Monday, May 18, 2015
Marking
I'm so tired that I can't even move. I've marked and given feedback on something like 36 songs today, and my ears are ringing. Last week I marked 49 websites, 20 one thousand word essays and 20 three thousand word essays, and there is more of the same to do this week. Then there is the data inputting, for three lots of 40, and two lots of 55 students. Then I have to re-write an academic article, apply for funding for a research project, write an academic paper for a conference in June and if I'm lucky, start recording an album. One day at a time, I think.
Sunday, May 17, 2015
Saturday, May 16, 2015
Killer Whale
Have you noticed that George Osborne dresses as a Killer Whale?
That dark, dark suit and that white, white shirt.
That dark, dark hair and that white, white skin.
Read The Psychopath Test by Jon Ronson and draw some conclusions of your own; it gives a new meaning to 'Eat Your Greens'.
That dark, dark suit and that white, white shirt.
That dark, dark hair and that white, white skin.
Read The Psychopath Test by Jon Ronson and draw some conclusions of your own; it gives a new meaning to 'Eat Your Greens'.
Recording Again
It's been a long time, been a long lonely, lonely lonely, lonely time.
Hello Logic, hello interface, how are you? Both looking fine!
As usual, I myself am the hurdle that I have to get over.
First of all, when I use the tuner on my Spanish guitar, no signal comes out of the jack socket.
That was the first sound of silence; I finally realised when I'd switched everything on, off, re-booted the computer, had a tea break and sat staring into space for ten minutes.
Then the interface didn't seem to work, so I tried a different one, then a different guitar lead, then a direct line in (am I boring you?), tried mono, tried stereo, before consulting the internet forums and raising that I'd selected the wrong input and I should have been using Input 2 and not Input 1.
I played the song again and again and got fret buzz, distortion, this that and the other.
By the time I'd stopped recording I could play it perfectly in time with the click. Two hours after, I have a recording but as everyone knows, you can't listen to it directly after recording it because your ears are f*cked and you need a little time to be an objective listener.
So there was only one thing to do: go out and buy chocolate.
And that is what I did.
Hello Logic, hello interface, how are you? Both looking fine!
As usual, I myself am the hurdle that I have to get over.
First of all, when I use the tuner on my Spanish guitar, no signal comes out of the jack socket.
That was the first sound of silence; I finally realised when I'd switched everything on, off, re-booted the computer, had a tea break and sat staring into space for ten minutes.
Then the interface didn't seem to work, so I tried a different one, then a different guitar lead, then a direct line in (am I boring you?), tried mono, tried stereo, before consulting the internet forums and raising that I'd selected the wrong input and I should have been using Input 2 and not Input 1.
I played the song again and again and got fret buzz, distortion, this that and the other.
By the time I'd stopped recording I could play it perfectly in time with the click. Two hours after, I have a recording but as everyone knows, you can't listen to it directly after recording it because your ears are f*cked and you need a little time to be an objective listener.
So there was only one thing to do: go out and buy chocolate.
And that is what I did.
Friday, May 15, 2015
Martin Stephenson at The Union Chapel
Sunday, May 10, 2015
Disability Rocks in Matlock
After the shock of realising the scheduled time for my bit was actually 12.20 and not 3.30 and a pressurised dash up the M1, the sound of the DMU Gospel Choir was a welcome relief from the dire political news of Friday morning. Swaying in their red robes, they tagged each other for lead voice or conductor roles, singing beautiful harmonies with a signer at the side. I had a quick tune up and then followed them after an intro by Paul Cookson whose witty and perceptive poetry introduced the different artists. I've got used to playing with cold fingers and it was a joy to play another gig for Disability Rocks, an amazing organisation that welcomes all people to their events, regardless of ability, race, age, sexuality or anything else you can think of. Later, we watched Brooks Williams' crafted guitar playing; I particularly enjoyed the blues he played on the resonator guitar; Sam Hill Jnr player a set of strongly emotional songs dedicated to his family that struck a pensive chord with the audience. Then Martin got everyone dancing with a set of fingerpicking' tunes, slipping The Lilac Tree in there alongside Charlie Poole. A chap in a white t-shirt became entranced and leapt to his feet in excitement, throwing poses; even I got up and danced to Leonard Cohen's Suzanne which somehow didn't seem out of place: somehow even that one had a dance groove on Saturday. A little face-painted pirate swung her feet on a hay bale while a couple of green tigers looked on. It was a fab day out for everyone, performers and audience alike: roll on the next one!
