tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26668779696783171942023-06-20T22:06:18.062-07:00Confessions of a songwriterConfessions of a songwriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04635978592956717814noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2666877969678317194.post-45550553151858417092012-12-20T02:22:00.002-08:002012-12-20T02:25:43.008-08:00CANAL STREET BLUES<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">With the advent of ‘Auto-tune’, and other similar
tuning and timing devices, it is now possible for almost anyone to call themselves
‘a singer’. Most people will sing out of tune a bit, and after all, the human
voice should not be expected to behave like a machine. But for today’s artist
however, this inadequacy is a fundamental and career threatening ‘Archilles’
heel’.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Some people will sing consistently flat and some
consistently sharp, (I have had a long career wincing at the latter) but this
is easy to correct. Recently though I came across a ‘singer’ who has developed
his own particular sub-species of sharp and flat with a bit of in-tune thrown
in, that proves particularly difficult to deal with. And so, with a hard-drive
full of this young man’s mediocre warble, I make my way down to my garden
pod/studio to begin several hours of pain and torture. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Work your magic” I recall him saying as we parted
company, just days before in London Fields, but even David Blaine would think
twice about taking this on. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As my computer comes to life and I stare at the sunny
field outside my window I wonder if my memory hasn’t served me well and maybe
my afternoon’s work will actually turn out to be quite easy. Maybe he wasn’t
that bad? Being classically trained, I know I’m particularly anal about tuning.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My fears are confirmed. Three words in to the chorus,
and I’m in trouble.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">For example, the word ‘alone’ (which for some reason
features a lot in my songs) has, as you know, two syllables. The first syllable
is sung flat as a pancake, but this would be easy to deal with if it weren’t
for the second syllable being sung out of time and with a charming mixture of
sharp and in-tune. The waveform that is shamed into representing this atonally
performed word will need to be painstakingly and graphically corrected. Life
saving microsurgery, for the partially tone-deaf.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">One word, half an hour gone, my life is shit.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The ‘artist’ in question is a very handsome boy.
Indeed he has already had some success as an actor and also, fortuitously
thrown into the bargain, has a famous ‘rock n roll’ parent. Despite the tuning
issues, he also has an impressively distinctive voice, reason enough I think to
plough on down the road to intonation hell and see if I can pull something out
of the bag, even if he is clearly unaware of the man hours it takes to work my
magic.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Coincidences can be cruel. It is a particularly cruel
coincidence that, at 5 pm this afternoon, I’m booked in for a root canal
treatment at my local dentist. It’s my first procedure of this kind and I make
a poor job of hiding my fear as the chair lowers me robotically into position. We
all know that when a dentist fumbles with something behind you, just out of
sight, it is, odds on, more than likely to be a ruddy great syringe with a
nasty looking needle on the end of it. With clammy hands and a shaky voice I
urge the lady to ‘load me up’. If I’d been offered a general I’d have taken it
on the spot.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This tooth has been hypersensitive for some time and after
several fillings and a lot of pain it is deemed necessary to take out the nerve,
thus ending all discomfort for me. Simple. Not that simple actually. In an
adult molar there are three nerve cavities. Each one must be drilled out and
then each nerve, once found, also yanked out. Next, a foul tasting substance
will be applied to the bottom of the cavities, which should kill off anything
that might remain. The tooth is then temporary filled and after a week or so I
will be expected to return to have it all dug out again so the empty root
cavities can be filled with cement thus avoiding the tooth to unexpectedly fall
out. A needle through the eye sounds just great right now.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Surprisingly though, when the drilling begins I feel
nothing painful at all. I wistfully muse that root canal is, can you believe
it, actually preferable to tuning the said boy's vocal. Until that is, out of
the blue, the drill wraps its good self round the deepest part of my nerve and
I levitate my contorted body several inches out of the chair, all accompanied by
high pitched whimpering. Mr Blaine would be impressed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And so I leave cap in hand, with my low pain threshold
and temporary filling, blissfully unaware of the dribble I’m leaving behind.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My dentist has advised me to buy Paracetamol and
Ibuprofen in large quantities for when the ‘local’ wears off. I take double the
recommended dose and head back to the studio.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
'CONFESSIONS OF A SONGWRITER' IS NOW ON A CHRISTMAS HOLIDAY. <br />
HOPE YOU'RE ENJOYING THE SHOW, <br />
HAPPY CHRISTMAS !</div>
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Confessions of a songwriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04635978592956717814noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2666877969678317194.post-3138298132034923312012-12-13T04:50:00.001-08:002012-12-13T04:50:10.296-08:00SHINE AND THE IVOR
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In 1987 we would spend more time in RAK Recording
Studios, a converted Victorian schoolhouse and church hall in St. John’s Wood.
