Thursday, October 27, 2011
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Studio Dreams
I have more than stretched the feminist muscles in the past couple of weeks; thank God that's not the only think my life consists of. I am furious that I have to be one, but there is no alternative!
It's very strange at this time of year, because this is when most of my lecturing and tutoring happens. It is easy to forget that I'm a musician and artist. I have not played any 'proper' (i.e. full length set) gigs in London for a long time and I am beginning to feel like doing that again.
However, I am completely out of the promoter and venue loop. All suggestions gratefully received!
In about a month I am going to start recording again. The pressure-cooker of work has had the usual effect of making me write lots of songs in the tiny gaps between writing lectures and delivering them.
At night. my imagination takes me into the studio and as I sing and play a raft of ghostly musicians floats through, landing as softly as gossamer on pale wooden floorboards, blowing life into gleaming brass, sawing away at feather-light fiddles or strumming silently on cedar-scented guitars before fading away again.
In reality, I scrub the bathroom sink and rise at six to head into the Eastern sunrise through the chill of dawn, running through my lectures in my head and wondering at the textures of the skin of russet apples and the colours of autumn leaves as I travel.
When I get to Bank Station, the labourers' fluorescent jackets, dusty boots and copies of The Sun give way to cross pink faces and navy blue coats as the City workers push me out of the way on their journeys to Nastywork.
I don't know what they do, but it makes them money/doesn't make them happy simultaneously.
Then I gaze out of the window on the Docklands Light Railway at the cormorants drying their wings in the pale, weak sunshine.
So beautiful!
Life, life... what is the meaning of it all? I don't know, but I can tolerate it all so long as the cormorants can.
It's very strange at this time of year, because this is when most of my lecturing and tutoring happens. It is easy to forget that I'm a musician and artist. I have not played any 'proper' (i.e. full length set) gigs in London for a long time and I am beginning to feel like doing that again.
However, I am completely out of the promoter and venue loop. All suggestions gratefully received!
In about a month I am going to start recording again. The pressure-cooker of work has had the usual effect of making me write lots of songs in the tiny gaps between writing lectures and delivering them.
At night. my imagination takes me into the studio and as I sing and play a raft of ghostly musicians floats through, landing as softly as gossamer on pale wooden floorboards, blowing life into gleaming brass, sawing away at feather-light fiddles or strumming silently on cedar-scented guitars before fading away again.
In reality, I scrub the bathroom sink and rise at six to head into the Eastern sunrise through the chill of dawn, running through my lectures in my head and wondering at the textures of the skin of russet apples and the colours of autumn leaves as I travel.
When I get to Bank Station, the labourers' fluorescent jackets, dusty boots and copies of The Sun give way to cross pink faces and navy blue coats as the City workers push me out of the way on their journeys to Nastywork.
I don't know what they do, but it makes them money/doesn't make them happy simultaneously.
Then I gaze out of the window on the Docklands Light Railway at the cormorants drying their wings in the pale, weak sunshine.
So beautiful!
Life, life... what is the meaning of it all? I don't know, but I can tolerate it all so long as the cormorants can.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
A Visit To Westfield, Stratford
After work today I met my Champagne Friend in Stratford to investigate the spanking new shopping centre in Stratford.
She is very funny and told me about her ex-childminder, who has now appeared on the front pages of the right-wing press, having been involved in the Dale Farm siege.
As for the spanking new shopping centre in Stratford? A very fancy casing for a mega-branch of Greggs!
She is very funny and told me about her ex-childminder, who has now appeared on the front pages of the right-wing press, having been involved in the Dale Farm siege.
As for the spanking new shopping centre in Stratford? A very fancy casing for a mega-branch of Greggs!
Monday, October 24, 2011
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Saturday Night in Pop-Up Portobello
Last night I braved the tortuous Saturday night Underground system with all its weekend cancellations to go to the pop-up cinema at Portobello Road.
Don Letts was showing films, as a tribute to Ari. I went with Gina, her partner Mike and their two children.
