It has become all too exciting of late to be an employee of the University of the East, what with the pronouncements of our grizzled colleague about stringing up bankers and so on.
The trouble is, it turns social occasions into discussion forums. I don't think about him at all really; he reminds me so much of the sillarchists- the silly 'anarchists' who tried in vain to persuade the punks to sign bits of paper and Be One Of Them, missing the point that to be a true anarchist you don't sign pieces of paper and belong to organisations, because that is what you are against.
This is not to say I am a fan of the bankers, many of whom should substitute a 'w' for the 'b' at the beginning of their label. Nor am I against my grizzled colleague; I don't think he really intended that his words should encourage people to go off and commit murder. All that wearies me is the predictability of the print media, in desperate need of stories and scandals to boost their circulation, who are magnifying little stories to hide the big ones, and predicting riots and hellfire so they have a story to tell over the next few days.
The University of the East is closing down for two days, much to the distress of many of the academics who want to teach their students.
There used to be a brilliant postcard on sale in the shop where I worked for a couple of years. i wish I still had one! It depicted a small bungalow with a red roof and cream walls; visible at the windows were a suburban couple, peering out worriedly, and quite understandably, for their bungalow was swirling about underwater in a deep green sea, patrolled by nasty looking hungry sharks. "STAY AT HOME" commanded the postcard.
We are all being told it is far too scary to go outside, especially if that means collecting together with other people to protest about something. STAY AT HOME with a TV dinner and watch it on the news! Let other people voice opinions for you, and if you disagree with them, you can be cross as you STAY AT HOME and switch channels to something that doesn't make you as cross.
What am I doing tomorrow? Will I STAY AT HOME? No, actually, I am going ice skating with Gina. I am too afraid of the police to go on marches any more. They are supposed to be a Police Service here in the UK but turn into a Police Force at whim, and I don't want to be whacked on the head with a truncheon and turned into a character from a Punch and Judy Show.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
The Raincoats, Saturday Night
The night I'd been looking forward to for weeks didn't disappoint!
I met Caroline at the caff in the Tate Modern and she yanked me into a taxi as it started to pour with rain, so we arrived in style. The film took a while to behave, appearing without sound twice before settling down and running. The first impression was the true-to-the-feel-of-the-times element. Having spent the punk experience in Brighton, I rarely went to London, but I could see that there was the same power nationally in the music and the subculture.
The earliest footage shows the Raincoats almost looking like the New York Dolls- tall, some in high heels, brightly coloured and quite glam. Later, their style evolved to a more personal one. What was most striking was Palmolive- she was a fantastic drummer- fast, imaginative and fun- you see her grinning at the audience and generally having a whale of a time. Additionally, the band were very tight and well-rehearsed, something Ari said about the Slits. Just because the music was different to the ears and broke the rules doesn't mean to say the players didn't know what they were doing with sound. There was also some great footage of the group in the studio- a very young Geoff Travis is there, and the girls look intense and focused, and very very close to each other.
There was a lot of talking-head material in the film too- Jane Mo-Dette, there in the audience, looking splendidly extraordinary, the most stylish woman of the noughties without a doubt, Vivien Goldman being perceptive and funny, a bit too much David Thomas but one very funny sequence with Ana and Gina off-camera, Lucy O'Brien, Viv Albertine, Scritti Politti's dreadlocked drummer Tom (who told a funny anecdote about the Raincoat's live sound guy hating them so much he was listening to AC/DC on his headphones during their soundcheck), lots of others. Gina has done a great job; it bears her stamp of being intelligent, political and humorous in combination.
Afterwards we watched a live set, starting off with No One's Little Girl which featured Gina's daughters sitting with dangling legs at the front of the stage playing percussion, Shouting Out Loud with two false starts that added to the informality, One in a Million, Don't Be Mean and then a hilarious instrument-swapping episode in which the leads all got tangled up. 'We always make it look so effortless, don't we?', laughed Gina, and they launched into Babydog, a Hangovers song. Touchingly, Ana dedicated the next song, Step by Step, to the medical staff who have been treating Shirley's illness.
They finished with a rip-roaring version of Lola. Earlier, Gina had quoted Ray Davies' comments about their version of his song: 'making a single sound like an album track instead of an album track sound like a single'.
Well, this sounded more sexy, lively and exciting than the Kink's insouciant version, so put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr Ray Davies who promises to come and talk to songwriting students and then lets them down at the last minute!