In those days there were three recording rooms. One had a ‘state of the art’
SSL desk, which we had previously used to good effect. This time though, we
would be in the other main room, which had a ‘vintage’ Neve desk and had a
somewhat more dated feel. I can only assume this was our producers choice, as
the SSL, with ‘flying faders’, automated as if by magic, was a relatively new
and highly prized piece of kit. All the songs we were to record, save for the
odd cover, were written by our singer. He certainly had a talent for this and
although at times a more democratic approach would have been of welcome
benefit, his driving force and strong overall rudder, it has to be said, kept
us on an ever-ascending trajectory. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">American singers have always had an easy relationship
with the songwriter. Back in the 80’s their music culture was much more
uncluttered than ours. The singer sang, and the writer delivered the tune. The
big stars saw the importance of a strong song and were only too happy to
perform it and stay away from the writing credit. With big sales figures and
healthy radio play, there was food for all. A good example of this is the
Supreme’s ‘stand out’ front woman and by this time, hugely successful solo
artist, Diana Ross.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She had a new album in the making by the name of ‘Red
Hot Rhythm And Blues’ and her eyes were on one of our very own singer’s
compositions. With the absence of email and the fact that the song in question
was still on the ‘2 inch’ multi track at RAK, she would have to physically show
up at the studio to hear our version of the song, to assess if it was indeed
suitable for her. Surely not? Diana Ross must have better things to do.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She didn’t; and it was arranged that at 2.30 PM that
day she would be paying us a visit. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">All the studios at RAK have windows, which is in fact
quite unusual and indeed very refreshing to be able to see London go past,
minding it’s own business, as opposed to some of the underground bunkers we had
previously recorded in, offering no natural light whatsoever. I had parked
myself next to a window at the back of the control room so as I could keep a
watchful eye out for the big arrival. I wasn’t convinced she would actually
show up and was more than a little nervous at the prospect of meeting her. But
sure enough, at the allotted time, and not a minute later, while our engineer hastily
lined up the song on the ‘vintage’ Neve desk, a large black Jaguar slowly
rolled up in front of my chosen window. The driver, suited and with cap, dived
out from the car to assist with the opening of her door. And there she was,
dressed in what looked like a classic ‘Chanel’ black suit and manicured to
within an inch of her life. This was a woman, who took the art of being a
woman, very seriously. To an extent, we were all in awe of her. She was and
still is a legend in the world of American black music, and so it seemed
ridiculous to me that she was about to enter our scruffy studio control room.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">By now, the studio had filled with extra people, not
just the six of us and a producer and engineer; no, several other people had
found reasons to join us. Who could blame them? As the door opened the first
thing I notice was the amount of long black shiny hair she had, and how her
eyes sparkled as she took in the gaping crowd. Our producer, also American,
greeted her with the ease and assurance of a man who had much celebrity
experience under the belt, and I fully expected her to kiss our singer, which
she did, on the cheek. But, quite unexpectedly, she then worked her way round
the room, giving every single person who had gathered, a peck on the cheek.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“How lovely to meet you” she said, numerous times, as
she completed the line up. She was so gracious, and needlessly generous in the
midst of strangers, she would surely never see again. The tune was then played,
which seemed to entertain her, and then as quickly as she arrived, Miss Ross
(allegedly this is how she insisted on being addressed, by her band) had left
the building. Once folded back into the Jaguar by the suit and cap, she was
gone. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The song in question was recorded and included on her
next album, a delightfully simple transaction I thought, between singer and
songwriter.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It would be a while before I would have the courage to
write my own songs and even longer before other artists would want to sing
them, but in time I would discover that I had ideas of my own, that needed
little more than some self-confidence to bring them to life.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It has always seemed strange to me that the artist is
so hugely celebrated in our country, and the very person who writes the
material, almost ignored. Celebrity is king and with shows like the ‘Brits’ and
the ‘Mobo’s’, successful performers are showered with high profile accolade. It
is indeed rare to find any song in the top 40 that hasn’t been written by two
or more writers, and commonplace for the singer not to be included in the
writing credits.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There is though, one ceremony that celebrates the
writer. It is not televised and we have always been led to believe that any
major exposure would tarnish its honourable status and reputation. I wonder,
however, if this might be more to do with our lack of interest in who pens the
song.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In 1997 my manager called me to say I had been
nominated for an ‘Ivor Novello’ Award. Named after the Welsh composer and
singer, this trophy is without doubt the ‘Holy Grail’ for any aspiring songwriter.