Friday, May 08, 2015
The Precipice
I have been at Gina's this morning; we are planning to make a documentary together, and there is a lot to talk about. For artists, musicians, writers and so on, the future is always built on a bridge made of cards balanced by tricksters; it fades into an uncertain distance with no promise not to collapse at any moment. So no change there; what feels disturbing is the idea of a permanent underclass being the norm, and approved by three quarters of the people you walk past in the street.
Yes, that is disturbing.
We were talking about protest songs, and how perhaps they work better delivered via dance music rather than what I call 'E moaners' who drone on with their guitars at people who aren't listening.
The other day I learned that the 'inclusion' part of teacher training has shrunk to three hours over their entire course. I do feel that I work in the right place; there are so many negative conversations about Universities that say that they-we- are a waste of time and money. We work so hard with our students to be 'worth it', to make them employable (I run the Employability module), encourage them to be conscientious with their (usually excellent) skills and tolerant of each others differences.
That being said, we too are teetering on a frail precipice.
Who cares about music when there are banks to be schmoozed?
Yes, that is disturbing.
We were talking about protest songs, and how perhaps they work better delivered via dance music rather than what I call 'E moaners' who drone on with their guitars at people who aren't listening.
The other day I learned that the 'inclusion' part of teacher training has shrunk to three hours over their entire course. I do feel that I work in the right place; there are so many negative conversations about Universities that say that they-we- are a waste of time and money. We work so hard with our students to be 'worth it', to make them employable (I run the Employability module), encourage them to be conscientious with their (usually excellent) skills and tolerant of each others differences.
That being said, we too are teetering on a frail precipice.
Who cares about music when there are banks to be schmoozed?
Wednesday, May 06, 2015
On The Train Home
I sat next to a young man on the train home who subjected me to a rant that included his voting intentions being UKIP and his sympathies being with the EDL. He was articulate but had a tendency to want to shout me down even though I wasn't shouting; he decided to follow me off the train to continue the one-sided argument.
He was just telling me what a wonderful man Farage is and I was just responding with the story of my foster-cousin being physically manhandled by UKIP's evil cohorts in Margate, when he rapidly disappeared up the stairs at the station in a flap and flurry of free London evening newspaper that I don't read any more because of its politics.
There at the bottom of the stairs stood three community policemen.
Maybe I had a lucky escape.
He was just telling me what a wonderful man Farage is and I was just responding with the story of my foster-cousin being physically manhandled by UKIP's evil cohorts in Margate, when he rapidly disappeared up the stairs at the station in a flap and flurry of free London evening newspaper that I don't read any more because of its politics.
There at the bottom of the stairs stood three community policemen.
Maybe I had a lucky escape.
Monday, May 04, 2015
Ladybird By Design at the De La Warr Pavilion, Bexhill-on-Sea
I woke up yesterday to rain and a possible day of grazing through Facebook, watching a black-and-white 1950s war film on TV or marking more than a hundred essays. None of those options appealed and on a whim I bought a ticket to Bexhill-on-Sea, on the principle that I'd feel terrible if I didn't see this exhibition.
It being a Sunday, the journey had it's gruelling aspects; the train was late out from Victoria, and to pass time I sampled a sandwich that was so disgusting (a cold sliced wool blanket) that I tweeted about it and got a reply from M&S that offered me a refund too late.
Bexhill was windy, white-skied and delivered a gusty, hefty sock in the jaw. It also appeared to be deserted until you actually got inside the De La Warr, where it was thronging with people of all shapes and sizes.
'Bloody hell, we had that book!' roared a middle-aged chap. He was articulating what we were all thinking.
As soon as you get in, you're presented with the sight of an unfolded book layout and a video which I couldn't look at because the room was so busy. I passed through into the next room where the whole of Shopping With Mother's original artwork lined the walls. It was amazing to see the delicate brushwork and the flicks of paint and little notes off-image, 'buttons on girlscoat belt', neatly written in pencil. I had this book as a child, yes, and was fascinated by this parallel family who also had a Golden Retriever.