Christine Robertson, a film-maker who managed The Slits for some time, had been invited to show her film of the Slits on holiday. She was a very interesting person to talk to for the book and it was lovely to see her again. And I also met Desmond Coy for the first time, though very briefly- he is Don Letts's brother, and I am reading the manuscript of his book at the moment and thoroughly enjoying it: it's one of those books that conjures up pictures in your head.
Sooo....
The first film was a sort of fan-homage to Don and his son, who Don told us are rebuilding their relationship after he left the family when his son was three. His son makes Dubstep music and the film followed the setting up and running of a gig in East London. I thought his music was great- I have never really listened to much dubstep- or not consciously- and thought it was worth listening to more. There was snippets of fascinating stuff: Don recording a programme for Radio 4 called The Story of the Bass; the bits about Don's father, who ran a sound system in the basement of the church after the morning service where people came with bibles under their arms (there was a photograph of his father standing next to his painted speakers, Duke Letts with his Superstonic Sound). And there were some baby Slits, Palmolive and Viv fascinated and concentrating intently as Chrissie Hynde showed them some chords. Then Don talked about the riot at the 1976 Notting Hill Carnival. I can see how that acted as a catalyst for punk.
Next, there was some awful footage of Ari at a fashion show, displaying 'pum-pum power' as Don (and she) called it. Since she died I have heard stuff that made this seem all the worse.
Nuff about that.
Christine's film was delicate and very moving: in black and white, Ari, Viv and Tessa rolled in the sand on a faraway beach, and waded into the sea one by one, splashing and playing in the waves and walking back on to dry land hand in hand. I know they all fell out (and later in again) with each other, but this showed three girls who were friends, young, unadorned and free, free, free. In colour, they had dressed up and were fooling around, shuffling in slippers on the rocks in shrouded headgear and decorating a huge cactus with hats, scarves and socks. It was so different to the tough punky time they had in England and it was oddly sweet and innocent. Last of all, Viv introduced a series of short films that Don had made of the group to go with tracks from the Cut album. There was footage of them at a dub club, just about the only females and definitely the only white people there, the sheer front of the activity rendering them perfectly safe amongst the clouds of ganja. My friend Kim used to do this too: the love of the music took her to places where it should have been dangerous to be a white girl, but everyone left her alone as she danced the night away. My favourite of these films was the one shot at the bandstand (where weeks later an IRA bomb blew up a young guardsman on his horse). Grinning frantically, Budgie slicks and clips away at the drums; Ari swoops about like a large bird, Tessa plays bass in her own private bass-world and Viv hits her guitar chords with sharp precision. Each girl wears a red item of clothing and the moving patterns of thes jump across the screen. A nun quietly settles on the grass to watch them.
There had been nothing like this at all in the world before, and there has been nothing like it since.
Don Letts was showing films, as a tribute to Ari. I went with Gina, her partner Mike and their two children.
Christine Robertson, a film-maker who managed The Slits for some time, had been invited to show her film of the Slits on holiday. She was a very interesting person to talk to for the book and it was lovely to see her again. And I also met Desmond Coy for the first time, though very briefly- he is Don Letts's brother, and I am reading the manuscript of his book at the moment and thoroughly enjoying it: it's one of those books that conjures up pictures in your head.
Sooo....
Nuff about that.
Christine's film was delicate and very moving: in black and white, Ari, Viv and Tessa rolled in the sand on a faraway beach, and waded into the sea one by one, splashing and playing in the waves and walking back on to dry land hand in hand. I know they all fell out (and later in again) with each other, but this showed three girls who were friends, young, unadorned and free, free, free. In colour, they had dressed up and were fooling around, shuffling in slippers on the rocks in shrouded headgear and decorating a huge cactus with hats, scarves and socks. It was so different to the tough punky time they had in England and it was oddly sweet and innocent. Last of all, Viv introduced a series of short films that Don had made of the group to go with tracks from the Cut album. There was footage of them at a dub club, just about the only females and definitely the only white people there, the sheer front of the activity rendering them perfectly safe amongst the clouds of ganja. My friend Kim used to do this too: the love of the music took her to places where it should have been dangerous to be a white girl, but everyone left her alone as she danced the night away. My favourite of these films was the one shot at the bandstand (where weeks later an IRA bomb blew up a young guardsman on his horse). Grinning frantically, Budgie slicks and clips away at the drums; Ari swoops about like a large bird, Tessa plays bass in her own private bass-world and Viv hits her guitar chords with sharp precision. Each girl wears a red item of clothing and the moving patterns of thes jump across the screen. A nun quietly settles on the grass to watch them.
