Early Sunday Morning Clockchange Walk

 

Laura Knight at the MK Gallery

Sometimes it's worth making a journey somewhere to see an exhibition that is unique. It feels like all the more of a gamble when the gallery website actively repels you when you try to buy tickets in advance, and nobody answers the phone at the gallery. Will you travel all that way and be turned back at the door?

We decided to chance it, and after a quirky train journey during which the conductor interviewed all the passengers informally, and said goodbye to them personally over the tannoy ('don't forget to put the cards away after your game and before you get off the train', and 'is my dad there in his allotment today?'), we disembarked at space-station MK and walked up the wide LA-style boulevard to the gallery. It's a town for cars, quite clearly, but we found our own landing strip and passed some jolly chaps pruning the evergreen shrubs on the way up. It's quite a way, through the quiet shopping centre. The whole place reminded us of the outskirts of a European town- perhaps Barcelona, or Lisbon: there was an overall sense of the centre of things being elsewhere; and I remember reading about Los Angeles: 'There is no there, there'. It was like that.

The gallery was quite busy, and we were hungry after the walk so we sat in the caff for a bit. It was lovely, actually: children, grandparents, ladies lunching and really friendly and relaxed staff. Then we jumped into the exhibition to see what we could see.

The first room was dominated by a huge painting of an Edwardian daddy playing with his daughters. It was absolutely extraordinary. I didn't think daddies played with daughters back then. One of them was climbing a tree. I didn't think girls climbed trees back then either. She also looks rather grumpy, as though she didn't want to be photographed... hang on a minute! That kind of sums up the whole exhibition, and is really why I wanted to see it. Knight noticed things in paint that other partists overlooked. She lived with travellers and documented their lives, especially the women; she painted portraits of people of colour in theatres in New York, especially the women. She defied the edict against women painting nudes and she not only did that, she took a whole bunch of them down to Cornwall and painted them swimming outside. She lived with a circus for a while and painted the performers, and she was also a war artist. Because of the reflections in the glass I wasn't able to photograph one of the best paintings, the silvery fabric from an airship spread across the floor of a repair factory, shimmering and heavily folded, with groups of women sitting together mending it. It is such a beautiful piece of work: you can actually feel the concentration of them working. You are with them there.

And reader, she could paint vehicles!

Stylistically, we saw early paintings where she was experimenting with pointillisme, then brash and colourful portraiture, and then detailed paintings of wartime workers, both male and female. Her palette was often rich and colourful- quite defiant. She was an excellent draughtswoman, with some exquisite etchings that demonstrated her dynamic skills with the weight and power of line.

Most importantly she was endlessly curious, and poetic in her processing of what she experienced, pondering on the travellers having only mud for a carpet yet the sky for a ceiling, for instance. 

Over and over again, she painted a section of a city street illuminated by a flash of lightning because there was no other light like it. She visited the painting again and again until she felt she'd captured the moment, with its flustered umbrella people, bicycles, trees, railings and buildings all illuminated by the harsh flash.

Knight was a woman who quite obviously lived life to the full in all its terrible and wonderful glory. A woman after my own heart and an inspiration. It was well worth the journey in order to return home refuelled, and to remember that defiance is the best and only way!

Sending Postcards

Up in the loft, I have a box of postcards that were part of a constant postcard-exchange before the internet elbowed other forms of communication out of the way. Lots of us had stashes of postcards, bought at galleries, or vintage ones, or bought in bulk from remainder bins at stationers, or even home made. You didn't have to write anything important- a few lines of a passing thought, a funny thing someone said, an invitation. The address was part of it. A cheeky bloke sent one to me addressed to 'Helen McCookerybook, spinster'. John Peel was a postcard-sender, and I've still got a couple of them written in his cramped and tall handwriting that you had to tip up to read. 

Once, a friend sent one to my parents' address when I'd gone there for a few days, saying 'Just because you're pregnant doesn't mean you had to run back to your Mum and Dad's'. I went down to breakfast that morning to an 'atmosphere' and couldn't work out why, until I read the card. Postcards weren't private, were they?

Last year, Andy Barding, who runs a record shop on the Isle of Wight, started a postcard club so people could communicate with each other during lockdown. It was a really nice idea. I woke early this morning and thought about it, and about how great would be to communicate by postcard more instead of always using the internet. I used to put on shows, and always got postcards printed with an image on the front and details on the back. I found a cheapish place in Northern Ireland that did a really good job and factored that into the overall costs of everything, because I felt that it was a special thing to do. I put a lot of thought into the picture on the front because of this. They did what the internet does, but in a more personal way. For all that the internet is inclusive, some of that is an illusion: it's also (dare I say it) uncaring. Andy's project was a reminder that people exist in all our many dimensions, for there in the imprint of someone's handwriting was a reminder of flesh and blood, a signifier of touch, that sensation we were all mourning in our atmosphere of infection, illness and fear of death.