The pictures provoked memories of being brought up on buns, bacon and jam; yet Mother glided through its pages in a trim, neat brown tailored suit, and was remarkably slender and shapely. The paintings are oversized and give you the opportunity to investigate the painter's technique: so much care has gone into the colours of the shadows and indeed the colours in general, which are bright, optimistic and a nod in the direction of technicolour, surely influenced by American films of the 1950s. They are utterly beautiful, and slightly Pollyanna-ish; the little boy looks unusually excited by the daffodils in the flower-shop, for instance, and there are no mis-spellings in the greengrocer's shop.
In the next room, Ladybird became a bit more ruffty-tuffty. Here is what dad did, all those years ago: there is artwork from books on Miners and Roadmakers with an appropriately darker palette of colours, but just as much detail, from the People at Work series. A picture of chefs in kitchen is a masterpiece of miniature photo-realism, as is the painting of seamstresses sitting round a table doing instant alterations. There is a political story being told through this history, in all its detail and colour that you don't find in black and white photos from the era. Although they are idealised snapshots, the whole narrative is really carefully told and full of talking points. I've used some of the science series in lectures to illustrate girls note-taking while boys actively experiment, but actually you can see just how occupied and busy everyone was. Consumerism is there, but so is the industry that feeds the consumers. Nature is present too, in detail and for posterity, record-keeping carefully blended with aesthetics and educational value.
As the narrative drifts towards the seventies, we see cultural variety; there are young black children on the bus, and the ubiquity of quilted anoraks strikes a chord of uncool nostalgia. Some of the later artwork has lost its vitality, possibly as the publishers lost direction. There is one particularly dynamic picture, though, in which a grey-haired man appears to be falling backwards in a cardboard cannon factory, that made me want to write an alternative story, not quite so subversive as Miriam Elias, perhaps, more along the lines of The Magic Roundabout.
I thought there was too much- but of course, that's not right. There is something for everybody here. It's a fantastic exhibition of British culture. More of that in a minute.
I went to the cafe. Where were the pink buns with a cherry on top, the iced fingers and the sausage rolls? They had missed a trick (wouldn't it have bene wonderful if they'd thought it through and we could choose from some of those colourful selections at the 1960s bakers?) and I decided to give it a miss and went to the fish and chip shop instead, scoffing the food on a bench on the seafront in the cold wind and being stalked by a very persistent seagull.
One final thought: Britain of the 1960s and 1970s was never the country that UKIP is trying to steer us back towards. You can see where the idea comes from but the Ladybird reality, in spite of its primary colours and never-was nostalgia, was exceptionally nuanced and had built into it the concept of change, dynamics, and an appreciation for every different aspect of society, from industrialisation to ruralism. I found this to be uplifting and in spite of the round trip taking seven hours door-to-door, it was a grand day out (see what I did just there?).
Go: next Sunday is the last day... and all this is free! http://www.dlwp.com/event/ladybird-by-design
It being a Sunday, the journey had it's gruelling aspects; the train was late out from Victoria, and to pass time I sampled a sandwich that was so disgusting (a cold sliced wool blanket) that I tweeted about it and got a reply from M&S that offered me a refund too late.
Bexhill was windy, white-skied and delivered a gusty, hefty sock in the jaw. It also appeared to be deserted until you actually got inside the De La Warr, where it was thronging with people of all shapes and sizes.
'Bloody hell, we had that book!' roared a middle-aged chap. He was articulating what we were all thinking.
As soon as you get in, you're presented with the sight of an unfolded book layout and a video which I couldn't look at because the room was so busy. I passed through into the next room where the whole of Shopping With Mother's original artwork lined the walls. It was amazing to see the delicate brushwork and the flicks of paint and little notes off-image, 'buttons on girls
The pictures provoked memories of being brought up on buns, bacon and jam; yet Mother glided through its pages in a trim, neat brown tailored suit, and was remarkably slender and shapely. The paintings are oversized and give you the opportunity to investigate the painter's technique: so much care has gone into the colours of the shadows and indeed the colours in general, which are bright, optimistic and a nod in the direction of technicolour, surely influenced by American films of the 1950s. They are utterly beautiful, and slightly Pollyanna-ish; the little boy looks unusually excited by the daffodils in the flower-shop, for instance, and there are no mis-spellings in the greengrocer's shop.
