Love

We mixed Dreaming of Narcissus today, and sorted out a couple of tracks for Jim to mix; Tom will be emigrating to New York and I want to try out new things. We also did a secret track.
I'm going to put one of the Ross-shire tracks up on Myspace this weekend to replace the Christmas Queen, now it's March.

I didn't do my gig last night; sorry if you went along; I had no voice. I had been crying too much. I can not tell you why.

Today I am happier, and my kindly brain prepared nonsensical memories to entertain itself, something it does frequently; this morning it reminded me that when I was seven, I promised to marry Jonathan Ritchie because he had a policeman suit, and also the Spriggs twins, David and Michael, because they had a fantastic train set with a train that puffed real steam if you put methylated spirit down it's funnel.

I did not marry any of them, especially not all at once, as I had greedily planned.

A three-year-old of my acquaintance decided to marry her grandmother's cat, George, as she was completely in love with him.

Seriously though

Sorry, made myself laugh again with that posting and clean forgot what I was supposed to be saying.
I am playing some songs tonight at the Constitutiion pub, please come along if you can because I am tired and I need your energy to cheer me along.
And Stu, sorry I forgot to send those tracks yesterday, it's a little difficult sorting anything out at home at present but I will try to send them to you later this morning, or tomorrow morning.

Old Lady chic fest

Oops- a couple of postings ago, I'd abandoned old-lady chic; then what did I do? I was handing some stuff in to the North London Hospice shop and the man had a brand new pair of black suede fleece-lined old lady zip-up black bootees in my size, so of course, I had to have 'em.
What a hypocrite!

In Crete on holiday with Joan and the kids, her eldest daughter was very taken by the attractive stray dogs that trotted around looking at her appealingly.
Oh! look at the lovely doggy-woggy-poggies! She cooed from time to time.
We were out driving up a steep mountain and it started to become a little wearing.
Joan and myself had had a hearty drink of Cretan red wine and we spotted a very ancient, very sweet old lady in a headscarf, tottering along beside a field.
Oh! look at the lovely little old lady-pady-wady! We snorted, and laughed so much we could not stop, the tears pouring down our faces and flooding the van.

Strange Little Gig

Tomorrow night (the 28th) I will be playing a few (new) songs at Folk in Cellar, in the Constitution pub, St Pancras Way, in Camden.
It's a mega-friendly venue; come along if you can.

Oh, it's an earthquake

Yeah, yeah, yeah, it woke me up; my bed rattled, the walls creaked.
'Oh, it's an earthquake', I thought, and went back to sleep.

The Crouch End Cavalier

He was in Budgens, wrestling with a petit-pain that refused to slip into a cellophane bag, no matter how hard he tried. We joked with him, but he looked up with a thunderous expression, his costume quivering with fury, before he stomped off down the aisle in his doublet and hose.
Beaten by a petit-pain; that must be hard to take!

Sunday Driblings (not the same as dribblings; it's a new word I've just invented)

I made toad-in-the-hole today, with real toads.
No I didn't.
My French manager used to say 'hole and below' instead of lo and behold.
She did press for Depeche Mode and called them Depressed Mood.
She gave me a kitten because I was ill after drinking too mach alcohol and living off cup-a-soup and Weetabix with Primula Cheese from a tube squirted on top of it, and she knew that having a kitten would force me to look after myself, because I'd have to look after the kitten.
She was great.

Yesterday, I got the six tracks I recorded in Scotland, one after the other with no fuss on a little Bossa-Nova guitar.
Dubulah told me that little guitars with stars and sickles on them were made in the First World War by Turkish instrument-builders, because so many of the British ones died in the war, and that's why you see the guitars with inlaid mother-of-pearl stars on them.
This one had mermaids too, so maybe it was made by a Turkish seafarer.
Did you know that Northern Soul sprung up in Liverpool because all those obscure 7" singles were used as ballast on the merchant ships from the USA and were just dumped on the quayside in Liverpool?
Back to the six tracks- I am quite pleased with some of them, and might put one on Myspace in the next couple of days.
I'm going to start recording again, to complete the album I'm doing with Martin, and some other stuff as well; Tom has almost finished the mixes for Polyhymnia and they sound lovely; I have to decide what to do about the cover, whether to draw something or use a photo; drawing is fun and it's very tempting to just let the imagination run riot and see what happens. Then I see CDs with really nice photos... but I think a drawing might be best this time around.

What else can I tell you? That I've abandoned old-lady chic in favour of artisan-chic, after thinking that perhaps old-lady chic is now a little too close to the bone for comfort; that I am reviving an old Girl Guide song for the children's concert next Saturday (wishy washy wishy washy hanging out the smalls, that one); that I have aching legs after dancing around with dusters on my feet to polish the floor a couple of days ago; that I could really do with a holiday somewhere warm and sunny where you can laze about and stop looking like a white marshmallowface with a hunted-cur aura; that I wish cars didn't damage the environment because I like driving around in mine and pretending I'm flying a plane particularly at night when the dashboard lights up; that I wish I had a nice juicy London gig where I could play for 40 minutes and get into my gig; oh more, more, more, a whole Christmas stocking full of nonsense.
That's a point. Why didn't it snow this year? It will probably snow in April, just when ladies are getting out their prim flowery summer dresses and men are getting out their horrid khaki shorts.

