At the moment I'm ricocheting between revising an article for an academic journal (I've been recommended to read my own work, somewhat ironically: referees are sent anonymised versions of your draft), and finishing my book. Today has been 'article' day; I've slashed, burned, re-written and also found an earlier, better version that I've pilfered some of.
I've sliced out two thousand words (they said it was too long).
I don't know how many hours I've worked on it today, but I haven't poked my nose outside the door.
Somewhere along the line, I decided that it would be a good proposal for a Radio 2 programme. Later, perhaps.
What is really said is that both of these pieces of writing were supposed to have been edited by Dave Laing. I'm still missing him dreadfully: his wisdom, humour and unique academic perspective.
Things move on, yes; but older and wiser people are absolutely priceless as mentors and advisors.
Real male feminists are also incredibly rare.
Tomorrow is admin day, and later in the week I'll spend time on the book, which I really believe is almost finished. I'm waiting for some material from the new editor, which I'll have to email and remind her of.
In the breaks between writing, I'm still writing songs. The current one is rather bleak although like almost everything else I write, it's got a merry tune.
I can hear traffic sloshing thought the rain outside, so maybe it's not such a bad thing to be grafting through January, although I do understand that my blog postings are rather tedious at the moment.
Maybe I should tell you more about my research? I could write a book on that!
Monday, January 06, 2020
Sunday, January 05, 2020
The Clash, Museum of London
There's a tiny exhibition of Clash memorabilia at the Museum of London that I went to with some friends yesterday- it's worth it, even though you can look around it in half an hour. I particularly liked the song books- lovely! Not so sure about the smashed up bass guitar, though.
Friday, January 03, 2020
Writing (again)
All I can do is write something that I can be proud of, I think.
I still have more research to do, but I can say that the end of this massive project is in sight.
I gave up one of my part time jobs in order to finish this book.
Is that dedication or am I a fool? I have no idea, but in my heart I feel that this is slow politics and there might be some effect from it.
I feel so powerless, just like so many other people; so much of this has to do with my gender, and like a lot of women I can't speak out, or I will be silenced. The sound so dramatic, doesn't it? But it's true.
The concept of equality is the biggest joke I've heard in my lifetime.
Not only that but as I writer I've been completely stereotyped as only writing about punk.
This is enormously irritating!
Sorry for short 'barking' sentences. I've been writing long ones.
I still have more research to do, but I can say that the end of this massive project is in sight.
I gave up one of my part time jobs in order to finish this book.
Is that dedication or am I a fool? I have no idea, but in my heart I feel that this is slow politics and there might be some effect from it.
I feel so powerless, just like so many other people; so much of this has to do with my gender, and like a lot of women I can't speak out, or I will be silenced. The sound so dramatic, doesn't it? But it's true.
The concept of equality is the biggest joke I've heard in my lifetime.
Not only that but as I writer I've been completely stereotyped as only writing about punk.
This is enormously irritating!
Sorry for short 'barking' sentences. I've been writing long ones.
Tuesday, December 31, 2019
On New Year's Eve
I can only share this one day a year; I had meant to do a new mix for 2019, but was too busy carousing this year. Plus the kitchen studio is still swathed in plastic to protect it from cooking injuries.
Monday, December 30, 2019
Pheasant Pluckers and Phighting Back
Rather like Michael Clunkie in Newcastle, the mysteriously named Jane Barnes has a knack of putting together a good bill, and with Steve at the mixing desk (every band's extra member), things kicked off well from the start.
Asbo Derek's lead singer Jem genially filled the gaps between songs with merry innuendo, and the group ran through their hits, eliciting a yelp of delight from my mouth when they announced Buddhist Lost Property, and also later on by playing another one of my faves, Watch What You Drink, a song which is superb in its silliness. Yes, I love the grubby humour and rude repartee too, but nobody does f*ck-it-all pointlessness like Asbo Derek, and the sheer thrill of hearing a carefully arranged, rehearsed and delivered song that consists of lists of idiotic things received in an email, or dreamed up with a pint around a pub table, is utter bliss for a person with a cracker-joke mentality like me. 'Ha ha ha!!',I guffawed loudly and with total abandonment. And of course, that's why I love them so much! And all delivered over a rifftastic backing: Darcy was on fire. The band are able to hit you with solid political comment too, and I loved the new song Nails that tightened the thread between slave labour in Vietnamese nail bars and the recent tragedy of container-load of people dying of suffocation. What the bloody hell is going on in the 21st century?
This led us perfectly into The Band of Holy Joy's angry and fierce set. No holds barred, Johny tore into Ian Duncan Smith and roared through the set. The band sounded on top form, with James riffing gloriously, a new bass player who put in a fine show, Daryl drumming with aplomb, Pete playing great keyboards that added a psychedelic flavour to it all, and a new powerful set of images from Inge, whose colours even looked angry as they melted into and out of the screen. In front of it all strode Johny, almost in the audience at times, making damn sure we got the idea behind it all. These are powerful songs: So Sad was a standout song of the night, but my favourite one is The Devil Has a Hold of the Land which is an absolute anthem for this horrible political maelstrom that we find ourselves in. This was a completely inspirational set, and they were joined by Vic Godard for the well-deserved encore (yes, all the stars were out two nights ago!). I am looking forward to working with Johny in 2020, which I reckon is going to be the year the artists and musicians fight back.
