Sound Check Time

Through the grimy windows you can see people silhouetted against the yellow lights of the top decks of London buses as they swoosh by. It's  only 8 o'clock but the place is already buzzing and heaving and I've already spotted a famous middle-aged actress from some cop show or other.
This doesn't fit my plan of hesitant warbling to one man and his dog!  
Shall I run away? A fire engine hisses past, its siren moaning under  
a blue flashing light. 
Bloody January, and here, it seems sit almost all London's post-30  
songwriting talent, ambition leaking from our pores and thwarted  
dreams choking our voices .
We drink soft drinks through straws because we are driving. People  
with colds avoid kissing their friends after striding in purposefully, radiating a chill from outside, bag straps slung casually across their chests.
I am the only person here not surrounded by pals. This is probably  
strange but I have always enjoyed going out alone, watching as much as I want to and going home when I've had enough.

Actually, I didn't play that badly even though the entire Beefheart song left my head as soon as I hit the stage. I played 'Temptation' and 'Daisies' afterwards and really enjoyed that- the P.A. system is very good at the Boogaloo and the audience is a listening one, an absolute blessing to a solo artist. I enjoyed the other acts I saw, particularly the Goodbye Horses who were satisfyingly weird, inhabiting an alternative universe not that far from Maidstone. Nat the Hammer kicked off the proceedings with a jolly set, and Rose Hotel feature a star sax player who outshone even the shivery lap steel player.
I did leave before the end; I am frightened of tomorrow at work. I'm beginning to feel bullied: is this actually what is happening? Anyway just before I left a chap came up and bought a CD, which I raced out to the car for. I am not very commercially minded and I forget to take them with me, but I remembered there was one in the boot from ages ago. I hope he likes it.
I can thoroughly recommend Nat''s 'Under the Influence' nights. They happen monthly, featuring covers of a different artist each month, He chooses very left-field acts to play and cares a lot about the sound and the general vibe. The Boogaloo is a welcoming venue: shabby but not too sticky, rock'n'roll and cosy at the same time (odd, that!). Pics show a band sound-checking, and an upside down drum (they die if they are left on their backs too long, you know) making an interesting shadow poke out of Captain Beefheart's hat.

The Boogaloo Bar, Tonight. Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed...

I am playing some songs at Nat the Hammer's night at the Boogaloo Bar in Highgate tonight from about 8 p.m..
He has hit on a really good idea: he invites artists to play a set that includes a cover version by a different  artist each time. I was supposed to do Billy Bragg but had to pull out as I was constantly losing my voice last term because of the amount of extra teaching I was doing (grrr).
So it's Veteran's Day Poppy by Captain Beefheart for me! I thought the Captain was going to win but I seem to have conquered some way of doing it within the last five minutes. I will be playing a new song tonight too, and an old one, and then just sitting back and listening.
The joy of these nights is the different acts you get to see.

Barbaraville Llama Logo for Martin

24 Hours

A big thank you! to Shippy for uploading the Christmas 2010 version of 24 Hours featuring Martin Stephenson on guitar, Anth Dunn on bass and Kate Stephenson on drums. It's rough and ready but completely spontaneous, so not bad considering!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KLsKbGs-pH4

Piano Toes

Viv's Album

Viv Albertine is mixing her album and if you would like to pledge money to help her to do it please click on this link:
http://www.pledgemusic.com/projects/vivalbertine#project

London Life

Sitting in a curry house in Enfield with Martin the other day, we listened to the staff banter and discussions about local news from a paper they were consulting.
A man had been approached by a street robber, who stole his chips. The victim pulled out a knife and stabbed the mugger.
So Tottenham.

A Sweet Gig

The man at Costa Coffee sent me the wrong direction down Westminster Bridge Road, then the security guard at the building sent me up to the third floor instead of the first floor after taking ages to open the front door anyway, but all was well in the end.
Acton Bell was sitting in a room full of coats and we ran through the Herman's Hermit's song that she'd asked me to do backing vocals on, and when she found out that I'd had a crush on Freddy Garrity from Freddy and the Dreamers when I was about six, we learned You Were Made For Me.
I told her that he seemed like the ideal adult, to a child: just like a child (all silly), but grown up.