One or two people still send the odd postcard, and it's such a relief from the white paper window-envelopes (bank statements, bills, charity pleas and NHS appointments) and the brown paper admonishments (is this another parking fine?). Butter side up or butter side down, whether it's the coloured picture that catches your eye first or the scribbly writing, it's really exciting to receive a postcard. Part of it is the idea that someone has chosen the card, so it's like a little slice of their personality dropping through the letter box on to the door mat. It isn't an announcement to hundreds of people on social media that people acknowledge with a click. It is a personal communication that has involved a slow-world real-world sequence of events. Purchasing the card at a gallery or shop, having chosen to go there; storing the card until the right time to send it to the right person; writing a personal message and finding a postage stamp; a journey to (or past) a post box; and finally, the thought given to the person receiving it. It's all such a bother, isn't it? But what a charming bother.

Jetstream Pony and the Lancashire Bombers at Paper Dress Vintage

It takes a big incentive to go out anywhere these days- not my own things, of course, but other bands....

However, this was an irresistible night and despite the travel problems (I think all the tube drivers on the Northern Line must be isolating because there were huge gaps between trains), we managed to get there in good enough time to catch the Lancashire Bombers, a quartet of chaps with a junior drummer who was one of the most musical drummers I've seen for a long time. He really drummed to the songs and more than held his own amongst his elders, who played rapid-fire garage pop with a Northern Soul twist. I was particularly taken by the Burns guitar which scorched its way through the set. There was a tongue-in-cheek approach to the short, sharp songs which gave them quite an edge. I'm glad to have seen them.

Jetstream Pony were headlining and it was such a joy to see them playing again. Their songs are intricate while still sounding really powerful, and they play with a commitment and a belief in their material that takes you along on the musical journey with them. They are one of those bands whose shows are like a puzzle. Why did they put this bit in the song, and how did they think of it? You'll just be drifting off on a harmony between Beth and Shaun, and then a new part of the song kicks in. As well as being really great musicians, there is an extraordinary imagination that goes into the creation and delivery of their songs. I always really love seeing them. They had a borrowed drummer last night who did a really good job, locking in neatly with Kerry's bass lines. I wish I'd bought one of their CDs but because of the train problem the night was cut off a bit short. Next time!

It is always the right thing not to stay at home sitting about and watching TV, even if it's a Strictly Come Dancing night. You can catch up on that another time. While we are between lockdowns, put that mask on and go out. Breathe in the pleasure of live music while you can!

I'm sorry about the crap photos- people were taking much better ones, and also filming- might be worth checking out Youtube.

Antoine's Photos

These photographs were taken by Antoine, the brother of Nico's companion Philippe. Antoine had a secret photographic technique that made everyone, regardless of size or gender, look like a pop star. It was taken in Nico's flat (she wasn't around- I would have been scared to meet her at that point, I think). It was the first time I'd ever been served those wafer-thin slices of raw meat. I carefully rolled them up and hid them under my knife and fork.

Home Made Calendars

It's only fairly recently that I have stopped making home made wall calendars. I started this in my bedsit in Willesden when I was 23 and the calendars were so huge, I just ripped them off the wall and threw them away when they were finished with. They morphed from gig calendars to mummy calendars and back again. I found these today- one from The Chefs days and on from Helen and the Horns days. The latter has a John Peel session scheduled.

The Velvet Underground

This afternoon, I bit the bullet and went to see the film The Velvet Underground at the ICA, because it's going to disappear, just like Summer of Soul. It has been made by Greedy-Apple-Corporation-Sells-You-Music-And-Things-To-Play-It-On, and I'm not a customer of theirs; it will whoosh on to their streaming service next week, and that will be the end of it. I was so desperate to see it, and I reckoned I could sit there in the dark by myself, and just absorb it even though I still feel crap.

The ICA is robot land, isn't it? Even the toilet is made for robots. On the way out when I went to the loo, the toilet decided that I'd finished my business and flushed anyway. I hadn't finished, but the toilet was very self-assured in its design and now I'm wondering if it was gaslighting me. It was scary.

