paper, we settled on a structure that we could all follow, and stopped for tea.
In the evening, I got the Las Vegas rope lights out of the boot of the car, and we set off.
Martin's group had written a blues that showed off the great guitar playing of its members. Scott MacDonald's group, who won, had written a song about the song writing weekend with just the right amount of comedy and harmony.
We had heard them rehearsing relentlessly; Scott was a hard task master, but he needed his win this year.
Word was, there had been a bribe involved.....
Then it was us, with our silly Euro-song, which we played perfectly, apart from the fact I caught Martin's eye halfway through and bust out laughing. I guess we won't make it to Europe, as prophetically our song scored nul points.
But we still thought it was the best one.
Of Course.
The last day came round very quickly. We sat in a circle, playing a sequence of chords one after the other and taking it in turns to sit in the middle, eyes closed, and listen. Some French guests were intrigued and we invited them in to experience it for themselves. They loved it.
It was sad to leave- it had been a lovely weekend, sunny and positive, almost not like work at all. All the people who came along were really up for everything. It's always like that, which makes it a really special event.
Why did I get home so quickly? There were no cars on the road at all. I didn't realise till I got to the services on the M6 Toll (which I needn't have bothered with) and saw them all watching the match on a giant screen.
I'm glad I missed it.
Knackered, I went to bed early, waking in a panic at 4.45 wondering how Offsprog 2 was going to get home.
I knew she was still alive, as my one text a day was responded to: 'no battery' (just in case I cramped her style by phoning, I think).
Fifteen minutes later, she slumped in, smelly and tired and very happy.
Good weekend, all round. Thanks to Andrew Bailey for organising it, and thanks to Martin for being a fantastic host.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Misery and Not Misery
I am driving almost 500 miles tomorrow; luckily I have a gadget to plug the iPod into the cassette deck in my car so I'll be singing along to the blues, tacky 1980s disco, hillbilly and rockabilly, girl groups, the Daintees, Phoenix, you name it.
I very rarely fast forward but when I do it's usually the Shanghai Lounge Divas or Ivor Cutler, both of whom are OK is some settings, but akin to torture in a hot car in a traffic jam.
I meant to clear the rubbish out of the car: it resembles the council tip and I'm always expecting a knock on the door from an official telling me that the council has copyright on such squalor.
I get huge pleasure from mindlessly daydreaming about tidying it up, usually while waiting in the aforesaid traffic jams.
I did roll up the miles of luminous green garden twine today; it had wound itself round a lot of the other debris, and it was excitingly virtuous-feeling unwinding it from assorted items and putting it in a plastic bag.
Do I really need an empty screen-wash bottle?
I bet I don't, but I bet I do need miles of luminous green garden twine now I have removed it from the car.
I am taking my song-scribbling book in case I have ideas. Most of my ideas recently have been thoroughly miserable ones, which is odd because I am not thoroughly miserable.
Maybe they are a kind of insurance policy, to keep my misery muscles flexed.
I very rarely fast forward but when I do it's usually the Shanghai Lounge Divas or Ivor Cutler, both of whom are OK is some settings, but akin to torture in a hot car in a traffic jam.
I meant to clear the rubbish out of the car: it resembles the council tip and I'm always expecting a knock on the door from an official telling me that the council has copyright on such squalor.
I get huge pleasure from mindlessly daydreaming about tidying it up, usually while waiting in the aforesaid traffic jams.
I did roll up the miles of luminous green garden twine today; it had wound itself round a lot of the other debris, and it was excitingly virtuous-feeling unwinding it from assorted items and putting it in a plastic bag.
Do I really need an empty screen-wash bottle?
I bet I don't, but I bet I do need miles of luminous green garden twine now I have removed it from the car.
I am taking my song-scribbling book in case I have ideas. Most of my ideas recently have been thoroughly miserable ones, which is odd because I am not thoroughly miserable.
Maybe they are a kind of insurance policy, to keep my misery muscles flexed.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Frank Sidebottom
Poor Frank has died. He was part of the 1980s alternative scene and had got quite a profile again recently; his big pink papier-mache head will be much missed. As of course will be the mysterious man inside, Chris.
Desperadoes Sing in Jude's Garden
This was taken yesterday afternoon in Jude's garden, just as we were about to play. The sun shone, children sat at the front and listened, Jude very kindly provided food and drink, and it was lovely.
I'd been to an open day at the Cockpit Arts workshops in Deptford beforehand to visit Debbie Little who makes clothes out of old parachute material. What a lovely day out!
L to R McCookerybook, Jude Cowan and Kath Tait.
