Wednesday, August 19, 2015
Early To Rise
It was completely infuriating to wake up at 5.30 this morning. I roared at my body and brain to go back to sleep, trying to force myself back to the land of nod. Alas, to no avail.
I got up, opened all the windows and doors, did a bit of pruning in the cool back yard, then removed the collection of small spiders that I'd caught in my celtfro. They have taken over the garden, but I'm a bit too big to eat. Somebody must tell them.
Finally, and following the advice that I give to the students that I teach, I sat down and did a bit of work on my research. I've managed to get into the mid-thirties (of 60 pages) and I'm doing a bit of slashing and burning now, plus a bit of housekeeping (alas, not something I relish in the real world): going through the enormous bibliography and checking that the books listed have dates and the citations are complete (they don't and they aren't).
The brain is very fresh early in the morning and without noticing, two hours have gone by and I have managed to tidy up some sections of it nicely. Despite my dislike of Madonna, she has come to dominate three pages as an exemplar of various different approaches to song writing; I feel that she can be condensed a bit further, perhaps like the terrible fellow in Noggin the Nog who was reduced to a clinking cube of ice by the Ice Dragon.
At this point I'm working on flow, and shifting hiccups. That's when you read a couple of pages and something interrupts you that just shouldn't be there. You have to decide whether to throw it aside and risk difficulties in retrieving it if you suddenly come upon a need for the idea, or whether to shunt it into a different place in the prose.
I must go. The kettle has boiled for the second time and there is an entire day to get through now on very little sleep. The coffee pot is going to be very busy today.
I got up, opened all the windows and doors, did a bit of pruning in the cool back yard, then removed the collection of small spiders that I'd caught in my celtfro. They have taken over the garden, but I'm a bit too big to eat. Somebody must tell them.
Finally, and following the advice that I give to the students that I teach, I sat down and did a bit of work on my research. I've managed to get into the mid-thirties (of 60 pages) and I'm doing a bit of slashing and burning now, plus a bit of housekeeping (alas, not something I relish in the real world): going through the enormous bibliography and checking that the books listed have dates and the citations are complete (they don't and they aren't).
The brain is very fresh early in the morning and without noticing, two hours have gone by and I have managed to tidy up some sections of it nicely. Despite my dislike of Madonna, she has come to dominate three pages as an exemplar of various different approaches to song writing; I feel that she can be condensed a bit further, perhaps like the terrible fellow in Noggin the Nog who was reduced to a clinking cube of ice by the Ice Dragon.
At this point I'm working on flow, and shifting hiccups. That's when you read a couple of pages and something interrupts you that just shouldn't be there. You have to decide whether to throw it aside and risk difficulties in retrieving it if you suddenly come upon a need for the idea, or whether to shunt it into a different place in the prose.
I must go. The kettle has boiled for the second time and there is an entire day to get through now on very little sleep. The coffee pot is going to be very busy today.
Sunday, August 16, 2015
Rusty
Today I tried to ease myself back into research writing mode. Rusty is not the word.
I was anguished by fears that what I am doing is a load of crap. Who will want to read it? Will it be shot down in flames by an academic referee before it's even published?
After two weeks away from it, I was not intellectually sharp enough to get to grips with it straight away so I decided on the much more nuts'n'bolts task of editing the interviews.
How boring they appear to be, or I appear to be making them. I want the accents there, the idiosyncrasies... but you can't write them down like that or you lose the impact of the content.
But what content?
You see, I have become over-familiar with them; they are merging into the academic prose style that the essay is written in, and I have to pull them back from that and allow the amazing personalities of the interviewees to shine through. There are so many notes, follow-up questions: it's not easy.
As I edit, I relive the places where we spoke. The jazz club, the park cafe in Leyton, the airfield in Aylesbury with skylarks peeping and skimming the white sky above (yes, really).