After Ladyfest

Just got back- Jill Halstead was talking, and so was Gina, and we went for tea afterwards. It was really interesting and I made friends with an art student and a lesbian doctor with a shaved head. I also heard both Gina and Jill say things about themselves that I didn't know (which is what Jane did the other day too).
It took hours to get there, and hours to get back, but on the way back me and Gina went to Borough Market and did a quick circuit- she bought some cheese from a very pretty woman who had just brought it back from Italy, and i bought some bread from two young men with beards (hang on a minute.. have beards come into fashion?) and some primulas, because they remind me of dollymixtures.
I met my cat down the end of our road as I headed home; he was looking very busy, heading off in the opposite direction. I persuaded him to come home with me, although he quite obviously couldn't see the point of it, once we got here.
Jane likes Helen and the Horns so much she has found me a trombone player!

Ladyfest Goldsmiths

I'm going to Ladyfest Goldsmiths today- Gina Birch is talking (or playing, not sure which) and Angela McRobbie's doing a talk.
I arranged to meet her there a few years ago to talk to her for my book (she knew the Au Pairs really well and she also offered to contact Lesley Woods for me), and I waited for an hour outside her office but she never arrived.
Later, after I'd emailed her to ask where she's been, she emailed back to say I should have waited.
Should I have? I don't know. I never got to talk to her and never got to interview Lesley, alas.

I've already polished the hall floor, in the fun way which is just as knackering as the not-fun way, but it's more fun.
You put the polish on the floor and then you get the dusters and put them on your feet and do the twist and then walk like a cartoon dog that doesn't take it's feet off the floor until the floor is shiny.

I am going to play some childrens' songs on the first of March at St Peter's Church in West London. I am a little peeved as everybody cutting-edge on the bill (the Raincoats, Pete Astor, some cool DJs etc etc) have been advertised but I have not. To repair my self-respect I am going to get dressed up to the nines. I might even wear mascara and put my seriously allergic eyes at risk. Bah!
I have also ordered a Burl Ives CD so that I can play the campest 50s-est set in the universe.
If you want to singalonga Three Little Fishies, come along, also dressed up to the nines, and be my Fan. I will make camp faces at you, wink knowingly, and bellow a chorus just for you.

Hey, I've moaned in this posting! Promise not to do that tomorrow.

Ladies

1. A lady comes to wake you up on the Last Tube when it arrives at High Barnet (the end of the line).
'Time to go home now!', she says pleasantly but firmly
2. An old lady told me that when you are old, you can't jump. She showed me.
Ever since then, I have been jumping to see if I am an old lady yet.

Shimmy Rivers and and Canal at Corsica Studios

I went to see them yesterday night- last time I saw them was almost two years ago, I think, at the Klinker in Stoke Newington, and a fight broke out (it wasn't their fault)
There was a strong aroma of garlic and armpits from the audience and a very high brown-beard'n'glasses quotient, which was quite London-Musicians-Collective for a gig organised by PlanBmag, but it was strangely reassuring to know that this subculture survived the ravages of punk and the upitsownarseness of New Romance, drifted obliviously through Rave, and looked the other way while Hip Hop told us all off and said it was going to kill us.
The first band (which I liked) matched the audience perfectly (as I am told Elvis did) but I'd really come to see Shimmy Rivers, and was delighted as the band assembled on stage, looking happy, playing pat-a-cake, and cheering 'Yay!' as the last member arrived on stage panting and still holding his cycle-helmet, fresh from work and still wearing his stripy tie.
Puff! went the dry ice and I made a mental note to be holding my mobile phone at all times, just had mine nicked and you know how much robbers like the fog.
Ben the drummer had a My Little Pony on his kit; Mu was throwing handfuls of yellow plush Easter chicks into the audience from a box on her keyboard.
'This is the biggest audience we've ever played to', said Rod, and they started.
Tall men came and stood in front of me (the b*stards!) but I slid to the side, stuck my head in the speaker, and watched the Spirit of Punk live on!
Rod flung his fringe around, Ben was standing up behind his kit, Mu was miking up an Olivia Spread box..
Whack whack wallop twang!
By the second song they are in their stride (Rod has announced it as the last song)
What's that cymbal doing on the end of a washing line?
The third song (Wink, according to the abbreviated one-word setlist but probably a longer title) should be a Song For Europe- starting with a catchy riff, then ho ho ho in the canyons go the voices....
Jane looked like Nico from the Velvet Underground as she played her harmonium mysteriously in the background.
Then there was the wavy-arms song, Portrait (in a word) with drums like White Riot that could show those camp Scottish pipe band snare drummers a thing or 2.
Mu's chicken shop was a little depleted by now...
'If you can all pretend to gallop for the next song, something good might happen', said Rod.
Nobody did, which is a shame because I was hoping the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus would appear and pirouette on top of the speakers.
The kit started to collapse and Rod started to look like a Ramone brother, screwing up his eyes and yelling with a passion.
Richard moved from bass to guitar and they played the closest song they had to a ballad- Pink Skies, but it was a Shimmy ballad, so it was extraordinary.
'The next song is called something', said Rod, and snarled like a Glaswegian navvy over the thundering drum rhythm; I could imagine dancing the Dashing White Sergeant with a crusty in creepers. The sax coughed and wailed like a sea-lion on speed; Jane switched to clarinet....
At this point I decided to stop scribbling and start listening, to enjoy the music.
At the end they left the stage one by one, Jane last of all with a little wave to the audience of beardies.
Go and see them!