There had been nothing like this at all in the world before, and there has been nothing like it since.
Friday, October 21, 2011
A Bit About the Dolly Mixture
There is an interesting interview with Debsey from the Dolly Mixture in the fanzine Making Waves, available for download here http://www.jennywoolworth.ch/deardiary/files/Making_Waves_1_zine%20.pdf
They were one of my favourite bands of that time: we played together a few times and I used to sit in the dressing room and chat with Hester, the drummer, who was often knitting.
When The Chefs were offered a residency at the Moonlight Club in West Hampstead, I asked if they could play with us each time because I wanted to share the bill with a band that we actually liked. Not that we didn't like the people in other bands, but we all liked all of the people in the Dolly Mixture, and they werene' furiously ambitious, which was often a bit of a pain in the arse on the circuit.
Both bands did versions of the Velvet Underground's Femme Fatale, both really different. I liked that fact too.
For the Lost Women of Rock Music, I spoke to Hester and Rachel; it's strange just talking to one or two people from a band but often you find out enough to fill in gaps. I spoke to Gina from the Raincoats, but not Ana (although I have arranged to interview Ana for another piece of writing I will be doing). I had hoped to speak to more of the Delta 5 than I actually did. I was glad I spoke to so many of The Slits (though not, sadly, Palmolive or Kate Korris: that would have been interesting, to speak to the beginner-drummer and beginner-guitarist). The book also doesn't represent the very many women who wrote to me who had been in bands that never got noticed by the press at all (although the original PHD did, and I did mention them in the book but probably without enough trumpets).
And of course, I never got to some bands at all. For it not being noticed at the time, punk was phenomenally well-populated with women musicians.
They were one of my favourite bands of that time: we played together a few times and I used to sit in the dressing room and chat with Hester, the drummer, who was often knitting.
When The Chefs were offered a residency at the Moonlight Club in West Hampstead, I asked if they could play with us each time because I wanted to share the bill with a band that we actually liked. Not that we didn't like the people in other bands, but we all liked all of the people in the Dolly Mixture, and they werene' furiously ambitious, which was often a bit of a pain in the arse on the circuit.
Both bands did versions of the Velvet Underground's Femme Fatale, both really different. I liked that fact too.
For the Lost Women of Rock Music, I spoke to Hester and Rachel; it's strange just talking to one or two people from a band but often you find out enough to fill in gaps. I spoke to Gina from the Raincoats, but not Ana (although I have arranged to interview Ana for another piece of writing I will be doing). I had hoped to speak to more of the Delta 5 than I actually did. I was glad I spoke to so many of The Slits (though not, sadly, Palmolive or Kate Korris: that would have been interesting, to speak to the beginner-drummer and beginner-guitarist). The book also doesn't represent the very many women who wrote to me who had been in bands that never got noticed by the press at all (although the original PHD did, and I did mention them in the book but probably without enough trumpets).
And of course, I never got to some bands at all. For it not being noticed at the time, punk was phenomenally well-populated with women musicians.
The Mini Pops Are Here To Entertain You
Following a comment by Wilky (thank you!), I ended part one of the Study Skills lecture on Thursday, where we discussed the J-Pop video posted below, by finishing off the session with the Mini-Pops, a truly, truly weird 1980s phenomenon.
The students were flabbergasted. They had never seen or imagined anything like it before.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fh7NxD9fTGM
For the second week running, I wished that I had filmed their faces as they watched.
I am so glad that I took some time out to record a new song, Mr and Mrs Songsmith:
www.reverbnation.com/helenmccookerybook
...because I am knackered after lecturing every day this week apart from Wednesday, which I spent writing a lecture (and recording).