Back to the film. As far as I'm concerned, The Velvet Underground began it all: the early version of the band, when they were swirling around in both meanness and beauty, was just fabulous. At several points in the film, my hair stood on end. Jonathan Richman, a mad uber-fan of theirs, describes trying to identify what the instruments were playing at a live performance, and discovering that quite often there were sounds happening that came from nobody's instrument at all: they were just there in the atmosphere.

Yes, they were the sound of meanness, but they were also the sound of mystery, and lyrically they turned over the stone and showed us all the bad things that had been hiding underneath it. What a relief to see and hear that honesty!

The little details: John Cale and his mentor tuning their instruments to the hum of the fridge: I know that thing! Dubulah and Simon Walker used to do that, and I always thought at Millwall matches the chants started in unison in 'G' because the fans had shaved before the match and kept that pitch, entering through their jaw bones, in their heads. Cale has really good recall, and at times the film was his; but really, it was pretty even-handed with only Sterling Morrison's story being absent, although his wife was there to tell parts of it.

We heard the Primitives' song Do The Ostrich and what appeared to be an almost country-style early version of Waiting For My Man which was talked over (sacrilege!). We heard about Lou Reed parting company with Pickwick Records where he was a staff writer because he wanted to write miserable songs that told it like it was.

Mo Tucker was really funny, saying how much they all hated hippies when they went to California, and how useless a flower is when someone's pointing a gun at you.

And there was Nico of the beautiful voice, and Andy Warhol exploiting everyone's vulnerability. It was a really absorbing and interesting movie. Then something in real life went wrong, and all we could hear was the audio, and then nothing. The cinema sorted it out and it started again, but by then I had a humdinger of a headache and came home.

On the way back I realised that I'd left Summer of Soul early, too. Maybe I don't like getting to the end of films because I don't like things ending. There has been too much 'ending' in the last eighteen months, and I've had enough of it. 

Back to work tomorrow, up really early. I think I am going to go to bed now even though it's just after 6 p.m.

Anyway- here's a Velvet Underground song I recorded (for the third time!) because I love the song so much. Of course Nico does it a thousand times better, but it's just such a gorgeous song. The Mexican zine Pintalo De Negro asked a bunch of musicians to record their favourite Velvet Underground song to go on to a cassette they're releasing imminently with a new issue, and I did it for them, with Ian Button and Robert Rotifer on backing vocals. The film is by Damian Cosmas.

Surrealism

Surrealism is following me around today like a lost puppy. The gas engineer phoned while I was out shopping and said I'd left a message that sounded like a Dalek on his messaging service. Juggling my bag, wire basket and a handful of potatoes, I accidentally deleted all the notes on my iPhone during the call in such a way that I can't retrieve them (I don't back them up to anything, and it was a text-delete, not a note-delete, so they are irretrievable). But I was sort of relieved.

I looked in the window of the North London Hospice charity shop on the way back, and there was a harmonium (very good condition, and quite a coincidence because I almost sold my piano yesterday), plus literally scores of white satin wedding dresses festooned about the shop and lined up obediently on hangers, as though waiting for husbands to insert prospective wives into them, waltz out of the shop to the church down the road, and marry them. A veritable production line of marriages, all in a north London suburb. Wow.

Actually, the problem with losing the phone notes is that they partially contained a list of all the things I've got to catch up on after being ill. Will I remember them all? I don't know.

We used to play a game on the train home from school. 'You've dropped your head!', pointing at the floor. Everyone got caught at least once, looking down instinctively before playing the trick on the next fool in a school uniform. I've certainly dropped my head, or the contents, anyway. 

It's quite nice. 

I think I'll leave it there on the floor and see what else turns up in the surreal world of the High Street.

Cooking and Thinking

Grounded by my malaise (pretentious, moi?) I'm cooking and thinking. I had a hankering for leek and potato soup to soothe my throat, and I don't really know how to make it, but calling on Spirit of TV Cookery Show, a pan is bubbling on the stove and it doesn't smell that bad. 

I mean, it smells nice.

I have been thinking about how powerless you can feel in life. One of the things that has always boosted my low self esteem is sitting alone and writing a song. A song is a friend that changes position: sometimes it comes from inside you and you're speaking, then it suddenly changes and tells you things itself. You concentrate, in the same way as you concentrate on drawing. There is an intensity in the moment that can't be interrupted, and that reinforces your sense of who you are and what you feel.

A good song writing session will make you feel taller and stronger, thick-skinned and armoured against the world, and glowing with creativity. It doesn't deplete your bank balance and doesn't have to be competitive. It's made of sound waves and words. Air and ideas, that's all.