Yes, it is.
(p.s. Brian, I hope your thumb gets better soon)
Photos by me and a mysterious stranger.
Friday, December 27, 2019
Excavating Songs
I've spent the afternoon excavating old songs.
One, called Waltzing Away from Winter, I'm sure I recorded about ten years ago but I can't find the recording. I think I did it on Garageband, and the computer that I used died a long time ago. Frustratingly, I can remember the whole thing apart from little run down from the middle 8 to the last verse. The words were in the first place I looked, which is the first time that has happened, ever.
The little run may come back in a dream.
Another, Beachwalk, was recorded as a collaboration and somehow lost its words in the process, becoming an instrumental.
I found the words, but forgot the melody of the middle 8; a new one showed up straight away, and now I'm tinkering away with the words, like a mechanic does with a car, to make it singable.
There has been nothing better to do, and this has been the best thing to do.
Indigestion is knocking at the door, but a diet of cheese straws has kept it at bay. It's a homeopathic trick: eat the thing that gave you indigestion in the first place and it will either get better or worse. In this case, it's been the former, although I'm just about to go out with the Offsprogs and it might get worse again later.
Oh, and I spent the morning writing a new song. It's reached the tantalising stage that if I work on it too much, I'll ruin it. I'm waiting a bit for the best words to come, and a middle 8, I hope.
It sort of wrote itself today, which feels a bit like being given a fabulous present. I have no idea whether it's any good or not, but I will enjoy singing it anyway.
All this because I couldn't be bothered to go out and buy some more clementines from the shop across the road.
One, called Waltzing Away from Winter, I'm sure I recorded about ten years ago but I can't find the recording. I think I did it on Garageband, and the computer that I used died a long time ago. Frustratingly, I can remember the whole thing apart from little run down from the middle 8 to the last verse. The words were in the first place I looked, which is the first time that has happened, ever.
The little run may come back in a dream.
Another, Beachwalk, was recorded as a collaboration and somehow lost its words in the process, becoming an instrumental.
I found the words, but forgot the melody of the middle 8; a new one showed up straight away, and now I'm tinkering away with the words, like a mechanic does with a car, to make it singable.
There has been nothing better to do, and this has been the best thing to do.
Indigestion is knocking at the door, but a diet of cheese straws has kept it at bay. It's a homeopathic trick: eat the thing that gave you indigestion in the first place and it will either get better or worse. In this case, it's been the former, although I'm just about to go out with the Offsprogs and it might get worse again later.
Oh, and I spent the morning writing a new song. It's reached the tantalising stage that if I work on it too much, I'll ruin it. I'm waiting a bit for the best words to come, and a middle 8, I hope.
It sort of wrote itself today, which feels a bit like being given a fabulous present. I have no idea whether it's any good or not, but I will enjoy singing it anyway.
All this because I couldn't be bothered to go out and buy some more clementines from the shop across the road.
Thursday, December 26, 2019
Wednesday, December 25, 2019
Tuesday, December 24, 2019
A Poor Christmasser
I'm not a very good Christmasser this year- late or non-existent card-sending, poor present purchase and badly organised social life. Work seems to have ended very late this year, and even on Friday I was writing a (thoroughly-deserved) reference for someone.
But today I made a loaf of bread. The Offsprogs have eaten half of it already, so it must be OK. I brought the little Christmas tree in from the back yard, and it's got lights on it.
I have lost about three miles of fairy lights somewhere in the house, but can't find them anywhere.
Have you nicked them, readers?
Last night I went with some pals (including my Champagne Friend) to the carol service at Southwark Cathedral, and we managed the 'you don't come to church, so here are some strange carols' part of the service perfectly adequately.
It's nut roast for Christmas dinner if any of us can be bothered to make it; vegetables and Yorkshire pudding if we can't.
We (mostly me) have eaten almost all of the After Eight's in their little record sleeves.
No matter how hard the Offsprogs pretend, I know there are more in there, all for me!
The only downer is the complete lack of Cheese Footballs, apparently on the entire planet.
Or have you got them, Northern Powerhouse?
Maybe Peek Freans (or whoever they are) thinks the Metropolitan Elite don't eat such things. We get Twiglets (pronounced 'Twiglahts') and olives, with hummus and other such slop, and we talk about Jeremy Corbyn in hushed tones while (we are told) the ex-miners celebrate Boris and the Tories.
Oh the joy of stereotypes!
100%!
(is that a Stormzy 100% or a Tory 100%?).