Hooray for the WEEKEND!
p.s. I've just misheard 'Blood Sugar' for 'Lord Sugar' and been taken on a very odd journey of the imagination.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fh7NxD9fTGM
For the second week running, I wished that I had filmed their faces as they watched.
I am so glad that I took some time out to record a new song, Mr and Mrs Songsmith:
www.reverbnation.com/helenmccookerybook
...because I am knackered after lecturing every day this week apart from Wednesday, which I spent writing a lecture (and recording).
Hooray for the WEEKEND!
p.s. I've just misheard 'Blood Sugar' for 'Lord Sugar' and been taken on a very odd journey of the imagination.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Beware: Teddies!
As a reflection(sic) of the risks of his occupation, he wears fluorescent protective workwear, with thick sleeves in case one of those seemingly placid little fellas delivers a nasty nip when he's not looking.
The Coal Man and Andy Pandy, etc.
When you are a child the world appears from an entirely different perspective from that of an adult.
I knew, for instance, that the BBC Children's TV character Andy Pandy was a girl. I mistook the pom-poms at the side of her cap for an elaborate hairstyle (the joys of black and white TV!) and pitied the narrator (whom my brother assumed was the Queen) for making that silly mistake about her gender.
I also envied her for never having to use the lavatory. I could not work this out, but seeing the way she was sewn into her clothing, I was certain that such an activity was beyond her capability or need.
The radio was full of tiny people, as busy and chaotic as ants. My mother told me I was wrong, but secretly, I knew that I was right. Those tiny peeping voices couldn't possibly come from people the same size as us. And anyway, how did they all fit into that little plastic casing the size of a cornflakes packet? You couldn't even get one person in there.
My fave guy was the Coal Man. He turned up every two weeks in a noisy, hissing lorry, heaving huge sacks of coal and coke on to his back. He had a big, loud face. And the best thing about his big loud face was that it was really, really dirty: it was smeared with pale grey coal dust and sweaty black coal-ink.
This was the most fantastic thing. I seriously wanted to be a Coal Man when I grew up; just imagine having a mother that didn't insist on you washing your face every day!
Fantastic!!!!!
I knew, for instance, that the BBC Children's TV character Andy Pandy was a girl. I mistook the pom-poms at the side of her cap for an elaborate hairstyle (the joys of black and white TV!) and pitied the narrator (whom my brother assumed was the Queen) for making that silly mistake about her gender.
I also envied her for never having to use the lavatory. I could not work this out, but seeing the way she was sewn into her clothing, I was certain that such an activity was beyond her capability or need.
The radio was full of tiny people, as busy and chaotic as ants. My mother told me I was wrong, but secretly, I knew that I was right. Those tiny peeping voices couldn't possibly come from people the same size as us. And anyway, how did they all fit into that little plastic casing the size of a cornflakes packet? You couldn't even get one person in there.
My fave guy was the Coal Man. He turned up every two weeks in a noisy, hissing lorry, heaving huge sacks of coal and coke on to his back. He had a big, loud face. And the best thing about his big loud face was that it was really, really dirty: it was smeared with pale grey coal dust and sweaty black coal-ink.
This was the most fantastic thing. I seriously wanted to be a Coal Man when I grew up; just imagine having a mother that didn't insist on you washing your face every day!
Fantastic!!!!!
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Last Night's 'Under the Influence'
Always worth going to, these things. Friendly, interesting and fun.
The little drama that played out was extraordinary.
I am trying to write it down, but still mentally digesting it.
Naming no names, in case of vanity searches; a little like the tale of the Weasel and the Vole, many moons ago.
Nat's Dad is a diamond (nothing to do with the drama, he just is).
I was sorry to miss the last band, who looked like they might be good.
The little drama that played out was extraordinary.
I am trying to write it down, but still mentally digesting it.
Naming no names, in case of vanity searches; a little like the tale of the Weasel and the Vole, many moons ago.
Nat's Dad is a diamond (nothing to do with the drama, he just is).
I was sorry to miss the last band, who looked like they might be good.
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