Held at Grosvenor House on Park Lane this yearly event aims to celebrate
British songwriters and the success’s they have had in the current year. Our
category was ‘Best Dance Music’ and the other two nominees were Dario and 187
Lockdown. Oblivious to the odds of winning, although I realise now that my
manager’s insistence I attended, was something of clue, I was instead
captivated by the vast ballroom the event was held in. There must have been
hundreds of tables all set out with silver service. How the kitchens would cope
serving at least a thousand people all at the same time concerned me greatly.
But they did. A three-course meal and unlimited booze made me feel like a
winner, and we hadn’t got down to the real business yet. With minutes to go before
the results I just had enough time to go for a much-needed leak. Not one to
survey the competition when daggers are drawn, it was nevertheless a surreal
moment for me, as I stood there, with Feargal Sharkey on one side and Rolf
Harris on the other. A star-studded room, it certainly was. Elton John and
Bernie Taupin were nominated for their tribute to Princess Diana (although I don’t
remember seeing Bernie and secretly suspect he doesn’t actually exist) and the
great ‘Radiohead’ were nominated twice for Paranoid Android and Karma Police,
amongst many other luminaries of the time. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And then it came to our category. I had been telling
friends, and the handful of journalists that cared, that “just to be nominated”
was enough, but it was a lie. I knew that to win would propel me forward in my
career, and could potentially make a huge difference to my life. All of a
sudden, there was a lot at stake. Full of food and wine and a heartbeat in
danger of breaking out of my ribs, I was, at some point in the proceedings,
(and in a fug of adrenalin-fuelled fear) made aware that my table was standing,
indeed the whole room was standing and our tune could clearly be heard coming
out of the PA. Did I hear my name come from the lips of Paul Gambaccini? We had
won. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I say we, because this tune was a co-write. My writing
partner and uber-talented musician and programmer was sitting with his
Publisher at another table, far away from me. As we independently made our way
to the stage to receive our prizes, only the closest to us would know that we
were in no way on speaking terms. Looking back our differences should have been
resolved. If there had been therapy sessions available for two dysfunctional
ego-heads, then we should have attended, but there was no such thing, and we
parted company, never to work together again; very regrettable.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I would reflect on this that very same evening, on the
beautiful Greek Island of Crete. The ‘Ivors’ are always held in the afternoon,
followed by a ‘free for all’ in the nearby ‘Audley’ pub. My wife and I attended
for a drink or two before making for Gatwick Airport, where we would fly out
for a pre-arranged holiday. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The ‘Ivor Novello’ Award itself, is cast out of bronze
and is extremely heavy. I certainly wasn’t going to leave it anywhere and so
decided to take it with me to the airport. A sign of the times, that once
x-rayed, this potentially lethal weapon, was permitted to fly with me. Post
9-11, I would have surely lost it forever, discarded along with the nail
scissors and tweezers.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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Confessions of a songwriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04635978592956717814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2666877969678317194.post-54135995356441809832012-12-07T03:12:00.000-08:002012-12-07T03:12:31.176-08:00RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">X Factor and all who sail in her, surely by now should
be the scourge of the ‘music industry’ nation. Yes, in the early days I would
