Up With The Lark

I have another academic article to write and I was up with the lark this morning.
This one is for the Oxford Anthology of Punk, and is mostly about violence and music. It's still at the groundwork stage, and I'm plodding through books which are piled up in unruly heaps about the place, open at unspecified pages.
This is the only way that I can do this part of my job. Yesterday was spent on academic planning, with the sunshine thumbing it's nose at me through the window; normally Saturdays are rest days, with not even emails disturbing the blend of crappy crime novels, reading the paper and then watching Come Dine With Me.
A half written song is sitting on the settee, but it's designed itself so that it can be written on the train. It's called The Ginger Line, which is what we call the orange overground line that crosses London from left to right. It has an annoying melody that won't get out of my head, and the words write themselves on my way to work when I'm actually travelling, so I'm looking forward to the journey tomorrow.
Oh well: back to big thick books with my big thick head.....

In Which Scaledown Sings Along

They were much more boisterous before filming happened! Filmed by Shaun Hendry last night, conducted by Mark Braby.

Saturday Afternoon Track

Featuring the fantastic guitar playing and samplery of Lester Square, backing vocals from Dan Whitehouse and cello from Natasha, recorded by Tom Greenwood all those years ago. Much water has flowed under the bridge since those days but I still play this song.

Hope and Social at the Borderline

I thought I'd made loads of notes at this gig but actually I spent most of the time simply enjoying the music- and isn't that exactly how it should be?
This was the ten year anniversary of Hope & Social, and The Borderline was packed with what seemed like half of Leeds (was Leeds empty on Thursday evening?). The crowd was excited, loyal, and delighted to sing along whenever they were invited to, and sometimes even when they weren't. There was a running joke about Steve Lamacq, who was there for the first band and who had played a track 19 years ago, inspiring Simon to tell his father that he was bound to get a major deal, and even as the words left his mouth he realised what an arsehole he sounded. Pecan cookies were shared around the audience, and the songs flowed out of the band, many of them punctuated by richly-arranged harmonies that made you realise that they'd work just as well without the instruments, and that's the sign of a really good song. They were augmented by Megan on the trombone, who fitted in perfectly with the trumpet and sax that they normally have; her imagined iPad instructions were to just move about a bit whenever she wasn't playing. There were cheesy jokes aplenty: the song about the end of the word was described as an apocalypso by Rich (audience groaned, I laughed). A new song was presented with characteristic self-deprecation ('it might alienate the fan'), and the entire audience was offered a travel-paid excursion to Leeds to see the band in March, because that made it cheaper than the band coming to London.
Halfway through, they left the stage; the bass player picked up a euphonium, Gary (who drums for them but who is also a talented singer songwriter in his own right) wore a portable kit and a bunch of ukuleles appeared as if by magic. They turned into a New Orleans marching band, occasionally offered a sip of beer or wine by audience members, and they sang and played in a crocodile through the delighted crowd.
They all appear to be multi-instrumentalists; you blink and one of them is playing something completely different apparently just as well as their first instrument.
Such energy! The audience were wildly enthusiastic, cheering all through the self-declared 'fake last song' for a well-deserved encore.
What a bunch of characters, and what a great evening. This is the second time I've seen them, and they have to be one of the most entertaining bands on the circuit.
They made me feel happy. Thank you.

Violet

I suppose if your violet hair rinse only cost you 50 pence, it's not surprising that it doesn't work.

Friday at Scaledown

At The 12 Bar Ages Ago

Photo by Katy Carr

First She-Punks Screening, November 10th in London!

http://www.docnrollfestival.com/films/stories-from-she-punks/

Following in the Footsteps of the Coelocanth

On a nature programme on TV years ago, divers searched for the rare fish, the Coelocanth, in the Indian Ocean. Fishermen told them tales of spotting them very occasionally in their nets.
After a lot of searching, deep deep down in the murky waters, they finally found one, and filmed it with an underwater camera.
Surprised and frightened, the Coelocanth didn't know what to do, so it stood on it's head.

Over the past couple of weeks I have felt under attack for various reasons. Apart from being very wearing, it is also extremely stressful to be embroiled in situations where I am powerless to act, especially when previous bullying behaviour has reared its ugly head again. Scotland was a very welcome break from all of this, but I came back to worse.
So I bought some hideous pink, magenta and baby blue cowboy boots from T K Maxx, and some violet hair dye to match.
If I'm going to be a cowering wreck, let me be at least a colourful cowering wreck. Standing on my head to follow, inspired by the Coelocanth.

Photo: Ikan-Purba

Oh Deer

Home Again

It took 12 hours to get back yesterday, which was less that it was meant to. A train from Edinburgh was cancelled and the one before it left late; luckily I managed to rush on to it just before it left. Big squash, reading the world's worst crime novel, so bad that I read the whole book wondering if it was a pastiche of an awful crime novel before noticing that it was a Sunday Times Number One best-seller.

It feels as though I've been away for a million years.
Big thanks to Anne and her family, and to Sot for organising the gig. I really, really enjoyed it.
Back in the deep end today- and how! I am just reflecting on things.

We photographed each other. Thank you, Scotland, too. I miss you.

Weather

Double rainbow above Ullapool Hill, and the view from the top.

Library

It's a morning in the library, starting work on an academic article. At the moment the writing feels like a plane with no wings, huffing along the tarmac not wanting to take off.
Before hitting the keyboard, the whole thing seemed impossible, but I'm used to that now.
You have to choose the right moment to feel motivated to start (fear of the deadline is not something that works for me). Sometimes it's a little gleam of an original take on the subject, others it's anger, and sometimes it's sheer practicality: nobody has said this yet in this way, and this will be the first time.
I've done a thousand words, which is a milestone on the way to six thousand. The plane has wings but  it's a long way from take-off.
The subject? Danger, Anger and Noise in Punk (women, of course). I'm glad to be writing about other things now because it's better when life moves forwards rather than backwards, but I can see that this collection of essays is going to be of interest to a great many people, just like our film.
News on the first screening of the final version will be coming very soon indeed!

Sidling Up To the Royal Train

Newcastle had positively sunbathing weather. Catching up with old friends, sometimes unexpectedly, made me leave the toon with a big grin on my face; likewise Glasgow, although yesterday morning came in with the lamb and went out with a pack of howling hyenas.
There were no trains going anywhere, so Kenji and Till came to the rescue and drove into town. So many people were stranded, including a poor woman with a toddler and a baby in a pram. 'Make other arrangements', they said. That's OK for rich people, but not everyone can afford a hotel room. I wonder how she managed?

The flat was leaking like a sieve, but Till made lovely food and we talked our heads off. This morning the lamb was back, and the train north passed the Royal Train at Blair Atholl.

This time last year we were scattering Mum's ashes at Tummelbridge, and wandering through the streets of Pitlochry marvelling at the Christmas decorations. It seems like a hundred years ago.

Taking Off In Storm Ali

Through storms so strong my guitar flew off but didn't take me with it: was hoping for a Mary Poppins moment. Ullapool on Saturday with the mighty Shrew!