Later, I ventured into Battersby's Gender and Genius to patch up a hole at the beginning of the essay. The beginning is very good, because I always begin at the beginning whenever I rewrite it. But now I have learned that I need to wrench myself into the middle in order to shore up the weaknesses there. There's a fat rant that I'm trying to slim down, and a delicate criticism of a colleague that has to be articulated as clearly and carefully as the petal of an anemone. I have to start at page 57 next time, which will involve digging deep into books that I'd put aside as spent; more writing led to yet more questions and I know where the answers are, thank goodness. But when you're glued to the screen and the keyboard, something makes looking between the pages of an actual book seem like 30 years hard labour.
I am hovering around 26,000 words of essay which should slim down to 25,000. It has been an incredible journey of reading and thinking and has two more months to bake in the oven before I can declare it cooked and ready to be eaten. By sharks, or by fairies? Who knows.
I was anguished by fears that what I am doing is a load of crap. Who will want to read it? Will it be shot down in flames by an academic referee before it's even published?
After two weeks away from it, I was not intellectually sharp enough to get to grips with it straight away so I decided on the much more nuts'n'bolts task of editing the interviews.
How boring they appear to be, or I appear to be making them. I want the accents there, the idiosyncrasies... but you can't write them down like that or you lose the impact of the content.
But what content?
You see, I have become over-familiar with them; they are merging into the academic prose style that the essay is written in, and I have to pull them back from that and allow the amazing personalities of the interviewees to shine through. There are so many notes, follow-up questions: it's not easy.
As I edit, I relive the places where we spoke. The jazz club, the park cafe in Leyton, the airfield in Aylesbury with skylarks peeping and skimming the white sky above (yes, really).
Later, I ventured into Battersby's Gender and Genius to patch up a hole at the beginning of the essay. The beginning is very good, because I always begin at the beginning whenever I rewrite it. But now I have learned that I need to wrench myself into the middle in order to shore up the weaknesses there. There's a fat rant that I'm trying to slim down, and a delicate criticism of a colleague that has to be articulated as clearly and carefully as the petal of an anemone. I have to start at page 57 next time, which will involve digging deep into books that I'd put aside as spent; more writing led to yet more questions and I know where the answers are, thank goodness. But when you're glued to the screen and the keyboard, something makes looking between the pages of an actual book seem like 30 years hard labour.
I am hovering around 26,000 words of essay which should slim down to 25,000. It has been an incredible journey of reading and thinking and has two more months to bake in the oven before I can declare it cooked and ready to be eaten. By sharks, or by fairies? Who knows.
Saturday, August 15, 2015
Music
New track, recorded yesterday evening by MS:
https://soundcloud.com/the-daintees/the-other-side-of-the-coin
https://soundcloud.com/the-daintees/the-other-side-of-the-coin
Mouse
I am home, bearing mousetraps after a midnight call from Offsprog Two.
Mousetraps are complicated. I couldn't work out the wooden ones and there were no instructions, which I suppose you don't get for £1.50.
The plastic ones looked over-designed, as though Philip Starck or Signor Alessi had had a hand in them. Too trendy by far for murdering small fry and too expensive at £3.50.
The tin ones- well, I managed to set it in the shop and then realised that I might accidentally chop somebody's fingers off so I had to drop it on the floor to spring it. SNAP!
Oh dear, so cruel. But they are dirty little buggers and they chew up all sorts of vital household wires as well as excreting copiously in cupboards that need to be clean. Tonight I shall grit my teeth and make sure I don't set the thing near anyone's midnight toes.
Or catch a slug- posting passim:
http://mccookerybook.blogspot.co.uk/2005/11/chefs-slugs-and-fleas.html
Mousetraps are complicated. I couldn't work out the wooden ones and there were no instructions, which I suppose you don't get for £1.50.
The plastic ones looked over-designed, as though Philip Starck or Signor Alessi had had a hand in them. Too trendy by far for murdering small fry and too expensive at £3.50.
The tin ones- well, I managed to set it in the shop and then realised that I might accidentally chop somebody's fingers off so I had to drop it on the floor to spring it. SNAP!
Oh dear, so cruel. But they are dirty little buggers and they chew up all sorts of vital household wires as well as excreting copiously in cupboards that need to be clean. Tonight I shall grit my teeth and make sure I don't set the thing near anyone's midnight toes.
