https://helenmcc.bandcamp.com/track/three-cheers-for-toytown
Thursday, September 04, 2025
Wednesday, September 03, 2025
In The Morning
In the morning, I put seeds out for the birds and then I put food for thought out on social media.
I'm not sure which is the most hungry!
A Researcher's Epiphany
I woke far too early this morning, but that sometimes happens and it doesn't bother me. I like to lie there and think about things, tidy the large cupboard in my head, make peace with my memories and mull over ideas.
This morning I was remembering an uncomfortable occasion that must have been following me like a thread, or an inverted trail of Hansel and Gretel pebbles, for much of my life. As a family we attended Jesmond Presbyterian Church which was in a chic, at that time student-y part of Newcastle. McMum and McDad had lived in Jesmond when they were newly married, and there was no Presbyterian church in the village where we lived, or nearby actually. So on Sundays we put on our Sunday best and piled into the car for the 25 minute drive into town.
The church was big, grand and empty. Presbyterianism involves a lot of telling off. My brother and me would sit and be told off by the minister along with the rest of the congregation before, with the other children, heading off to Sunday School in a room at the back of the church, while the grown-ups got told off by the sermon, long form. The little girls went out first, followed by the boys.
Once, as a protest against being forced to wear a kilt, Bruv went out with the girls. 'But I'm wearing a skirt!', he argued when he was (yes) told off about it later. Maybe that's something that should be put in a gender critical pipe and smoked.
When you were primary school age, Sunday School wasn't too bad. There was a jolly, if strict, chap who once told us a wonderful story about a blended animal called a Camelephantelopelicanary. I can't remember the point of the story, just the name of the animal, but it was quite a remarkable concept and an interesting approach to religion.
The parents would come to find us after their part of the service, and one day they said 'Mr McVitie has asked if he can make a recording of you singing'. 'No', I said.
Mr McVitie was one of those men who looks old even when they are young: it was partly to do with the way he dressed. He wore black pin-striped trousers and a matching funeral-black waistcoat and jacket. He was portly and he wore wire rimmed spectacles with indistinct eyes behind them, and on his feet, exceptionally shiny black shoes. He had a round, unexpressive face, with a crisply-cut bristly sandy-grey moustache (or maybe he didn't?) and disconcertingly pink marshmallow-like lips (he definitely did). Yes, he was very pink.
'No', I said. But little children my age weren't allowed to say no. I stood frozen with distaste in my Sunday-best dress. He stood at a respectful (ha!) distance with his portable cassette recorder in one hand and the small microphone extended in the other, his arm outstretched towards me pointing it at my wavery little voice. In his eyes was a look of neediness that was utterly disconcerting. He was taking something from me: my littleness, my vulnerability, trying to capture my innocence in a not very innocent way. I could feel the imbalance of power, the sense of being ganged up against by adults and made to do something against my will.
At the end of the recording, triumphant, he withdrew his extended arm, thanked my parents and everyone went home for Sunday lunch.
And then, so much later, I spent years and years writing and researching a book about the capture of women's voices in recording studios by men, and the control of the way they sound and communicate. Do you think these factors could be related?
https://www.equinoxpub.com/home/shes-at-the-controls/
The drawing isn't a very accurate portrait of either of us! Years later, he came to McSis's wedding and blanked me. I did say hello anyway, and noticed one very, very long strand of white hair growing out of the bridge of his nose: an external conscience, perhaps.
Tuesday, September 02, 2025
All Over The Place
The past couple of days, I've been all over the place, mainly in conversation. On the way to meet an academic from the US in real life, I discovered the guitar shop in Greenwich Market, Tom's Guitar Shop. Tom was there playing guitar, and I played a couple of guitars from the display and chatted with him for a bit. I may well send him photos of the guitars I'm planning to sell because he's a little less jaded than some of the guitar shop chaps that I've come across. There's still a lot of sexism in those places; female money is obviously worth a lot less than male money. Further in the future this fact will be ridiculed, I sincerely hope.
The conversation over coffee was intense; oh how I've missed the academic world that is nothing to do with management, spreadsheets and all that blah. The conference community was fascinating, even with its competitiveness, tripping-up and (yes) misogyny. The worst male academics were the ones who declared themselves to be feminist, and thought that was all they had to do. Ha ha! Just try reporting a sexual assault by their favourite male student and see how that plays out!
Somehow I managed to walk more than six miles, chewing over the food for thought. And today, my friend Joan came for a walk and a forage through the charity shops, and there is now yet more food for thought.
I have so many ideas for songs that I feel overloaded. Could this be called a 'Constipation of Ideas'? I'm not sure... I have a pristine book to start writing them in, having abandoned my phone notes after Facebook spied on them and started pushing 'Facebook Washing Line Groups' when I was in Scotland and made a note about colour-coded washing on a line outside Rothesay a few weeks ago.
My handwriting leaves a lot to be desired, but even that has sometimes created some very interesting lyrics as I've misread what was written on the back of my hand, for instance.
It was an unexpected pleasure to see Emily Kam Kngwarray's paintings at Tate Modern last week. They are beautiful maps of thought and movement, sometimes layered with repeat visits, stopping and starting, turning and thinking. Aboriginal paintings seem to be a historical precursor to Situationism, and this fascinated me: the here and now, measuring by walking and looking and making precise marks.