I dreamt that McDad died a second time last night: that's how awful things feel. Being the mother of two twenty-somethings who have directly suffered at the hands of the Tories, and lecturing in an institution where the hopelessness engendered by their selfish policies manifests itself in extreme anxiety in many of it's students, I'm not taking kindly to self-righteous editorials in papers that should know better (that's you, The Guardian), who will only be satisfied when actual Jesus takes over the Labour Party.
Don't you realise that the Tory press would slaughter him, too?
Many people that I know are at full pelt holding up the collapsing old building that is post-colonial Britain, a building shored up by narcissistic men (and Katie Hopkins) who are painting over it's guilty cracks with a disgusting shade of racism.
Oh deary me.
I'm exhausted.
Bring on lazy Christmas Day.
I suspect the nut loaf ingredients will still be piled on the side in the kitchen on Boxing Day.
But today I made a loaf of bread. The Offsprogs have eaten half of it already, so it must be OK. I brought the little Christmas tree in from the back yard, and it's got lights on it.
I have lost about three miles of fairy lights somewhere in the house, but can't find them anywhere.
Have you nicked them, readers?
Last night I went with some pals (including my Champagne Friend) to the carol service at Southwark Cathedral, and we managed the 'you don't come to church, so here are some strange carols' part of the service perfectly adequately.
It's nut roast for Christmas dinner if any of us can be bothered to make it; vegetables and Yorkshire pudding if we can't.
We (mostly me) have eaten almost all of the After Eight's in their little record sleeves.
No matter how hard the Offsprogs pretend, I know there are more in there, all for me!
The only downer is the complete lack of Cheese Footballs, apparently on the entire planet.
Or have you got them, Northern Powerhouse?
Maybe Peek Freans (or whoever they are) thinks the Metropolitan Elite don't eat such things. We get Twiglets (pronounced 'Twiglahts') and olives, with hummus and other such slop, and we talk about Jeremy Corbyn in hushed tones while (we are told) the ex-miners celebrate Boris and the Tories.
Oh the joy of stereotypes!
100%!
(is that a Stormzy 100% or a Tory 100%?).
I dreamt that McDad died a second time last night: that's how awful things feel. Being the mother of two twenty-somethings who have directly suffered at the hands of the Tories, and lecturing in an institution where the hopelessness engendered by their selfish policies manifests itself in extreme anxiety in many of it's students, I'm not taking kindly to self-righteous editorials in papers that should know better (that's you, The Guardian), who will only be satisfied when actual Jesus takes over the Labour Party.
Don't you realise that the Tory press would slaughter him, too?
Many people that I know are at full pelt holding up the collapsing old building that is post-colonial Britain, a building shored up by narcissistic men (and Katie Hopkins) who are painting over it's guilty cracks with a disgusting shade of racism.
Oh deary me.
I'm exhausted.
Bring on lazy Christmas Day.
I suspect the nut loaf ingredients will still be piled on the side in the kitchen on Boxing Day.
Sunday, December 22, 2019
Saturday, December 21, 2019
Friday, December 20, 2019
Oh!
I should be writing, but I'm not.
On Thursday, I witnessed a racist attack in Barnet High Street (not for the first time, but this was the first violent one).
You could say 'unprovoked attack', but apparently for some people, simply belonging to a different culture is a provocation.
A Muslim man had been walking down the street with his son, and his daughter was just crossing the road to meet them.
A young white man punched him in the mouth in front of his children. The man who got punched was shocked and became very angry, and it looked as though it might became a serious fight, so I got out my phone and said I was going to contact the police unless the white man went away.
He walked away, but he carried on gesticulating insults as he walked down the road.
I was trying to describe his expression: it was supercilious.
The victim was really upset. He had blood all over his mouth, and he could not understand why he had been attacked for no reason. His children were shocked too.
I know people from any culture could feel that they can verbally or physically attack a person from another culture.
This is called racism.
No single culture seems to be either immune from being racist, or immune from experiencing racism.
If you experience it or witness it, this is where you report it: http://report-it.org.uk
If you are a racist, you are a coward and a disgrace to humanity.
I can't get this out of my mind.
On Thursday, I witnessed a racist attack in Barnet High Street (not for the first time, but this was the first violent one).
You could say 'unprovoked attack', but apparently for some people, simply belonging to a different culture is a provocation.
A Muslim man had been walking down the street with his son, and his daughter was just crossing the road to meet them.
A young white man punched him in the mouth in front of his children. The man who got punched was shocked and became very angry, and it looked as though it might became a serious fight, so I got out my phone and said I was going to contact the police unless the white man went away.
He walked away, but he carried on gesticulating insults as he walked down the road.
I was trying to describe his expression: it was supercilious.
The victim was really upset. He had blood all over his mouth, and he could not understand why he had been attacked for no reason. His children were shocked too.
I know people from any culture could feel that they can verbally or physically attack a person from another culture.
This is called racism.
No single culture seems to be either immune from being racist, or immune from experiencing racism.
If you experience it or witness it, this is where you report it: http://report-it.org.uk
If you are a racist, you are a coward and a disgrace to humanity.
I can't get this out of my mind.
Thursday, December 19, 2019
Tuesday, December 17, 2019
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