Or catch a slug- posting passim:
http://mccookerybook.blogspot.co.uk/2005/11/chefs-slugs-and-fleas.html
Thursday, August 13, 2015
Popping Pop and Splashing Fish
Walking between the broom bushes at The Meeting of the Waters, the bunches of dried seed pods rattled with a cabasa-like rhythm as we brushed alongside them. I picked a few to take home to sample as rhythms. Perfect.
I left them on the dashboard shelf in the sunshine while we went for coffee. When we got back, you could hear the cracking reports as the pods exploded and little seeds ricocheted around the car. The heat had made them ripen rapidly and burst open: no more little rattly sounds, unforchly.
The pods completely emptied themselves, excited by the potential for seeding the new territory of the car interior unchallenged by competing plants, or predators.
Ho hum.
I did see a gigantic shiny silver river-trout leap into the air and flip over before splashing back into the North Tyne though; that was pretty spectacular.
I left them on the dashboard shelf in the sunshine while we went for coffee. When we got back, you could hear the cracking reports as the pods exploded and little seeds ricocheted around the car. The heat had made them ripen rapidly and burst open: no more little rattly sounds, unforchly.
The pods completely emptied themselves, excited by the potential for seeding the new territory of the car interior unchallenged by competing plants, or predators.
Ho hum.
I did see a gigantic shiny silver river-trout leap into the air and flip over before splashing back into the North Tyne though; that was pretty spectacular.
Tuesday, August 11, 2015
Blog About Brighton's DIY Scene
I did an interview for this blog a few weeks ago; Julian's blog follows the thread of Brighton DIY through the ages. He has a very interesting take on things; it's worth following him if you are a blog follower.
Joby and Hooligans... Keith Hurley, who promoted the Alhambra, told me that we were dreadful, but he'd never stop putting us on at the venue because we packed it out. Strange but true. Who was he to talk? His band was called High Flying Clive and the Hi-fi Five.
Sorry about any spelling errors; haven't got my optics.
http://julianpaszkiewicz.wix.com/bndiy#!GOING-UNDERGROUND-The-fascinating-story-behind-Brightons-first-DIY-scene/cmbz/55c76d820cf25fa64a0f10b8
Joby and Hooligans... Keith Hurley, who promoted the Alhambra, told me that we were dreadful, but he'd never stop putting us on at the venue because we packed it out. Strange but true. Who was he to talk? His band was called High Flying Clive and the Hi-fi Five.
Sorry about any spelling errors; haven't got my optics.
http://julianpaszkiewicz.wix.com/bndiy#!GOING-UNDERGROUND-The-fascinating-story-behind-Brightons-first-DIY-scene/cmbz/55c76d820cf25fa64a0f10b8
Monday, August 10, 2015
Bellingham International Camp: a memory
Out of the blue, a memory popped up. I'm sure I've written about our sixth-form school camp at Bellingham in Northumberland before. French, Belgian, German and Norwegian students also attended. We were given disgusting gristly pork pies for picnic lunches that we buried in the sand at the beach one day; the Norwegian girls accidentally bought Flash floor cleaner to wash their jumpers and one of the Norwegian lads had bought a second hand suede jacket that smelt so bad that swarms of flies followed him wherever he went. The Norwegian boys fed the Belgian chaps laxative chocolates and stood outside the toiled block all day laughing. Naughty.
But what I suddenly remembered was the little cafe in Bellingham village that we made pilgrimages to; there was a jukebox on the wall that played pop songs while we crammed in there together. The earnestness: we talked intensely, all staring deeply into each other's eyes, about our different cultures, the things we cared about, our families, the future. There was no time like the present, yet nostalgia was there too because we knew the moment that we were savouring was the fanfare to the end of our teenage years.
But what I suddenly remembered was the little cafe in Bellingham village that we made pilgrimages to; there was a jukebox on the wall that played pop songs while we crammed in there together. The earnestness: we talked intensely, all staring deeply into each other's eyes, about our different cultures, the things we cared about, our families, the future. There was no time like the present, yet nostalgia was there too because we knew the moment that we were savouring was the fanfare to the end of our teenage years.