It's great to simultaneously not understand a language but to feel respect for what it's saying and the way it speaks. There is something humanly empowering about them, and about their direct communication, that dwarfs the morass of stupidity that we're whirling around in at the moment. Where are the adults? Did everyone's maturity stop developing when they were toddlers? Kngwarray is a duchess of dignity and patience. What a relief to come across such great art.
Friday, August 29, 2025
Helen and the Horns Tape Box
Original tape box for Freight Train and Pioneer Town, by Helen and the Horns, recorded at Elephant Studio, Wapping and released by Thin Sliced Records:
Thursday, August 28, 2025
Playing Guitar, Singing
One of the other things that I've been doing is adding guitar and vocals to a one-minute track by Nat the Hammer, of the Under the Influence nights. I've just re-done the guitar part, because the first one I sent to him wasn't sparkly enough. He has invited me to play at the anniversary night at The Boogaloo in November, but I'm already 'booked' that night, alas.
No buses come along, then two buses come at once, etc. etc.
I did a selfie with my hand in the way just to see if I still exist. I do, even though I'm not making much noise at the moment. Willie Gibson sent the backing track for Calin Morun Sa last night (McDad's favourite and also John Smith Labourparty's), so that's another Scottish Gaelic song to learn. It does sound very good, so I'm looking forward to doing that next week.
Wednesday, August 27, 2025
Tuesday, August 26, 2025
The Clerkenwell Festival
The Clerkenwell Festival is a sort of heaven for anyone who ever went to a club in the 1980s. We all are there in our finery, checking out the Dog Show, the vintage stalls (i.e. the clothes we used to wear when we went out back in the day), and chiefly, each other. At one point, I helplessly found myself in a triangle of people I knew from different times and places, a nightmare for a reformed introvert like me. But PP Arnold was brilliant (the sound, not so brilliant), and it was great to see Paul Raggity with a stall there, because I love his very funny and poignant drawings. I bought a set of plastic moustaches from him, and he gave me a little book he'd published; I have promised him a little book that I published in exchange. Here he is, behind his stall:
I saw Peter Momtchiloff from the Would-be-Goods three times, Dean Chalkley the photographer once, Gaye Black and Eric once, Fran Isherwood once, Emilyn Swag once, Piney Gir and her sweet little babby once, Mandy Austin and her Eric once just as we were leaving, Tim from Transglobal Underground several times, Shanne in the distance, Christina from Rochester in the distance, and countless others to chat to, or in the distance, or I didn't see them and other people did. The air was swirling with roll-up smoke and dust from the dry ground; sloshed chaps in straw pork pie hats yelled at each other amicably while their tilted beer glasses spilled beer on to the ground. The woman from The Sewing Bee gave us evils as we tried to slip to the front to hear P P Arnold and get away from the mansplainers at the back who knew just how to fix the sound by moving the speakers like that... no like that... no like that... anyway isn't it great to see her... last time we saw her was at ... and did you know she sang with... the 1960s... YES... PITY WE CAN'T HEAR HER... YES IT IS ISN'T IT!...
Dogs were bored and barking to go home, even the little titch that won first prize and couldn't care less. There was no ice cream van so I sulked a bit because I'd been looking forward to a Mr Whippy (no Flake). But all in all it was a convivial occasion, as always.
Sunday, August 24, 2025
The Band of Holy Joy at Dash The Henge Records, Camberwell
A stray wisp of a social media mention drew my attention to this in-store gig yesterday afternoon. It's the best way to see a band, sometimes, and this was no exception.
I'd dropped off some blackberry jam for the Offsprogs on the way there, and wandered down Camberwell Road, past old haunts, closed shops, graffiti and the constant air of optimism that floats about on Camberwell Green; the gig was about to start. The core of the band was there: Johny, James and Pete, and a crowd of people who know and love their music. Behind the small deep stage, a video played and replayed, largely green.
The music began, a long piece with spoken vocals. Pete on electronics and James on guitar created an atmosphere that mirrored Johny's storytelling. At times, it reminded me of Edith Sitwell's poetry over William Walton's music; at other times, I could hear echoes of Richard Burton declaiming metaphysical poetry, eating the words and spitting them out. At times, sirens from outside augmented the music, perfectly in tune with the mood of the music, spirit of the age and spirit of the afternoon.
After this, a short set of new songs unfolded. Johny was in fine voice; he and Inge have moved to Sarf London and I think the move has re-energised everything. This was a neat gig, almost like being at the beginning of something freshly minted. You could notice everything: James's row of matching guitar pedals, visual cues, the balancing of the arrangements between electronics, vocals and guitars, and the embedding of politics into the lyrics of the songs. What a neat gig!
Later, I crossed over to the Nunhead Gardener and bought a half dead plant from the poor sad box on the floor, and was given a handful of cuttings which I've just planted; let's see what happens. I went to Lidl and bought six tins of tomatoes (they do great chopped tomatoes), and went home with a clanking bag of tins, passing everyone cool off to their evening gigs with guitar bags on their backs.
Saturday, August 23, 2025
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)