The room was small and cosy, with a cake and wine stall and couples sitting around at tables ready to be entertained. She went on first, followed by Kat, who has a lovely voice and who sang a song by Paul Weller infinitely better than he does it (not keen on his aggressive pained vocals).
The Kitchenette Four, a three-woman Barbershop trio, were great too, especially their first number, the Suffragette song from Mary Poppins. I liked their casual style; Barbershop can be scarily tight-arsed but they carried off their harmonies with relaxed aplomb.
I sang Let's Make Up, that old Chefs chestnut, plus a selection of oldies including Temptation, and a newie, a song that is quite rocky for me.
Two of the acts had pulled out (shame!) so Acton Bell went on and did another Merseybeat set. Her guitar skills have improved noticeably and she told me she's been going to a local working Mens' Club in Tottenham on Saturday afternoon for lessons.
The collection box looked satisfyingly full. We went into the library to have our picture taken, one by one, and to answer the questions 'Why is music important to women'.
Luckily, I found my way out of the building and back to the tube station OK.

The picture shows Acton Bell. Kat had a label tied to the headstock of her guitar. I didn't ask her what was on it: it wasn't a set list, anyway.

Can't believe it. They have sent Helen and the Horns, not The Chefs.

Benefit for the Feminist Library Tonight

At The Feminist Library, number 5 Westminster Bridge Road, moments from Lambeth North tube station (Bakerloo Line). The gig is unplugged so if you want to eat crisps and undo your velcro bag, not a good one to come to!
I will be playing a couple of Chefs songs in memory of Dick Damage, who died a couple of days ago. Of all the Brighton punks, he was one of the gentlest, funniest and most amiable. see www.punkbrighton.co.uk for details and a tribute page.
I think it's about 3 quid to get in, proceeds to the library, the night is organised by Acton and the times/line-up are as follows:

7.30 Doors Open
 
8.00 Acton Bell
 
8.25 Portia Winters 
 
8.40 Kat Austen
 
9.05 Interval
 
9.20 Helen McCookerybook
 
9.45 Elizabeth Carola
 
10.00 End
 
11.00 Doors Close

Goddit!!!!!

The masters of the John Peels sessions by The Chefs! Wahey!!!!!!

Two Shows in a Day

Yesterday, I became exhausted through being sung at!
My friend Carol came down from Newcastle and we met at Stratford Circus for a cup of tea before going to see Red Riding Hood at the Theatre Royal. Her son's girlfriend, Chloe Allen, was playing the title role, and when we got into the auditorium the Three Little Pigs were already busy, using up the energy of about 500 primary-school children who smelled of pencils and school sweatshirts and who snapped, crackled and popped like a bowl of Rice Crispies, busy little mini-people with plaits, braids, crew cuts, curls, ponytails, and predominantly red jumpers.
The curtain rose, and the full-on production started, introducing us to a fabulous Big Bad Wolf (I'm, very, very, very, very VERY bad!) with a deep and booming wolf-voice, a bouncing and delightful Red Riding Hood, her sister Big Blue (very streetwise), their rockabillyish mother (fantastic swearing- bleepin' this and bleepin' that!) and my favourite, the tranny granny, a very glamorous Afro-Caribbean pantomime dame who made new-best-friends with Mrs Amos, a teacher in the front row, and pretended to text her all the way through the show, which was a very effective running gag.  There was a Woodman who was rather Shoreditch, if you know what I mean, but this is London and all London was there in this show.
I wanted to adopt the granny and take her home because she had just the right blend of irreverence and authority, and actually I found her rather similar to my own Gran! I loved the bit where she put courgette slices over her eyes instead of cucumber: 'Recline, apply, relax!' she advised us. We roared with laughter.
The children loved her and her quips. 'So gorgeous, I frighten myself', she purred at her reflection in the imaginary mirror (actually she was looking at the Big Bad Wolf mimicking her). And inside the Wolf's stomach, she told us all 'What goes in, must come out', to the delighted squeals of the mini-audience.
She was the only person in the show to get a song that was in the right key for her to sing, and who had the voice to overcome the far-too-loud music. sHe had a very impressive singing voice, actually, and
what a surreal moment- a lover's rock song sung from inside the belly of a wolf by an Afro-Caribbean cross-dresser! This is why I love pantomime!
But there were far too many songs in the second half. You began to think, 'Not another bloody song!' The Stomach Acid sang an acid house song (how do primary school children know how to dance to rave music?), which we didn't really need, but there were still some funny bits- the way the cast all jumped at once as the wolf got hiccups, for instance. And the Woodsman's song about his axe where he rhymed along the lines of 'Even though I've only got a tiny chopper, I can do much more with it than if I had a whopper'. Fnurr, fnurr!
The energy level was high all the way through, and it was an exceedingly good-natured production with fantastic engagement with the audience of tinies, who loved every second of it.
Chloe was great- energetic and with a good strong voice. I just wish the sound technician had allowed us to hear more of the other singers!

