Editing

Not words; that's going to happen on Saturday.
Today's editing was music: the Women of the World track.
It took almost all day. It's a ProTools project where we used the Decca setting on the drums, and replaced the bass guitar track with a more fluid and 'performed' one that has a nice, warm sound. The guitar needed to be edited in a couple of places; I'd been thinking of replacing the Spanish with a steel-stringed but actually it sounded great the way it was (ambience recorded in a huge room with a wooden floor can't be beaten). Even the guide vocal's not bad, but I will try to do better.
The icing on the cake was the choir. We flew in some tracks that had been sent from afar, spread the 'wind' harmonies hard left and right with a nice plate reverb, and moved the chorus harmonies slightly closer to the centre with a subtle reverb that means you can hear the characters of people's voices really distinctly. Oh choir, you really sound so lovely!
The trumpet's going to have to be added later but I'm contented, tired and looking forward to more editing, and singing, tomorrow.

Two Dogs Life

Travelling to the studio with two guitars is a bit like taking two dogs with you. They both want to head in different directions, and it makes you into a bloody nuisance for other passengers.

The Sea

Green, green sea that kisses the horizon,

The crescent and the cross walk hand in hand.

Blue, blue skies to feast your eyes on

The wonders of the world are sketched in sand.

Lie down, lie; let the sun caress you,

People of the world in the heart of the beast.

Holiday to calm and rest you

What could ever drown your sleep in peace?

The sea, the sea, the sea, the sea.

Green, green sea that kisses the horizon,

The crescent and the cross walk hand in hand.

Blue, blue skies to feast your eyes on

The wonders of the world are sketched in sand.

The sea, the sea, the sea, the sea.

The crescent and the cross walk hand in hand

Hand in hand and hand.

Take a souvenir from the contraband

Of this promised land;

The sea, the sea, the sea, the sea.

Fight man fight to get to the shore

The crashing of the waves, the battling swell;

Bursting boats can't take any more

While the monsters in the deckchairs curse you to hell.

“Go home! Go home!

Go home to your war zone!”

Green, green sea that kisses the horizon,

The crescent and the cross walk hand in hand.

Blue, blue skies to feast your eyes on

The wonders of the world are built on sand.

Mad Bicycle Song

I've been listening to the tracks from my forthcoming album after a month's ears-rest.
I'm not sure about this track... I might let the drawing decide.
If the drawing behaves itself (they don't always), maybe the track gets a reprieve.

Cabbages

Just look at these lovely podgy cabbages! Just look!

Supermarket Humour

You might have heard this saying before, but I haven't; usually I'm on another planet from everyone else.
I went out to stock up on groceries and to breathe some fresh air before I start singing today.
There was a two-for-one offer on bog paper and I asked the checkout guy if you can put toilet rolls in the food bank box.
'Yes', he said.
'No job is complete without the paperwork'.

Bird

'Fly!', he said
And broke it's wings
And threw it off a cliff.

Bo

More Sunday Walkographs

At The End Of The Day

Actually, in the afternoon. It was so gorgeous outside that I couldn't resist going to Camden and taking a walk along the canal. I photographed some interesting graffiti but it won't send to the computer at the moment, but here are some bicycles at rest, a strange bird chimney on a barge and a lovely, lovely vista down the canal towards King's Cross.
It was cold, but beautiful.
When I got back I spent four hours double checking the referencing for this article. I've still got loads more to do: finding out some page numbers, working out the way to cite web sources in-text using the Chicago referencing system (or a similar type, anyway), and then reading it through a couple of times and doing some final editing and fine tuning. That will probably take four hours. Then I have to hope that it gets accepted in its amended form- I've almost completely rewritten it. I've tried to find out where to source sales figures percentages for pop music consumption by age and gender but all I can find is pay sites. Grr. That's a mini-project in itself which can also tax my brain tomorrow, and the next day I will finish a song that I've been working on with Lester Square and do a bit more recording, which will be a much-appreciated luxury.
Plus some drawing- I'm looking forward very much to that day.