sit and watch it with my kids, protesting loudly that it was in fact for
research purposes, and not at all for pleasure. Now though, and indeed for some
time, the dirty bloom of that form of entertainment has rubbed off, and even
though I am aware, somewhere near the back of my mind, that there is a
Liverpudlian lad that would make quality cruise-ship material, this year I have
stopped watching. We all know that great music will never come from this kind
of show, but it is the selection process that baffles me (and angers me), the
choosing of not just the promising but also the hopeless and deluded, all in
the name of ‘entertainment’, something for the great British public to laugh
at. Since when, was making music, something to laugh at?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Since X Factor. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">We have banned ‘bear bating’, ‘fox hunting’ and ‘dog
fighting’ but it seems some human beings are still ‘fair game’ for ritual
humiliation on national TV. The judging panel, of course, must be aware of this
and yet still manage to look bemused as the talentless are wheeled on to impale
themselves on the barbs of jumped up celebrity. The final straw for me this
year came as one of the judges (someone who is generally thought of as an elder
statesman of the pop world, and indeed is referred to as ‘The Captain’ by one very
blond Radio One DJ) thought nothing of smirking and imitating the movements of
a boy, who certainly (in my opinion) had some special needs, whilst he earnestly
tried to perform the said judge’s biggest hit.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It would seem that the aspirational needs of the
panel, far outweigh the need for any compassion that might normally be afforded
for such an individual. Such a cynical move I thought, to even invite this boy
to compete, knowing he would be laughed out of town.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Unbelievably, this tired format that was always a big
bag of wrong, limps on for another year. The damage it does though is
substantial. There is big and quick money to be made here, not just in the huge
fees paid to the judges, but also in the initial downloads and colossal airplay
revenue and not forgetting the advertising (that we are all grateful for, in
between segments of the show) The real issue though, is how the record industry
as a whole has lost confidence in itself. Artists are now dispensed with,
sometimes before even releasing anything. Long-term investment in talent and
unique creativity has been downgraded, and in its place, commercial hype for
the quick return is in pole position. It’s the music though that suffers the
most. An average song now last for days rather than years. Pop is eating itself
with unparalleled hunger. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My Dad used to frequently quote Sir Thomas Beecham,
who once said,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“It’s got to have a damn good tune”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This came about though because Dad found it hard to
appreciate the beauty of anything composed post 1890 and as it became apparent
that my interest in pop music wasn’t going to go away, it was his opinion that this
saying had particular relevance. And in a way it did. A great tune will live
on. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Last night, during a particularly galling episode of
‘Made In Chelsea’ my daughter brought to my attention, during the commercial
break, that the advert we were gazing and glazing at was the Ministry of Sound’s
‘Essential Anthems 90’s’ and it happened to feature a tune I had had a hand in,
indeed it was playing, right there in our living room. Grateful, that at least
part of the turkey this Christmas was now paid for (these compilations do not
make a man rich) it struck me that this particular tune was now at least 15
years old and was still, in a bizarre way, as relevant as it was back in 1997.