The second show was A Taste of Saturday Night, where Carol's son Nik Alevroyiannis, who is a talented percussionist, was playing drums in the house band. The theatre was above a pub called The Gatehouse in Highgate, and the seating was arranged so that the audience sat in rows facing each other with the performance taking place in the middle.
It was a completely different sort of show from the panto, consisting of pastiches (very good ones) of Sixties favourites, and a lame storyline based on a group of teenage boys and a group of teenage girls attempting to get sex from each other, or not, as the Saturday evening at the club progresses.
The musicians and singers were tremendously talented: there were lovely harmonies and flawless vocal performances with not a trace of that awful 'show' timbre, and they were extremely well-rehearsed.
The problem was the subject matter. After about four songs about bonking, you got fed up of it, and you knew there was a whole night of it to come. It became really tedious, because there wasn't really a story apart from that and you didn't get to know or sympathise with any of the characters. I felt that this particular show was wasting the considerable talents of the actors and musicians on a really cruddy and lazy script.
However, a lot of the audience would have disagreed with me, because they were clapping and laughing all the way through. But a good band like this, and good singers... well, I felt that they could have been given a much better show to do. Hats off to all of them for being 100% committed to it, anyway.

17th January

Today was Ari's birthday. She was a Capricorn, 'Old Souls', she told me.
I remember her and salute her memory, as she is always alive in my thoughts.

Comedown Time

What a comedown!
Back from holiday...
Martin took me to Barcelona for three days as a birthday present (I was a Christmas baby and spoiled McMum's party diary for several years, apparently). We had a lovely time pottering around, eating ice cream and drinking coffee; it was warmer than it usually is at this time of year.
We stayed on the 18th floor of a brand new hotel, and once I'd got over the vertigo, it was a bit like being in a James Bond movie, apart from Martin not being James Bond (phew, that's a relief!), and me not being a Bond Girl.
The views over Barcelona, daytime when you could see the Gaudi cathedral and the blue, blue sky, and night-time when you could see the city lights and the sparse traffic inching along the grids of roads, up, down, left, right, depending on the moods of the traffic lights, were fabulous.
We soon learned the tube system and bought Te Dia cards (Geordie for today- how weird!), whizzing about here and there in between wanderings.
Then back to Blighty and the regular Kalamazoo Club gig in Crouch End. This year, John and Kate came over and boosted the sound. It was packed to the gills and full of hearty singing voices and happy people. But Martin's up in Hyde tonight, and I'm down in London, with the washing up, the rubbish telly, the mountain of work to contemplate for Monday and the grumpy teenager. Living at opposite ends of the country isn't much fun.
I'm learning a new song to play on Thursday at the benefit gig for the Feminist Library: it's AT the Feminist Library from 8 p.m. onwards and is organised by Acton Bell. I will learn the backing vocals for a Herman's Hermits song she is going to do. And I also have to learn the Captain Beefheart song for the gig at the Boogaloo in Highgate a week on Monday.

But at the moment all I want to do is think about Barcelona and all those funny little mediaeval streets with a surprise around every corner.

An Observation About Winter Compost Heaps

Even my tiny square has a compost heap, which has remained resolutely rock-hard with ice for months, and which has finally started to thaw (and smell).
It has resembled a Bird's Eye Frozen Vegetable Medley for 50, looking quite appetising until I put the dead flowers on it; even then, the onion slices twinkled pinkly from underneath their stalks in a coy suggestion of Mediterranean Salad, if only I would rescue them and arrange them on a plate for consumption.
Rot away, me hearties! The 'heap' is actually in a rather useful big plant pot which I want for the tomatoes this year. I might even plant the seeds in time for them to ripen this time around.
I have been here for over a year now; still, a big pile of stuff is in storage and costing a fortune monthly.
I have to bite the bullet and either get rid of it all or find somewhere to stash it here. There is room in the loft, but the access aperture is too small to get some of the things up there.
I kind of wish it would all rot away to something useful, like the compost heap does.