The Raincoats fully deserved their standing ovation. After all this time you can see what a bona fide art rock band they were and are. Just because they are female, people said they couldn't play. But this film shows a rule-breaking band who played very tightly and with such energy, making a rock spectacle at the same time, that would put many of today's male rock bands to shame!
Pics show the band singing Lola, and Caroline, me, Lucy and Rhoda Dakar having a larf backstage.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Yellow Paper
While racing through a three-hour knitting marathon last night, I tuned in to Jazz 625 and watched the Dave Brubeck Quartet, all suits and seriousness, groove their way through a few jazz toons. What struck me most was the sound quality- the audio tape was slipping in a perfect reproduction of the tapes I used to make from the radio/tape combo I had on the table at home. I used to sit there drawing into the wee small hours, listening first to John Peel (right from the days of Pete Atkin) then to Jazz Club, taping bits of whatever sounded good. Everything had the first bit missing because I only had about three cassettes and so couldn't tape whole shows. I'd wait until a song began and then if I liked it, press 'record'. I had to tape over everything and my tapes got worn out and fuzzy and slipped. The slippy audio track last night took me right back to my wobbly recordings of Peel shows and rare Jazz Club tracks. There was one that I really liked and tried to keep- Michael Garrick's Galilee which had Norma Winstone on vocals. I became a total fan of her voice and got into Ian Carr's Nucleus for a while (RIP Ian). Unforchly, that track was never released and remains buried under numerous other recordings-over, merely a memory in magnetic particles. When I am a scientist I will devise a way to retrieve lost tracks hidden under tapings-over, just as they find lost images under famous paintings!
... and all that led me to remember that McDad's best friend Charles used to work in the X-Ray Department at the Royal Victoria Infirmary in Newcastle upon Tyne. X-Ray film at that time came wrapped between slices of folded yellowy-orange paper, and Charles used to save it in massive cardboard boxes, bung it in his car ind bring it over every so often on a Sunday afternoon for me to draw on. Imagine that! For a child who likes drawing, that is the equivalent of regularly being given a thousand pounds to spend. I would spread it all on the table and draw deep into the night.. John Peel, Jazz Club, and Radio Luxemburg, or even occasionally, Radio North Sea...
Stimorol Gum
Stimorol Gum
Stimorol Chewing Gum
Stimorol Gum
Stimorol Gum
Stimorol Chewing Gum
Stimorol Chewing Gum, Stimorol Chewing Gum
Ah- the jingles worked!
... and all that led me to remember that McDad's best friend Charles used to work in the X-Ray Department at the Royal Victoria Infirmary in Newcastle upon Tyne. X-Ray film at that time came wrapped between slices of folded yellowy-orange paper, and Charles used to save it in massive cardboard boxes, bung it in his car ind bring it over every so often on a Sunday afternoon for me to draw on. Imagine that! For a child who likes drawing, that is the equivalent of regularly being given a thousand pounds to spend. I would spread it all on the table and draw deep into the night.. John Peel, Jazz Club, and Radio Luxemburg, or even occasionally, Radio North Sea...
Stimorol Gum
Stimorol Gum
Stimorol Chewing Gum
Stimorol Gum
Stimorol Gum
Stimorol Chewing Gum
Stimorol Chewing Gum, Stimorol Chewing Gum
Ah- the jingles worked!
Friday, March 27, 2009
Wool
Jamie from the Irrepressibles came in to talk to the songwriting students at the University of the West yesterday. I found it fascinating; I have taught Jamie and known him for about eight years- but how often do we find out how people we know tick? He was marvellously open with the students and sang to them live, which they found totally engaging.
On the way in, I met Shirley, the Raincoats manager, who was buzzing with excitement about the Raincoats documentary which is going to be shown tomorrow night at the NFT. It's been sold out for weeks. I am going with Caroline, which will be fab as we haven't seen each other for ages, and the whole thing is a luscious plum of an evening to look forward to! Gina has been working like mad, editing, incorporating rare footage from personal archives, and I can't wait!
Meanwhile, my evenings are spent frantically knitting a jumper for my oldest offsprog, who is at Art College. It's a mass of enthusiastic dropped stitches and uneven tension but it's a lovely colour and even if it doesn't fit it's victim, then maybe it could be stuffed as a friendly cushion with its arms extended for a cuddle. Or something.