In the next room, Ladybird became a bit more ruffty-tuffty. Here is what dad did, all those years ago: there is artwork from books on Miners and Roadmakers with an appropriately darker palette of colours, but just as much detail, from the People at Work series. A picture of chefs in kitchen is a masterpiece of miniature photo-realism, as is the painting of seamstresses sitting round a table doing instant alterations. There is a political story being told through this history, in all its detail and colour that you don't find in black and white photos from the era. Although they are idealised snapshots, the whole narrative is really carefully told and full of talking points. I've used some of the science series in lectures to illustrate girls note-taking while boys actively experiment, but actually you can see just how occupied and busy everyone was. Consumerism is there, but so is the industry that feeds the consumers. Nature is present too, in detail and for posterity, record-keeping carefully blended with aesthetics and educational value.
As the narrative drifts towards the seventies, we see cultural variety; there are young black children on the bus, and the ubiquity of quilted anoraks strikes a chord of uncool nostalgia. Some of the later artwork has lost its vitality, possibly as the publishers lost direction. There is one particularly dynamic picture, though, in which a grey-haired man appears to be falling backwards in a cardboard cannon factory, that made me want to write an alternative story, not quite so subversive as Miriam Elias, perhaps, more along the lines of The Magic Roundabout.
I thought there was too much- but of course, that's not right. There is something for everybody here. It's a fantastic exhibition of British culture. More of that in a minute.
I went to the cafe. Where were the pink buns with a cherry on top, the iced fingers and the sausage rolls? They had missed a trick (wouldn't it have bene wonderful if they'd thought it through and we could choose from some of those colourful selections at the 1960s bakers?) and I decided to give it a miss and went to the fish and chip shop instead, scoffing the food on a bench on the seafront in the cold wind and being stalked by a very persistent seagull.
One final thought: Britain of the 1960s and 1970s was never the country that UKIP is trying to steer us back towards. You can see where the idea comes from but the Ladybird reality, in spite of its primary colours and never-was nostalgia, was exceptionally nuanced and had built into it the concept of change, dynamics, and an appreciation for every different aspect of society, from industrialisation to ruralism. I found this to be uplifting and in spite of the round trip taking seven hours door-to-door, it was a grand day out (see what I did just there?).
Go: next Sunday is the last day... and all this is free! http://www.dlwp.com/event/ladybird-by-design
Saturday, May 02, 2015
Come Dine With Me
I'm a total sucker for the Saturday omnibus of Come Dine With Me. Sometimes I just slob out with a bag of mini-poppadoms after a morning of housework. Today, I've spent the day reading academic books and taking notes, so it was case of getting out the ironing board, dashing away with the smoothing iron, and guffawing at it all.
Today's weirdo was an extremely narcissistic fingerprint expert and fitness entrepreneur who was a really bad loser. If he hadn't got his victims, I mean guests, to do an endurance competition where they had to see who could hold the 'plank' yoga pose for longest in between the main course and dessert, he would have won.
They were a good-natured bunch (compared to some) and at the end, they all chanted 'Loo-zerrrrr' at him (good-naturedly). Sounds mean but if you'd seen the huge blown-up black and white semi-nude photo that he had hung above the bed in the guest room, you might have laughed too. Not quite down to the low standard of the meanie participant who cut off the heads of the tined asparagus and threw them away, but almost!
Students play this game. They turn their beds upside down, use a sheet for the tablecloth, and actually by all accounts they are rather good at it; they completely 'get' the idea of cooking according to their cultural background, whether that be India or Scotland, and it makes a lot of sense to cook for a crowd of seven once a week. Roll on communality (said the recluse!).
Today's weirdo was an extremely narcissistic fingerprint expert and fitness entrepreneur who was a really bad loser. If he hadn't got his victims, I mean guests, to do an endurance competition where they had to see who could hold the 'plank' yoga pose for longest in between the main course and dessert, he would have won.
