Pretentious, moi?

This computer is on its last legs, and gasps with pain every time I challenge it; there's no way I can add the keyboard software to its heavy burden.
The parts are therefore being written and recorded using the Melodica, which I keep forgetting to blow into. It would be really annoying if it wasn't funny. When I set up to record first thing this morn, I forgot to attach the blowing-pipe thing to the actual Melodica and couldn't work out why all you could hear was swooshing air.
That's the problem with early starts, but it's work later on and everything has to squeeze around the edges. The upside is the feeling of excitement; now the basic tracks are done the arrangements are materialising out of thin air, and I have to keep stopping in the street and singing them into my phone. This has ceased to be embarrassing. I know its completely pretentious, but who cares? This is London and people are doing much stupider things everywhere, every day.
Jump in with both feet!

Plodding and Planning

I've recorded fifteen songs and that's probably enough, although another one is squeezing past and asking to be there too. Having to throw some of them overboard is going to be difficult.
I've found the Melodica (it lived for a spell in the studio manager's laundry basket, stuffed in there by his baby daughter), contacted Gill Wood who is a really good cello player, and got back in touch with Simon Walker, who is a fabulous fiddle player who could drink Dexy's Midnight Runners under the table when he played for them.
Doc'n'Roll have almost finished sorting out a short tour of the documentary (it's just being fine-tuned) and I'll post the dates here as soon as we have them all. I'm going to New York in June, fares paid, to talk about the Oh Bondage! Up Yours chapter and it would be good to do a small gig there this time, though organising that and borrowing a guitar might be challenging.
It's exhausting even thinking about it so I'm being as lazy as possible now, burying peanuts in the garden for later and cultivating thick, solid fingernails for the May/June tour I'm doing and that I haven't yet done the poster for. There are 23 essays to mark this week, so maybe after that.

Completely Infectious

Caught this off a student this morning and had to come back to the office and drum along to it. Thankfully, this time no-one walked in and caught me at it!

Middle 8 Arrived

Ah, thanks. Just turned up in my head. Now for words. Let's hope for a wordy week.

I Just Need a Middle 8

I just need a middle 8.

The Coal Man

When I was a baby I wanted to be a Coal Man when I grew up, because the Coal Man was allowed to have a dirty face, and that's what I thought would be the best thing about being a grown-up.

Records and Tea and Records and Tea and Records and Tea

The Sounds of Engineering

Now the drilling is outside in the road. It's Virgin laying cables, owned by a Sir who must be very grateful for the moniker which some people now use instead of his other one, 'Bloody'.
I have never been able to understand the appeal of sound installations, because we are surrounded by vernacular ones every day. You could say that this is noise, and artist-made installations are sound and that's different, and I could beg to differ because I prefer the sound of silence, and so did Simon and Garfunkel until they spoiled it by writing a song about it.

Sound Engineering

I am a much more annoying sound engineer than anyone I have ever worked with. In spite of the fact that I don't pretend to alter the volume when I'm not doing it really, never forget to go into record and not record a whole 'the one' take, or be climbing into my car to go somewhere else at the allotted recording time (all true) when the client is just turning up (me), it's still annoying recording myself.
I snip off bits of track accidentally, record at wildly extreme volumes one way or the other, think I've killed the computer (but really it's just the lead of the hard drive holding down a key on the computer keyboard), make tea in the middle of a vocal take, and delete the best bits by accident.
Plus the soundproofing in the studio is crap: there's the drilling, the cars hissing by my window, the creaking chair that belonged to McDad, the central heating that clicks and whirrs with great charm (not), the washing machine with its cute tootly tune of triumph when it's finished the cycle and the dishwasher with its urgent beeps, ditto (both out of action today), and the passers-by on the way to the shops.
Roll on tomorrow, silent Sidcup, and a much more patient engineer than me.

New Terminology

Learn this. It will come in handy.
Wearing a scarf = 'Taking the moths for a walk".