On the way in, I met Shirley, the Raincoats manager, who was buzzing with excitement about the Raincoats documentary which is going to be shown tomorrow night at the NFT. It's been sold out for weeks. I am going with Caroline, which will be fab as we haven't seen each other for ages, and the whole thing is a luscious plum of an evening to look forward to! Gina has been working like mad, editing, incorporating rare footage from personal archives, and I can't wait!
Meanwhile, my evenings are spent frantically knitting a jumper for my oldest offsprog, who is at Art College. It's a mass of enthusiastic dropped stitches and uneven tension but it's a lovely colour and even if it doesn't fit it's victim, then maybe it could be stuffed as a friendly cushion with its arms extended for a cuddle. Or something.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Live Music
That's another thing. There is a very interesting academic article about Cher that links her cosmetic surgery to her vocoder-treated vocals. So much pop music features vocals that are treated in the same way as an airbrushed photograph in OK Magazine. Everything sexually appealing is enhanced, and everything to do with individuality and imperfection is removed in order to create an impossible ideal.
There is a constant imposition of power by producers on to pop and rock music. It's like a tug-of-war. At the end of the 1970s, those big mega-bands like Yes and Emerson Lake and Palmer built themselves up with layers and layers of technological mystique: four keyboards for Rick (even one behind him! What was he going to play that with? His bum?), an electronic relationship with classical music for ELP, massive lighting rigs. The pub rockers and the punks slipped under the pomp-fences and stole the power back.
There was a device called an Aural Exciter in the late 1980s that picked out and magnified to top-end of a vocal performance, creating an artificial clarity and intimacy in the voice. If you knew about it, it was all you could hear when you listened to recorded music- and live, for that matter. I went to see a chap I knew called Spike play double bass in the musical Buddy, which of course was about Buddy Holly. They had one on their mixing desk, and the quantity of Aural Exciter that the sound engineer loaded on to the vocals removed all the wax from my ears, the dandruff from my hair, the pigment from my skin and the plaque from my teeth. These physical benefits were a marvel, but I had gone out to be entertained and the physical makeover was a bit of a shock!
One student is writing about Autotune, a device which is being hotly debated at the moment by producers. Almost all the big
stars' recordings feature Autotune, which tempers the pitch of singing to make it bang-in-tune. It's fun to use in the studio, but hard to subtract once you have heard a dodgy vocal being put in its place.
I helped to organise a conference about music technology about ten years ago, and there was a man from the University of Oslo showing a prototype; his guinea pig was a vocal performance by a guy who had walked into an auto-recording-booth and sung an operatic aria completely off key and with a ghastly timbre, much in the style of a male Florence Foster Jenkins. The academic twitched and twiddled the voice until it was a 'perfect' tenor rendition, and I suppose this research must have found its way into Protools, the professional studio recording software.
Meanwhile, on the singer-songwriter circuit. the London standard tends towards the cautious, careful and self-Autotuned. Outside London, in general people merrily sing their songs and make mistakes, because in a sense, that's what live music is all about. Why stifle your expression and communication by trying to sound as though your voice has been processed by a machine?
There is a constant imposition of power by producers on to pop and rock music. It's like a tug-of-war. At the end of the 1970s, those big mega-bands like Yes and Emerson Lake and Palmer built themselves up with layers and layers of technological mystique: four keyboards for Rick (even one behind him! What was he going to play that with? His bum?), an electronic relationship with classical music for ELP, massive lighting rigs. The pub rockers and the punks slipped under the pomp-fences and stole the power back.
There was a device called an Aural Exciter in the late 1980s that picked out and magnified to top-end of a vocal performance, creating an artificial clarity and intimacy in the voice. If you knew about it, it was all you could hear when you listened to recorded music- and live, for that matter. I went to see a chap I knew called Spike play double bass in the musical Buddy, which of course was about Buddy Holly. They had one on their mixing desk, and the quantity of Aural Exciter that the sound engineer loaded on to the vocals removed all the wax from my ears, the dandruff from my hair, the pigment from my skin and the plaque from my teeth. These physical benefits were a marvel, but I had gone out to be entertained and the physical makeover was a bit of a shock!
One student is writing about Autotune, a device which is being hotly debated at the moment by producers. Almost all the big
stars' recordings feature Autotune, which tempers the pitch of singing to make it bang-in-tune. It's fun to use in the studio, but hard to subtract once you have heard a dodgy vocal being put in its place.