They were a good-natured bunch (compared to some) and at the end, they all chanted 'Loo-zerrrrr' at him (good-naturedly). Sounds mean but if you'd seen the huge blown-up black and white semi-nude photo that he had hung above the bed in the guest room, you might have laughed too. Not quite down to the low standard of the meanie participant who cut off the heads of the tined asparagus and threw them away, but almost!
Students play this game. They turn their beds upside down, use a sheet for the tablecloth, and actually by all accounts they are rather good at it; they completely 'get' the idea of cooking according to their cultural background, whether that be India or Scotland, and it makes a lot of sense to cook for a crowd of seven once a week. Roll on communality (said the recluse!).
Meanwhile in Matlock...
On the same day (9th May) there is another Disability Rocks festival. Details here:
http://disabilityrocks.org/product/lea-green-centre-matlock-derbyshire
http://disabilityrocks.org/product/lea-green-centre-matlock-derbyshire
Not Wallpaper Stripping
I should make a start at stripping the wallpaper (the plaster is full of holes behind it) but I don't know what to do with the enormous piles of books in that room. Is there such a thing as fostering-families for books? If there were less of them I'd take them to work, but I honestly think it will take a bulldozer to shift them.
Friday, May 01, 2015
The Hustings
I have never been to a hustings before so this was a new departure.
They were held in St John's Church and it was very odd to walk past tables of wine after doing a gig in a church in Manchester the other week, where drinkers weren't allowed into the church at all from the bar area.
The proceedings started with a prayer from the vicar: quite a brave thing to do I thought, and (oddly) a reminder that we are all human beings regardless of our political persuasion.
The candidates had drawn lots to determine in which order they were due to speak.
First up was the Green candidate, who delivered an impassioned declaration of her beliefs.
At heart I am green, but I am also practical; we all believe things but from politicians we need strategies and policies, and I didn't hear any at all unfortunately. From where I stand, the UK is in a dire state. You could put it this way: the world is full of sharks, and saying 'I'm a nice fish, don't eat me!' is not the way to see them off.
Then Mr UKIP got up. He was once the maths tutor for one of my daughters, and used to kiss my hand rather creepily every time he came round. You might wonder how he managed to do this, and so do I; that's what I mean by creepy. People who do that have a plan before the door opens.
We were treated to a description of his multicultural background, not unusual in a Londoner, I have to say. At the point at which he claimed that UKIP was an internationalist party, I had to leave the hustings. The only international engagement that I've seen them make is with far-right (i.e. Fascist) parties in Brussels. I felt sick and left before I heard anyone else.
Sorry others, but I honestly don't think I'd be able to share a platform with a UKIP candidate if I was a politician, which may well be why I'm not one!
They were held in St John's Church and it was very odd to walk past tables of wine after doing a gig in a church in Manchester the other week, where drinkers weren't allowed into the church at all from the bar area.
The proceedings started with a prayer from the vicar: quite a brave thing to do I thought, and (oddly) a reminder that we are all human beings regardless of our political persuasion.
The candidates had drawn lots to determine in which order they were due to speak.
First up was the Green candidate, who delivered an impassioned declaration of her beliefs.
At heart I am green, but I am also practical; we all believe things but from politicians we need strategies and policies, and I didn't hear any at all unfortunately. From where I stand, the UK is in a dire state. You could put it this way: the world is full of sharks, and saying 'I'm a nice fish, don't eat me!' is not the way to see them off.
Then Mr UKIP got up. He was once the maths tutor for one of my daughters, and used to kiss my hand rather creepily every time he came round. You might wonder how he managed to do this, and so do I; that's what I mean by creepy. People who do that have a plan before the door opens.
We were treated to a description of his multicultural background, not unusual in a Londoner, I have to say. At the point at which he claimed that UKIP was an internationalist party, I had to leave the hustings. The only international engagement that I've seen them make is with far-right (i.e. Fascist) parties in Brussels. I felt sick and left before I heard anyone else.
Sorry others, but I honestly don't think I'd be able to share a platform with a UKIP candidate if I was a politician, which may well be why I'm not one!
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