I have uploaded a Helen and the Horns video to www.reverbnation.com/helenmccookerybook
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Computers and Rock Stars
Quite a long time ago I helped to organise a conference in Harrogate for music software designers.
It was fascinating.
There was a man from Sweden who was in the process of designing, effectively, Autotune. He demonstrated the work-in-progress very humorously, turning a hideously out -of-tune and out-of-tone male tenor into a Pavarotti.
My involvement was to try to bridge the programmers' skills with possible human needs: the human interface.
I got the conference to invite the author David Toop (who specialises in writing about sound art) and Scanner, who made music from fragments of mobile phone conversations.
Instead of doodling when they were bored, the delegates would sit with their laptops and design programs.
At least one of them had been a military programmer before they became involved in music- one of them told me he had programmed tank missile software; at that end of science there appears to be no moral code, but plenty of computer code.
Some of them were rather dismissive of Scanner. They could not see beyond the technical aspects of his work, and did not value the ideas he had and the experimentation he did.
Although they were there to acquire funding to develop ways of communicating with end users, many of them were classically trained musicians and wanted the money to compose their own music!
Being there was an education; I could see some of them needed help with communication. The bar was silent in the evening, with solo drinkers or groups of two and three sitting in near silence.
Rather like reading a newspaper with the opposite political views to myself, or reading a lad-mag, I got an insight into a totally different way of thinking and being.
One of the delegates, from the University of York, made a brilliant TV programme about a year ago; he was helping Indian people in call-centres to sound like British nationals by educating them about the cadences of British speech. He talked about Hitler's declamatory style and how he used the musicality of his voice to control people.
Bit like what some rock stars do.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Little Bit of Senseless Information
I was walking along an underground passage at Bank tube station and a set of businessmen were walking towards me. One of them, close to the edge near the wall, seemed to be accompanied by a small grey mouse keeping pace with him.
As he got closer, I saw that it was a big ball of fluff and hair, rolling along parallel to his left foot, presumably being carried along by his back-draught.
It kept pace with him, tumbling cheerfully and obediently, until he walked past me.
'How odd', I thought, until I saw another businessman being followed by a large, flat dustball, hovering about two feet behind him and about three inches above the ground.
Now that one was positively sinister.
As he got closer, I saw that it was a big ball of fluff and hair, rolling along parallel to his left foot, presumably being carried along by his back-draught.
It kept pace with him, tumbling cheerfully and obediently, until he walked past me.
'How odd', I thought, until I saw another businessman being followed by a large, flat dustball, hovering about two feet behind him and about three inches above the ground.
Now that one was positively sinister.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
News Book
She did the cover for Poetry and Rhyme and I thought it looked pretty classy. Gina is going to make a video too, a week on Tuesday.
Martin has started a Reverbnation for Barbaraville, his label that a nice collection of oddballs belong to http://www.reverbnation.com/barbaraville.
I have started up my own one too, http://www.reverbnation.com/helenmccookerybook and have some music and a video up there.
Most of today was spent wandering around Spitalfields: down Fournier Street (was that Gilbert'n'George I spotted disappearing round the corner in a whisk of grey suiting?, up Hanway Street (lazy old Duke of Uke still wasn't open at 12.15!).
I bought some moth-eaten knitwear and a moth-eaten hat. I have washed them and I'm going to pack the knitwear into the freezer next to the lasagne to kill the moth grubs.
The hat will just have to suffer.
I met my friend Denise and talked to her about the all-women bands who have been so disappointing, playing sub-Raincoats and sub-Slits music note-perfectly with glum faces, having made a new restrictive canon, new rules from what was created from experimentation. Denise always looks at things in a different way.
'They have inherited it', she said, 'And they will develop it on from there'.
Yes, yes, that could well be true.
Photo by Offsprog One
Mugging
I didn't post yesterday because Offsprog 2 got mugged by seven teenagers the day before; her bag was stolen and she was 'shaken up', as they say.
She had just been sitting talking to a friend on a park bench when she saw two guys approaching. She joked to her friend that they looked like muggers and put her new phone up her sleeve.
Her friend had the presence of mind to tell them that his parents had confiscated his phone because he got bad exam results, but that didn't stop them from knocking him to the ground and kicking him. Offsprog 2 got jostled , and because she fought back and shouted, some girls came running over.
She thought they might be going to help her, but they were the ones that took her bag (they cut the straps) while one of the guys put his hand over her mouth to stop her shouting.
Twenty people watched, and not one of them called the police.
She called them herself and they drove her round to see if they could find the gang, but they couldn't.
She lost all her birthday gift vouchers and her money and her keys; but later on, a little man came round with a bag. He had found her French Art Trip papers and her pencil case in the street, and brought them round for her. Bless him.