Saturday, August 08, 2015
Musings on Belladrum
Rob Ellen's Medicine Music Potting Shed Stage is on the busy outskirts of the Belladrum site, just opposite a vintage ice cream van that exudes the lure of the past; its colour is pure vanilla and it's ice creams are the nectar of the gods...
Where was I? Oh yes: Belladrum is nothing like Glastonbury, where we went through eleven checkpoints and had the van searched, only to arrive at a final checkpoint where the helpers were so stoned that they didn't know where our stage was.
Belladrum's guides are cheery, positive and do a good return of serve if you wisecrack at 'em.
We got through no trouble and wandered up to the stage past people dressed as super heroes, kids hula-hooping, hippies, hipsters, bands and artists on their way up, and bands and artists on their way down. I was delighted to be playing (thank you Rob) and had the greatest of fun especially when a guy in the crowd played silent trombone solos (should that be air trombone?) during Snakebite and Freight Train. I met a lot of people that I'd only heard about (there are many legendary doings in this part of Scotland) and sang my heart out. The sun even came out during Summer Days!
Afterwards we headed back to pick up The Daintees, who were playing the Grass Roots Tent (enormous). Before their gig we called in at Henry's Woodland Orchestra tent where Kate and John played the giant marimba for a while. Henry had been building drums and all the paraphernalia was there, including completed drums made of deerskin, that boomed out at mega-volume when he hit them.
We had food vouchers and I honestly had the best cheesy potatoes (that's Dauphinoise Potatoes to you over there with the recipe book) that I've ever eaten in my life. There's something about eating outside that makes everything taste better and I almost ate the paper plate as well.
Inside the food tent there were all ages of rock: young bands being rock'n'roll with lager and loud voices, medium bands with a confident way of sitting round their table, and then the ancient rockers with stories in their faces, who looked as though they are kept in rock'n'roll storage barns and brought out for festivals and jolted with a few volts to reanimate them. I met T Bone Tapling, the sound engineer from Birkenhead, who was helping a new Scouse band called The Songwriters and who particularly likes our song Hamilton Square, because that's where it is. Birkenhead.
Just outside the dressing room, we met Eddi Reader, resplendent in a magnificent parka covered in pansies. She told Martin that the first record she ever bought was Boat to Bolivia; she was really friendly and was probably the most glamorous person at the whole festival.
In no time at all, the band were on stage, hitting the ground running: BLAM!
The audience were ecstatic: there were lots of kids there (8.45 is a great slot to play because it's after tea and before bedtime), all smiles, arms in the air, the tent was packed to overflowing and the audience were roaring their approval. Martin was hilarious and the cameraman from BBC Alba, on the side where I was sitting, was laughing so much that they probably won't be able to use that footage at all when they edit it for TV.
The band played for 45 minutes and I reckon the crowd would have had them there for the same amount of time again; the best song was Left Us To Burn, the anti-Thatcher song that was a definite crowd pleaser in a country that has voted against that sort of nasty meanness. All four of them played absolutely top notch performances with a level of energy that buzzed though the venue. From surf tunes to Crocodile Cryer, they didn't put a foot wrong, and the band were so happy afterwards that they forgot to pick up their fee; we went back to do that this morning. I also want to say thank you to you Martin, for playing such a beautiful cover version of I'm in Love for the First Time. It is an honour to have that song covered and I think you do a better job of it than I do.
Right now they are off to Ullapool to play the Argyll Hotel. Go along if you can- they are on fine form! I am the roadie for the journey back tomorrow so I'm catching a few zeds. It's a long way and an early start; let's hope I can get on the road before the enormous motor homes (bungalows on wheels), tractors and bicycles do, and get the A9 under the wheels before lunchtime.
Where was I? Oh yes: Belladrum is nothing like Glastonbury, where we went through eleven checkpoints and had the van searched, only to arrive at a final checkpoint where the helpers were so stoned that they didn't know where our stage was.
Belladrum's guides are cheery, positive and do a good return of serve if you wisecrack at 'em.