Another Hour Later

I'm at 7739 words and ready to work on the conclusion; then I have to go back to the criticisms of the academic referee and make sure I've addressed everything, point by point.
It's time for the last bit of Bargain Hunt, naturally, with Solange's album playing in the background.

One Hour Later

Up to 4421 words, still revising the writing before formalising the format. Why do I do this? It's interesting but also incredibly depressing. No wonder I make music and art as a release!
It has to be said though, that working at a University has allowed me to have some space to be creative in the nooks and crannies between work and the responsibilities of parenthood. Where the little gaps of freedom happen, songs and illustrations burst out like steam from a pressure-cooker.
It's time for a break.
I'm going to listen to the CD that Mick Whitfield gave me for Christmas: No More by Ballas D'Afrique.

A Writing Day

Oh well- at least it's not last January, when I spent 50 hours writing a chapter for an academic book (all unpaid work for us poor scholarly souls, who do these activities purely to contribute to the research profiles of our universities).
I'm precisely 1220 words into an article that's been severely criticised (with some justification) by an academic referee. I spent seven hours on this in November and the deadline is fast approaching. It's much better now, but I'm still in trepidation wondering if I can meet the standards required.
Why am I blogging? Because it's time for a coffee break. Expect more drivel later this morning...

A Day

Today. There were a few people wheeling suitcases about, and a lot of remains from last night on the pavements but the city hadn't really woken up yet. Central London was divided up by crash barriers after the fireworks, and before the Mayor's Show; it was silent and pensive.
I hear we are going to have armed police on the tubes. I don't want them; I will feel much more threatened by aggressive-looking uniformed men travelling with their clicking guns and stamping boots that I would by a 'potential threat'. Everything about major cities is a threat, and has been for several years. There was a gap for a while, but before that it was the IRA bombing people; you'd leave your children in one part of London, travel to work in another and not know whether you'd see them again that night.
We heard the IRA bus bomb in The Strand from our house back then, and knew what it was straight away; even before that, a neighbour in Camberwell had lost her husband in the Victoria Station bomb incident. Life carried on being cruel to her; the bailiffs came and even took her little girls' colouring pencils away so she used to come to our house and draw at the kitchen table sometimes.
It's so terrible that arms manufacture is still one of Britain's major surviving industries. I remember when in the late 1980s when we all found out that EMI (Thorn EMI) and RCA were arms manufacturing cakes with an icing made of music industry; what a terrible shock that was, like a ghastly adult version of discovering that Santa Claus doesn't exist.
At least with our little self-releases we can bypass corporate darknesses and try to keep our art and music 'clean'.
I didn't mean to be so gloomy. Here is a picture of a squirrel to cheer you up, and a link to Cazz's blog where she very kindly mentions Femme Fatale, which you can still buy (hint, hint) if you want to add to our contribution to Refugee Action:
http://cazzblase.blogspot.co.uk/2017/01/helen-mccookerybook-and-charlie-tipper.html

A Night

New Year's Eve. What a strange night; it belongs to other people, not me.
All afternoon, I marked dissertations; after each one I took a break and strolled around the grounds, all seventeen feet of them. There were six to do, and after almost as many hours I had finished.
At the start I felt like a horse refusing jumps on a racecourse; my head went into reverse. 'No, no!', my inner voice screamed. I plodded through them in turn, and actually enjoyed reading some of them; when I finally finished I could sigh with relief. There is more academic work to do, possibly starting very early tomorrow morning if I can drag my lazy bones out of bed.
I almost set the microwave on fire with a mince pie. Smoke billowed out of the machine until I managed to switch it off and retrieve a blackened, sizzling, bubbling, rock-hard thing-on-a-plate that was completely inedible, especially because its aroma floated through the house like a sickly smog.
A potential tragedy in Brighton stopped the evening dead. I had to call the police and after that, spent the night wondering if everything was OK. I don't know if I'll ever find out.