I helped to organise a conference about music technology about ten years ago, and there was a man from the University of Oslo showing a prototype; his guinea pig was a vocal performance by a guy who had walked into an auto-recording-booth and sung an operatic aria completely off key and with a ghastly timbre, much in the style of a male Florence Foster Jenkins. The academic twitched and twiddled the voice until it was a 'perfect' tenor rendition, and I suppose this research must have found its way into Protools, the professional studio recording software.
Meanwhile, on the singer-songwriter circuit. the London standard tends towards the cautious, careful and self-Autotuned. Outside London, in general people merrily sing their songs and make mistakes, because in a sense, that's what live music is all about. Why stifle your expression and communication by trying to sound as though your voice has been processed by a machine?
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
I Wrote a Song About Foxes and Hens But I'm Not Going To Tell You About That
I knew a student at Art College, who gave themselves suspected food poisoning after a meal of organic mince made into bolognaise sauce. The next week, they came down with the sickness again. What had happened? They had put the remainder of the bolognaise sauce into the freezer and eaten it again the next week!
I knew a child whose Grandfather died and who took to the piano like a demon, playing at breakfast time, teatime and night-time, making sadness into beautiful and dynamic music all day long.
Meanwhile, the cat has lost its collar and looks oddly naked in spite of its fur
I have too may ideas written on bits of paper and I'm trying to throw the paper away and keep the ideas. Could I store them in the air? Only if I make them into songs!
I was talking to a student yesterday about MP3s and how they have almost made music into air again, which is what it was in the first place: vibrations donging against our ear drums. As soon as recording started, so did the selling of music because it became a product with accessories galore, all of which became more and more necessary until poor music topped under the weight of its essential add-ons. And home recording? Well, didn't people used to have a piano in their living rooms to make music on? It's the same thing, only just the twenty-first century version.
Hickety pickety hoo.
I knew a child whose Grandfather died and who took to the piano like a demon, playing at breakfast time, teatime and night-time, making sadness into beautiful and dynamic music all day long.
Meanwhile, the cat has lost its collar and looks oddly naked in spite of its fur
I have too may ideas written on bits of paper and I'm trying to throw the paper away and keep the ideas. Could I store them in the air? Only if I make them into songs!
I was talking to a student yesterday about MP3s and how they have almost made music into air again, which is what it was in the first place: vibrations donging against our ear drums. As soon as recording started, so did the selling of music because it became a product with accessories galore, all of which became more and more necessary until poor music topped under the weight of its essential add-ons. And home recording? Well, didn't people used to have a piano in their living rooms to make music on? It's the same thing, only just the twenty-first century version.
Hickety pickety hoo.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Three Maple Men
Well, I looked up those antibiotics on the web the other day and it said amongst the side-effects 'depression and thoughts of suicide'.
Luckily, I have halved the dose and now feel only mildly miserable, and rather than my head being on a different planet entirely, it's orbiting my body at a comfortable distance, close enough to be able to summon up the odd thought if necessary.
Today was the Song Circle, and I took along the song written about a memento. This song fought the chords I was trying to force it into and dictated that it should be written as words first and then accompanied later. It is written about three maple sugar men in suits that I got in Vermont when I was 14 and I still have.
Three maple men
A trio
Of sugar frost
To freeze
One summer day
From serried trees it weeps
The sugared sap that bleeds after the snow
The humming bird
Is silent
It's honey beak
Is prying
Back through my years
O silver birch and maple leaf,
O sweet and sour and sour and sweet
The taste of time
A shaky bridge across the sea
From New England
To a fourteen year old me
A sunny day
After the snow
Back through my years
The taste of my tears
Three maple men
Three maple men
Three maple men
I love hearing everyone's stories at the Song Circle. Best one was one member's story of buying 14 bags of chocolate coins for a singing group that the member was chucked out of by text, as she was on her way to their Christmas do.
She dumped them all in a solo busker's case, much to his amazement.
I play that one over and over in my head!
Then this evening I went to hear Joan Ashworth's very funny and interesting professorial talk at the Royal College of Art. She played lots of really interesting animation clips which I will tell you about tomorrow, and also some of her own stuff which is really groundbreaking.
Then I came home and wrote this.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Eyre Chapel, Chesterfield
So I'm not allowed to be out in the sun with these tablets either...