We got through no trouble and wandered up to the stage past people dressed as super heroes, kids hula-hooping, hippies, hipsters, bands and artists on their way up, and bands and artists on their way down. I was delighted to be playing (thank you Rob) and had the greatest of fun especially when a guy in the crowd played silent trombone solos (should that be air trombone?) during Snakebite and Freight Train. I met a lot of people that I'd only heard about (there are many legendary doings in this part of Scotland) and sang my heart out. The sun even came out during Summer Days!
Afterwards we headed back to pick up The Daintees, who were playing the Grass Roots Tent (enormous). Before their gig we called in at Henry's Woodland Orchestra tent where Kate and John played the giant marimba for a while. Henry had been building drums and all the paraphernalia was there, including completed drums made of deerskin, that boomed out at mega-volume when he hit them.
We had food vouchers and I honestly had the best cheesy potatoes (that's Dauphinoise Potatoes to you over there with the recipe book) that I've ever eaten in my life. There's something about eating outside that makes everything taste better and I almost ate the paper plate as well.
Inside the food tent there were all ages of rock: young bands being rock'n'roll with lager and loud voices, medium bands with a confident way of sitting round their table, and then the ancient rockers with stories in their faces, who looked as though they are kept in rock'n'roll storage barns and brought out for festivals and jolted with a few volts to reanimate them. I met T Bone Tapling, the sound engineer from Birkenhead, who was helping a new Scouse band called The Songwriters and who particularly likes our song Hamilton Square, because that's where it is. Birkenhead.
Just outside the dressing room, we met Eddi Reader, resplendent in a magnificent parka covered in pansies. She told Martin that the first record she ever bought was Boat to Bolivia; she was really friendly and was probably the most glamorous person at the whole festival.
In no time at all, the band were on stage, hitting the ground running: BLAM!
The audience were ecstatic: there were lots of kids there (8.45 is a great slot to play because it's after tea and before bedtime), all smiles, arms in the air, the tent was packed to overflowing and the audience were roaring their approval. Martin was hilarious and the cameraman from BBC Alba, on the side where I was sitting, was laughing so much that they probably won't be able to use that footage at all when they edit it for TV.
The band played for 45 minutes and I reckon the crowd would have had them there for the same amount of time again; the best song was Left Us To Burn, the anti-Thatcher song that was a definite crowd pleaser in a country that has voted against that sort of nasty meanness. All four of them played absolutely top notch performances with a level of energy that buzzed though the venue. From surf tunes to Crocodile Cryer, they didn't put a foot wrong, and the band were so happy afterwards that they forgot to pick up their fee; we went back to do that this morning. I also want to say thank you to you Martin, for playing such a beautiful cover version of I'm in Love for the First Time. It is an honour to have that song covered and I think you do a better job of it than I do.
Right now they are off to Ullapool to play the Argyll Hotel. Go along if you can- they are on fine form! I am the roadie for the journey back tomorrow so I'm catching a few zeds. It's a long way and an early start; let's hope I can get on the road before the enormous motor homes (bungalows on wheels), tractors and bicycles do, and get the A9 under the wheels before lunchtime.
Friday, August 07, 2015
Belladrum Telegram
In short- what a lovely festival; much less druggy than Glastonbury and the staff and helpers have rapid fire humorous comebacks. Will report more in time but I had a blast on the Potting Shed stage run by Rob Ellen, we visited Henry in his giant marimba tent, and The Daintees did a storming' set on the Grassroots Stage with the most affectionate audience I've ever seen. More tomozza.....
Tuesday, August 04, 2015
Sunday, August 02, 2015
Belladrum
Introducing your The Belladrum Festival Medicine Show Potting Shed Stage line up.The Belladrum Tartan Heart Festival...
Posted by The Belladrum Festival Medicine Show Potting Shed Stage on Sunday, August 2, 2015
Coco's in Croxley
I will be playing tonight at this Rrrants event, which starts early and finishes early, at Coco's Cafe in Croxley. The solid bodies are indisposed, so the Green Goddess will be prowling around my songs this evening.
Housework's playing havoc with my picking' fingernails. I'm gonna have to stop. Any excuse!
Housework's playing havoc with my picking' fingernails. I'm gonna have to stop. Any excuse!
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