By the way, they wrote their set list in red, and I I advise against this, having had the problem of writing road directions in orange felt pen a few weeks ago. You can't read those colours in the dark!

Probably not worth reading if you were expecting an exciting posting

My friend Jane came to talk to the students at the University of the East today. She A&Rs for 4AD records and had a fascinating story to tell, all about working as a volunteer for a Ghanaian radio station and driving round the Wild West in the USA in a car with 5 people plus instruments, doing gigs all over the place.
I think the students loved it.
I have some interesting CDs to listen to now, and I made her a copy of old Chefs songs. She likes Helen and the Horns and keeps trying to persuade me to do more H and H gigs. I've given her 5 of the vinyl albums. We co-raved about music we liked while we ate our tea, then she went off to a gig in Camden.
She's playing harmonium and clarinet with Shimmy Rivers and and Canal and I think I will go to see them play tomorrow evening.
I feel happy in a sort of chaotic way, thinking about songs and songwriting, scribbling notes and advice on envelopes, drinking three cups of tea in quick succession, wearing a new dress (you should see it, it's very weird. It has tailor's dummies and hospital beds printed on it), scribbling incomprehensible things on my hand and avoiding phoning the Trainline who have sent me two sets of tickets to get to Glasgow in March.
O why does reality always have to kick in?
Better do it.
See you tomorrow.

Jumbled Ramblings (rambled jumblings)

I've decided to officially rename my car Prangmagnet, for yet again it has attracted a major prang and has to go to the car doctors to be fixed.
Today? Three creme eggs (3 for a quid, so of course you have to eat the lot), and a bowl of raspberries and custard (rather sour)
The Carolina Chocolate Drops are coming to Britain, and you must see them if you can. I will try to review them, because they are just the coolest and most stylish jug band in the entire world.
No music to report, although I may yet waft fragrantly up to my room and deign to bless my guitar with my elegant presence.
Yes, you guessed it, i didn't do the housework today, just ate chocolate and raspberries as above, and graciously received telephone calls from polite young whippersnappers about a courtesy car. I am not fooled, you see, for I know as soon as they've hung up they pick their noses and gob in the wastepaper basket before taking a swig of Pepsi and burping.
Got to go as I promised to lend the Mary J Blige Greatest Hits to someone.
Not as good as that Laura woman who does the songs about ghosts.

Ouch

Ouch. I fell down the stairs at Luton Parkway on the way back from Scotland; I'd been waiting on the wrong platform for the train into London, and made a mad dash for the correct one when the train arrived, but missed it and skinned my knees and bashed my fingers at the same time. Could have been a lot worse, so I am grateful I didn't land on my head or break a bone. The chase was thrilling, though!
I had a lovely weekend, north of Inverness; I sang a bit on Shippy's track (he's a promoter form the north-east who runs the Jumpin' Hot Club, who has made an album) and recorded six of my own, just guitar and vocals, in a studio in the middle of a field with a three-piece flowery suite and a beautiful little bossa-nova guitar with a perfect tone and inlaid mother-of-pearl stars. Honestly, you should have heard the sustain on the bottom E! You could sing looking out of the window at the harsh February fields, with the sun shining and the gulls flying overhead, drinking cold coffee. The engineer, Pete, has really good ears and has the air of a scientist about him. His mum lives there too, who is 90 and dresses immaculately in elderly-lady chic, and a frantic little spaniel who wiggles and quivers and rushes about in excitement.
There were some striped pipecleaners in the bathroom and I made a tiger.
Also, I did some songwriting with Martin Stephenson for our album, which, believe it or not, only has about three songs to go before it is finished; just two songs to be re-recorded and one to finish the chorus of.
I am tired today, but very pleased by the weekend. I even managed to get a walk on Dornoch beach and see where silly old Madonna got married. She didn't leave any riches lying around in Ross-shire, no traces of stardom or glamour. It's a tough-looking place, especially in winter, with oil rigs and factories and big grey threatening-looking sheds. The sea and the sky and the hills are spectacular, though, and seem completely timeless and primitive. Which, of course, they are.
Meanwhile, Tom's finishing the mixes of Polyhymnia on Wednesday.
Today is a day of rest, which really means a ton of housework and a ton of shopping. But first, a coffee to boost my vim, and then perhaps a little guitar pickin' just to make sure my damaged fingers still function.

Musical Christmas Sponge

Never get one, if you are a musician. Simon wore himself out at bathtime with the challenge of coming up with a different harmony every time.