So here's a little review of the gig at the perfect little Eyre Chapel, in Chesterfield, the town with the twisty-spired cathedral.
Tucked behind one of Chesterfield's many splendrous pubs, and across a dark car-park, there is a little oblong stone chapel with a wooden door; this is where David Lelievre decided to put on his first ever gig. I had picked Martin up at Luton and we drove up, bumping into Andrew 'guitar weekends' Bailey in the car park and Mike (of Mike-and-June, I hope June's better soon).
The chairs were out in neat rows and people were arriving already, looking excited. We did a quick soundcheck. The chapel is beautiful inside; it has plain whitewashed walls with shield-shaped wooden memorials attached at intervals, and big unvarnished wooden beams holding up its ceiling. Under the old altar there are lumps of statue, or at least, decorative masonry, and there's a tiny kitchen at the back. The back wall is hung with a giant patchwork tapestry, multicoloured and almost American-looking.
The audience was small and attentive, looking like a huge nest of beady-eyed animals, smiling in the cosy gloom; there was none of the rattling, mobile phonery, crackling, clinking or muttering that you get in pubs. This had a 'night out' feel, with the implication of treasured time, babysitters and for Martin's set, memories of student youth and happy gigs back in time. They received my set very warmly, which I really appreciated as it's still hard to play after McDad's passing.
Martin joined in on the Telecaster for Poetry and Rhyme, Autumn Love, Hamilton Square and Loverman. When he took to the stage it was great to be able to hear the words of his songs so clearly; he sang Crocodile Cryer as though he had only just written it.
He told stories and the audience members conversed with him happily. He did a lot of older songs, some that I had never heard before, as well as Rain and Home, and at several people's request, Nancy.
I thought it was the perfect gig- well-organised, sold out, and full of friendly people who wanted to listen. What more could anyone want?
So here's a little review of the gig at the perfect little Eyre Chapel, in Chesterfield, the town with the twisty-spired cathedral.
Tucked behind one of Chesterfield's many splendrous pubs, and across a dark car-park, there is a little oblong stone chapel with a wooden door; this is where David Lelievre decided to put on his first ever gig. I had picked Martin up at Luton and we drove up, bumping into Andrew 'guitar weekends' Bailey in the car park and Mike (of Mike-and-June, I hope June's better soon).
The chairs were out in neat rows and people were arriving already, looking excited. We did a quick soundcheck. The chapel is beautiful inside; it has plain whitewashed walls with shield-shaped wooden memorials attached at intervals, and big unvarnished wooden beams holding up its ceiling. Under the old altar there are lumps of statue, or at least, decorative masonry, and there's a tiny kitchen at the back. The back wall is hung with a giant patchwork tapestry, multicoloured and almost American-looking.
The audience was small and attentive, looking like a huge nest of beady-eyed animals, smiling in the cosy gloom; there was none of the rattling, mobile phonery, crackling, clinking or muttering that you get in pubs. This had a 'night out' feel, with the implication of treasured time, babysitters and for Martin's set, memories of student youth and happy gigs back in time. They received my set very warmly, which I really appreciated as it's still hard to play after McDad's passing.
Martin joined in on the Telecaster for Poetry and Rhyme, Autumn Love, Hamilton Square and Loverman. When he took to the stage it was great to be able to hear the words of his songs so clearly; he sang Crocodile Cryer as though he had only just written it.
He told stories and the audience members conversed with him happily. He did a lot of older songs, some that I had never heard before, as well as Rain and Home, and at several people's request, Nancy.
I thought it was the perfect gig- well-organised, sold out, and full of friendly people who wanted to listen. What more could anyone want?
Friday, March 20, 2009
Odd Day
I am taking tablets that have the side effect of plunging me into a deep depression between one and three p.m. (seriously!)
So yesterday, when my lunch date stood me up ('I forgot', she texted from South London) and the next person I bumped into told me they had forgotten to pass an important message to someone as they had promised, it was necessary to depression-surf. The University of the West's Gibson Firebird was nowhere to be seen, so I let myself into a studio with a lovely grand piano in it, and started to write a dramatic song about being forgotten, all descending doomy chords and wailing.
After about 40 minutes of that, it was time to teach, but an MA Audio student intercepted me in the corridor and diverted me into a studio where I spent five minutes recording a spoof advert for dirt, a new toy for children ('You can mix it with water and it turns into... mud! And when it dries, it turns back to dirt again!')