The Sound of Builders

Snurrrr! Sneeurrr! Snp snp snp! Snurrrr! (an octave lower).
Me and the drill have become good pals. Sure, it doesn't have a brain but there's something endearing about it's mindless noise as it spoils my day.
I imagine what might be being built next door.
It's more than shelves; it could well be a very complex sculpture made of innovative materials that the whole neighbourhood will be invited in to gawp at in a week's time. Or it could be hundreds of bunks for refugees. Or possibly a cannabis farm, though there's already one of those just round the corner.
Possibly, just possibly, it's a bored chap just drilling for the sake of it because he likes the noise. Or a woman, or even a clever dog!
This is so exciting I can hardly sit still.
Indeed, I am going to go out for a walk!

Independent Instagram and Noted Noise

I set up an Instagram account a couple of months ago, but abandoned it because I realised that I couldn't use it without an app on my phone and I don't want apps and have also forgotten my password to the app store; a new password gets sent to an abandoned .mac account that I've forgotten the password to.
You see.
It's sweet though: the account seems to be going on without me. I'm completely unnecessary to it, which is a relief. Happy travels, Instagram account!

On another note, ever since I moved here ten years ago, neighbours on all four sides have been bashing things, drilling things, constructing things, or yelling at each other and making ominous thumps. All the time. I'd quite like to do some recording today, but there's a constant low-level gritty whine coming through the walls. The most irritating one was on a Sunday morning when I was trying to oversleep. The drilling started at nine a.m. next to my bedroom, and finished for the day at eleven.

Luckily, they can't stop me from singing (does that irritate them?) and I've got a song to finish off.

Noise backatcha, drillurz! 🙂

Playing Records and Tea

300 Daylight Musics

Daylight Music is always a joy even if you're not one of the artists playing. I go there because there isn't a better way to spend a Saturday in London, whether you're an early morning walker-along-the-canal, or an afternoon-spent-in-front-of-Come Dine With Me-ist. There is a bit in the middle of Saturday, a bit of spare weekend, that can be used to re-fuel in the best way by taking a punt on what might be on offer with a cup of tea and a slice of home-made cake at the Union Chapel in Islington, one of London's bets venues.
At this special anniversary, the founder of Daylight Music, Ben Eshmade broke up the flow of awful jokes (yes, they are part of the package and some might argue, one of the best bits) by mentioning that the event started in Myspace days. Since then, they artists have travelled from as far as New Zealand to appear, which makes High Barnet seem rather slight in comparison, but on the other side of things, makes you feel that you are in exceptionally good company. This day was divided into three: Theme Tunes, Tea, and Torch Songs. I was delighted to see that The Perfect English Weather were playing, and they did the theme from Father Ted, with Wendy in really fine voice. Terry Edwards played an Alex Harvey song, The Boston Tea Party, and we talked Foreign Cats and Top of the Pops tiptoes Delilah in the dressing room. Piney Gir was there, playing an absolutely incredible sharkalike guitar that she bought in Kansas for something like $20. Fay Hallam's ensemble played You Only Live Twice, and Sarah Angliss and Sarah Gabriel played a Kurt Weill song that made me punch the air involuntarily- with a Cymbalom to accompany them that had only just been created from a Lithuanian recipe, I believe. After fourteen acts seamlessly changing over and playing one song each, the whole shebang ended with a finale featuring a three-piece horn section suddenly blasting from the balcony with The Mystery Fax Machine Orchestra.
With waving phone torch episodes and a crowd that applauded to the rafters, it was ALL standout moments, just a fantastic thing to be part of. Here's to more music, cake and love for the next twenty years or so!

Pottering

A tomato ricocheted on to the floor just now and there are seeds all over the place.
The maple sugar has burnt, and is dribbling out of the bottom of the cake tin.
Hungry moths are circling in the kitchen.
Four in a Bed is spiteful, and is not funny like Come Dine With Me.
The Green Goddess is not fixed yet (I was demonstrating Gretsch's poor craftsmanship, and the switch fell inside it).
I left today's paper on the train so there's nothing to read.

I don't mind.