So I decided to go to look for her bag. They had thrown it over the hoardings into the market area: I could see it through the gates.
I came home and wrote a note to the stallholders and sellotaped it to the gate lock and got up at the crack of dawn yesterday to go round for it. In it was a new bottle of perfume a friend had got for her, and some of her make-up, but she was well pleased with that.
Most of yesterday morning I was trying and failing to put a new lock on the door; I could get it all set up and then I couldn't pull the key out. After two solid hours, I called the locksmiths, and they did it in 5 minutes (£75). In my next life I think I will be a locksmith!
Yesterday evening she went for a walk with her girl friends. I thoroughly approve of her reclaiming the streets for herself, although I do not approve of her smoking which is why she was sitting on the park bench with her friend and probably why she went out for a walk too.
What is life?
Sweet and sour.
She had just been sitting talking to a friend on a park bench when she saw two guys approaching. She joked to her friend that they looked like muggers and put her new phone up her sleeve.
Her friend had the presence of mind to tell them that his parents had confiscated his phone because he got bad exam results, but that didn't stop them from knocking him to the ground and kicking him. Offsprog 2 got jostled , and because she fought back and shouted, some girls came running over.
She thought they might be going to help her, but they were the ones that took her bag (they cut the straps) while one of the guys put his hand over her mouth to stop her shouting.
Twenty people watched, and not one of them called the police.
She called them herself and they drove her round to see if they could find the gang, but they couldn't.
She lost all her birthday gift vouchers and her money and her keys; but later on, a little man came round with a bag. He had found her French Art Trip papers and her pencil case in the street, and brought them round for her. Bless him.
So I decided to go to look for her bag. They had thrown it over the hoardings into the market area: I could see it through the gates.
I came home and wrote a note to the stallholders and sellotaped it to the gate lock and got up at the crack of dawn yesterday to go round for it. In it was a new bottle of perfume a friend had got for her, and some of her make-up, but she was well pleased with that.
Most of yesterday morning I was trying and failing to put a new lock on the door; I could get it all set up and then I couldn't pull the key out. After two solid hours, I called the locksmiths, and they did it in 5 minutes (£75). In my next life I think I will be a locksmith!
Yesterday evening she went for a walk with her girl friends. I thoroughly approve of her reclaiming the streets for herself, although I do not approve of her smoking which is why she was sitting on the park bench with her friend and probably why she went out for a walk too.
What is life?
Sweet and sour.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Trolley Ballet
Just been to the garden centre to get a gro-bag for the courgettes I have grown from seed.
They are heavy and I got a trolley to put it on.
All good on the level floor of the garden centre but once I got outside, the trolley took charge, and it started swinging me about in a rattling jive, twirling me helplessly around the car park until I managed to grab the front of it and drag it, protesting, towards the safety of my car.
I hope nobody saw me.
They are heavy and I got a trolley to put it on.
All good on the level floor of the garden centre but once I got outside, the trolley took charge, and it started swinging me about in a rattling jive, twirling me helplessly around the car park until I managed to grab the front of it and drag it, protesting, towards the safety of my car.
I hope nobody saw me.
Monday, June 14, 2010
National Anthems
I am overhearing the Italy/Paraguay game.
I love the tooters.
I also double-love the national anthem bit, and I resolve to watch this part of as many games as possible.
The Italians sang with gusto, all out of tune with each other and all out of tune with the band, the heads of a couple of them jutting forward and pulling backwards like cockerels. Serious, serious!
And the Paraguayans sang theirs too, most of them mildly resentfully, apart from one who sang as though he had just won the lottery.
The game itself? Poo. It's all showbiz'n'fouls.
I prefer live football by little clubs in in little grounds, but the national anthem bit will be compulsory viewing from now on!
I love the tooters.
I also double-love the national anthem bit, and I resolve to watch this part of as many games as possible.
The Italians sang with gusto, all out of tune with each other and all out of tune with the band, the heads of a couple of them jutting forward and pulling backwards like cockerels. Serious, serious!
And the Paraguayans sang theirs too, most of them mildly resentfully, apart from one who sang as though he had just won the lottery.
The game itself? Poo. It's all showbiz'n'fouls.
I prefer live football by little clubs in in little grounds, but the national anthem bit will be compulsory viewing from now on!
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Oh Dear
I have spent the evening worrying about work, and consequently missed something I had really been looking forward to- a showing of Val Phoenix's films. I feel utterly stupid! I am going to start knitting again because it stops me from fretting. A jumper with a guitar skeleton on it, I think, into which I will stitch all irritations, annoyances and worries; the ensuing endorphins will carry me through the summer on a wave of bonhomie.
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