It was Quiet Persons Day, and the Quiet People came along and sang some beautiful lyrics to songs they have been working on more slowly than the Loud People, but having taken time to struggle it is obvious it will have been worthwhile for them by the time they have finished.
I played them examples: songs without lyrics (the Cocteau Twins, of course); short and perfectly formed (Bart Simpson sings Lisa it's your Birthday); controlled and clever madness (Ivor Cutler, and The Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band singing I'm an Urban Spaceman); Greg Kurstin at his best (A Bird and a Bee); I had Bone Thugs'n'Harmony, to play some sung rap but the person I wanted to play that to wasn't there. A young student asked to look at the next CD. "My Dad's on that', she said, and we played a song by Alton Ellis, some truly lovely Lover's Rock, that vastly underrated light reggae that was born in Jamaica and grew up in England.
I never got round to Emma Bunton (clumsy but successful lyric-writing) or the American Song-Poem Anthology (send us yer words, we do the rest). And the DVD of Les Parapluies de Cherbourg wouldn't come up on the screen, so that will have to wait till next week.
I don't know if it's the sunshine, but these students are a pleasure to associate with. It is hard doing two jobs; a lot of academics do it, alighting on different campuses with different rules and different flavours of students. What is good is seeing people suddenly get a grasp of new ideas and starting to buzz, just like the giant bumble bees that whizz past us with a purpose these sunny spring days.
So yesterday, when my lunch date stood me up ('I forgot', she texted from South London) and the next person I bumped into told me they had forgotten to pass an important message to someone as they had promised, it was necessary to depression-surf. The University of the West's Gibson Firebird was nowhere to be seen, so I let myself into a studio with a lovely grand piano in it, and started to write a dramatic song about being forgotten, all descending doomy chords and wailing.
After about 40 minutes of that, it was time to teach, but an MA Audio student intercepted me in the corridor and diverted me into a studio where I spent five minutes recording a spoof advert for dirt, a new toy for children ('You can mix it with water and it turns into... mud! And when it dries, it turns back to dirt again!')
It was Quiet Persons Day, and the Quiet People came along and sang some beautiful lyrics to songs they have been working on more slowly than the Loud People, but having taken time to struggle it is obvious it will have been worthwhile for them by the time they have finished.
I played them examples: songs without lyrics (the Cocteau Twins, of course); short and perfectly formed (Bart Simpson sings Lisa it's your Birthday); controlled and clever madness (Ivor Cutler, and The Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band singing I'm an Urban Spaceman); Greg Kurstin at his best (A Bird and a Bee); I had Bone Thugs'n'Harmony, to play some sung rap but the person I wanted to play that to wasn't there. A young student asked to look at the next CD. "My Dad's on that', she said, and we played a song by Alton Ellis, some truly lovely Lover's Rock, that vastly underrated light reggae that was born in Jamaica and grew up in England.
I never got round to Emma Bunton (clumsy but successful lyric-writing) or the American Song-Poem Anthology (send us yer words, we do the rest). And the DVD of Les Parapluies de Cherbourg wouldn't come up on the screen, so that will have to wait till next week.
I don't know if it's the sunshine, but these students are a pleasure to associate with. It is hard doing two jobs; a lot of academics do it, alighting on different campuses with different rules and different flavours of students. What is good is seeing people suddenly get a grasp of new ideas and starting to buzz, just like the giant bumble bees that whizz past us with a purpose these sunny spring days.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
For Sale
The house is still for sale and people have started coming out of hibernation like sleepy squirrels to look around it, leaving their manners in their burrows.
One lot marched around as though they already lived here, striding into the waterlogged garden and then straight up the stairs, leaving mud prints all the way. Another lot seemed to be visiting the decor; yet another family has been back three times, and includes a cupboard-opening father who chats away in Greek to his wife, making comments about things that I can't understand.
The house is brutally clean and tidy and feels like a place for everyone else except me.
I reclaim it when they have gone by walking through all the rooms and then singing and filling it with sound.
I have been rehearsing some of the older songs for the Eyre Chapel gig tomorrow night, a gig that I'm really looking forward to.
I noticed that in every song there is something I am scared of, which is stupidly silly, since I wrote the things in the first place.
In Heaven Avenue, it's the first vocal line.