Daytime Cookery Shows

Now, I am building my expertise as a watcher of daytime cookery shows. 'Amazing recipes!' they exclaim, before whizzing through a choreographed engagement with ingredients, clashing stainless steel implements, and immaculate kitchen surfaces that always involves several ingredients that I haven't got (and don't know how to acquire), and results in far too much food for me and my limited stomach capacity.

I watch the cooks frazzled by their efforts as they wrestle dough, whisk eggs and trim edges with panache. They obviously have squads of brow-moppers, sweat dabbers and want-a-glass-of-water-sirs: handmaidens to assist with their travails. Hey presto! Magnifique!

When I was young and poor, I used to sit and watch these shows while I ate a slice of bread and butter. The exotic recipes made the bread and butter particularly delicious, with the added bonus that I didn't have to do very much washing up at all, unlike the support squads for the TV chefs. Now, I think 'If I only had that one missing ingredient, I would make that magical hey-presto food, but since I don't, it's pasta for dinner again'. I am also still partial to bread and butter, which can be the most satisfying food in the universe when the bread is freshly baked and the butter is cold.

These Streets from Daylight Music

 

Wall-to-Wall Detectives

I've picked up a virus (I hope not Corona) probably from being back at work. I'm hallucinating detectives from the wall-to-wall reading as I work down the trashy novels pile, as I sit unable to move due to fatigue, and nursing a throat that feels as though it's trying to swallow a hedgehog.

The plots blur into each other, female and male detectives transitioning into one ultra-detective that solves everything on the last two pages. The simple act of imbibing soluble aspirin is undertaken in faux-policing vocabulary, and the hypernosmia (I could smell the pages of the books from my bed, probably because of a bout of Covid last year) has vanished to be replaced by deafening tinnitus that jangles along as an irritating soundtrack to my woozy worldview.

Go with it, go with it, it will pass. Don't worry about all the pending things that you simply can't do. Pick up another novel, prop up your elbows, and peer into the grey type littered on the thick corky yellow pages. There you will find the USA, all laid out in all its poverty, unfairness, danger and corruption, all appearing imminently on our own horizons. I am forewarned about people with dementia being kept alive with heart-drugs just so the chains of care homes can continue to fleece their families; people beaten up having to pay their own medical fees, and then having to sue the perpetrators for the money; the oil industry destroying entire Appalachian mountains and polluting the land, water and air just because making money is more important than anything else. People with guns shooting innocent people and then living with it for the rest of their lives, because they carry guns and that's seen as a sign of freedom. 

Corruption too in the UK, taken for granted as something we always will have to live with, perpetrated by people who apparently live in an entirely different astral sphere to normal people. 

This swamp! Somehow it chimes with how I feel. More books to go before I get better.....

Customised Shirts

I have always been a long-sleeved checked shirt sortuva person. In the 1980s I bought lots of my shirts from Flip, but I also bought lots of cheap size small shirts from men's shops. When I got fed up with them I used to cut the sleeves off one shirt and sew them on to another. Hey presto! A new shirt (and a lot of spare sleeves because alas, I was too lazy to sew the discarded sleeves on to the other shirt, although I did sometimes wear that one as a cut-off).

Risky

Yesterday, I was walking behind a tall schoolboy and he suddenly sneezed.

I walked through a schoolboy's sneeze. Bring back lockdown!

Learning The McCookerybook And Rotifer Songs

We have our first two ever gigs coming up at the end of November, and it seems sensible to start learning the twelve songs in our repertoire, especially since a lot of them have alien chords to learn, and (even more challengingly) lyrics in the German language. Little and often is the prescription. Chords first, lyrics later. If I can get my body to deal with the music, my head can follow on with the lyrics. I hope.

I had an unexpected conversation with a blues guitarist on Monday morning, which was such a cheering thing to do. Guitar nerds aren't usually on patrol on Monday mornings! He's going to come in and talk to the music students, and they are going to love him. On Thursday, an ex-student who now manages vinyl output for a major label is coming in, and last week I spent 150% of my time scurrying around trying to find a room to teach them all in. Now I think I have, but I won't be able to relax until the lecture is over, when I will deflate with relief like a balloon at a children's party.

On Monday afternoon, I played the songwriting students a selection of political songs, all the way from Billie Holliday through Woody Guthrie, Marvin Gaye, The Specials, X-Ray Spex to Pussy Riot and beyond, finishing with the Tokyo Complaints Choir, who always go down a treat, and shine a light of sunny happiness on drab Monday afternoons. I have to introduce them to Lord Kitchener, Pete Seeger, The Last Poets, Linton Kwesi Johnson, and Charlie Gillet's book The Sound of the City which is possibly out of print. There is so much they haven't heard!