In Temptation, it's the frilly guitar bit in the middle
In Loverman, its the guitar bits in between the singing, which give me cramp in my fingers
In Autumn Love, it's the chorus
Each song has it's quirk, apart from Little England, which just seems to flow along whatever is happening in the world, probably because it began as a therapeutic doodle in the first place. I have a new one that does the same, Three Maple Men which I haven't recorded yout but I might play tomorrow if a music stand doesn't look out of place.
One lot marched around as though they already lived here, striding into the waterlogged garden and then straight up the stairs, leaving mud prints all the way. Another lot seemed to be visiting the decor; yet another family has been back three times, and includes a cupboard-opening father who chats away in Greek to his wife, making comments about things that I can't understand.
The house is brutally clean and tidy and feels like a place for everyone else except me.
I reclaim it when they have gone by walking through all the rooms and then singing and filling it with sound.
I have been rehearsing some of the older songs for the Eyre Chapel gig tomorrow night, a gig that I'm really looking forward to.
I noticed that in every song there is something I am scared of, which is stupidly silly, since I wrote the things in the first place.
In Heaven Avenue, it's the first vocal line.
In Temptation, it's the frilly guitar bit in the middle
In Loverman, its the guitar bits in between the singing, which give me cramp in my fingers
In Autumn Love, it's the chorus
Each song has it's quirk, apart from Little England, which just seems to flow along whatever is happening in the world, probably because it began as a therapeutic doodle in the first place. I have a new one that does the same, Three Maple Men which I haven't recorded yout but I might play tomorrow if a music stand doesn't look out of place.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Jack Vettriano
For some unfathomable reason I woke this morning thinking about Jack Vettriano's paintings.
Is a great artist one who develops and progresses?
Is that why he is not regarded as a great artist, even though millions of people are reputed to buy his paintings on greetings cards and as prints?
Maybe he has secretly progressed and we should see a large exhibition of his, to show us that he deserves the same attention in the art history books as Picasso*
(Maybe, but I don't think I'll go to it!)
*an artist greatly wronged by a critic who once claimed he can't draw. After seeing the fabulously small and perefectly-formed Picasso collection in Barcelona, I am absolutely stunned by his drawing skills.
Is a great artist one who develops and progresses?
Is that why he is not regarded as a great artist, even though millions of people are reputed to buy his paintings on greetings cards and as prints?
Maybe he has secretly progressed and we should see a large exhibition of his, to show us that he deserves the same attention in the art history books as Picasso*
(Maybe, but I don't think I'll go to it!)
*an artist greatly wronged by a critic who once claimed he can't draw. After seeing the fabulously small and perefectly-formed Picasso collection in Barcelona, I am absolutely stunned by his drawing skills.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Daleks
Daleks look like kitchen bins designed by Sir Terence Conran; would they cut the mustard as baddies with today's young people if their parents were not so pathologically terrified of them?
Monday, March 16, 2009
Songs'n'stuff
I have put a new track on Myspace, the Apple Tree song which is one of the tracks from Hamilton Square.
Mark Broad, who runs Second Sunday, has put a couple of live tracks on their Myspace, Poetry and Rhyme (with Martin playing too) and Love on the Wind- the url is www.myspace.com/songsintheroom
I've been listening to his CD, DrBoKarma, Don't Be Ridiculous, which is a cheery start to the Spring right from its first track, Real Ride.
Some of the tracks are Sesame Street sounding (remember that? Wasn't the music fab!) in particular Dancing Closer with its interplay between the vocals and sax, and Rats and Ladies which has a bass-driven groove and a 1920s effect on the vocals. There's also a definite upbeat Syd Barrett feel to some of the later tracks. Enjoyable, playable, what more can a listener want?
I've got the cd by A Smile and a Ribbon to listen to now...
Mark Broad, who runs Second Sunday, has put a couple of live tracks on their Myspace, Poetry and Rhyme (with Martin playing too) and Love on the Wind- the url is www.myspace.com/songsintheroom
I've been listening to his CD, DrBoKarma, Don't Be Ridiculous, which is a cheery start to the Spring right from its first track, Real Ride.
Some of the tracks are Sesame Street sounding (remember that? Wasn't the music fab!) in particular Dancing Closer with its interplay between the vocals and sax, and Rats and Ladies which has a bass-driven groove and a 1920s effect on the vocals. There's also a definite upbeat Syd Barrett feel to some of the later tracks. Enjoyable, playable, what more can a listener want?
I've got the cd by A Smile and a Ribbon to listen to now...
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