I will always remember how it came about. Written, recorded and pretty much
finished in a cellar under my Derbyshire home, this song in a sense had humble
beginnings. I had bought a new studio toy called an ‘Akai 1000’. It was a ‘sampler’
and so logically I now needed to look around for things to sample. Being lazy
and at this time very much into the classical piece ‘Adagio for Strings’ by
Samuel Barber (a dark and haunting outing for string orchestra made famous more
recently by its feature in the film ‘Platoon’) I had the CD, it was in front of
me. Was it trying to tell me something? I saw no reason to look any further and
‘sampled’ the opening chord. It was a complex chord (I could name, it but we
would all fall asleep) and showed it to my writing and production partner. He
recognised it as something special and once recreated (to avoid the suing of
arse) he spun it back into the sampler and manipulated it into an opening riff
that was ‘to die for’. This then triggered a melody from me, and soon afterwards,
some words, simple ones for a message everybody could relate to, the saying
goodbye to a loved one, something most of us will have had to suffer, at one
time or another. Then followed the beats, supplied by my partner and looking at
my watch I noticed all but an hour and a half had elapsed. But by this time, as
if the song had a life of it’s own and had forced itself to be written, we
knew, as we grinned to each other in a smoke filled Victorian cellar, that we
had created something special. The next day our singer joined us and we were
able to record her voice, which had a suitably dark and distinctive timbre and complimented
the song perfectly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">All writers and producers know that this moment has to
be savoured, it may never come again, it is an elusive thing that nobody knows
how to harness.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">All this happened at the very start of this particular
project. From memory it was the third song we had written and normally we would
have gone on writing for much longer before trying to chase a deal. But, with
management in place and a mutual buzz around this tune, we decided to start
the, usually longwinded and humbling process of finding a record deal. It
didn’t take long, and soon enough we had a number of major labels all bidding
to sign us up, pretty much on the strength of one song.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Interesting I think that when first released it only
made it to number 41. Today we would surely be dropped, unceremoniously dumped
into the ether, never to be heard of again. But no, our record company believed
and after a short break they tried again. This time though things were
different and as the radio stations around the country began to add us to their
playlists, expectations began to rise. Some people may not be aware that there
is such a thing as a ‘midweek chart’. This gives a pretty good idea of where you’re
going to end up come Sunday morning when the final chart becomes available. It
told us we were number 5. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Sunday morning came and thrilled just to be even in
the top 40 we could now celebrate in earnest. Crammed into a white transit van
and south bound for a gig that night, spirits ran high and the cramped
conditions and smell of petrol were of little concern. We stopped halfway for fuel
and as I perused which flavour of crisps to buy, my mobile phone began to buzz
(an early Ericsson, shaped like a brick) It was our manager. My heart began to
beat heavily. I answered.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“You’re the nations number one”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Shit”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It can still be done this way, and there are many
examples of acts that have recorded at home and showed the world, through the
eyes of ‘YouTube’, what they have been up to. Surely now, it has never been
easier to let people know. As technology becomes ever more accessible and
affordable, we can all be creative without having to know the right people or
consider soiling our hands with a talent show. We all now have a voice. It is a
free, if not congested and difficult, market.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">A few years ago a young male singer came to me to
co-write a song. He told me in the car, as I drove him from the station to my
home, that he had been approached by a senior TV executive and asked if he
‘fancied winning X Factor’. I cannot prove how much truth there was in his
story, but even if there was some, it goes a long way to illustrate how much
trouble we’re in.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Let’s hope there is enough rage against this machine at
Christmas time to scupper the inevitable. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Confessions of a songwriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04635978592956717814noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2666877969678317194.post-11258967498572176722012-11-30T02:31:00.000-08:002012-11-30T02:36:53.735-08:00ROLLING IN THE DEEP<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I often complain to friends and acquaintances who are salaried and at
some point will be able to retire on a large pension, that they don’t have the
faintest idea of the stresses and strains the self employed must endure.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I also conveniently forget that a nine to five job with pitiful holiday
allocation is perhaps a far cry from my self-regulated meander through life.
There maybe benefits and pitfalls on both sides, but while there is any doubt,
I’ll continue to complain. The main issue for me is the inability to plan
anything, with size of income being an uncertainty, and the annual visit from
the taxman, more than a probability, a disorganised creative can fall hard.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Luckily though, for a few years in the late eighties, the government
let a major loophole go unchecked, a legal tax dodge of major proportion.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The rules were simple, if you recorded an album outside of Great
Britain and then lived outside of Great Britain for one year (save for sixty
days, when entry was permitted) then all the income on that album was deemed
tax-free. Too good to be true? Well, for a time it was true and those who
benefited from it were lucky people. Some time after we tried this, the Spice
Girls were sent home, mid term, as the loophole was tightened and then axed.
So, somewhere back in 1988 we agreed to leave the country, our families and our
friends. Italy was chosen as our temporary ex-pat location, Gallarate, to be
exact, a small northern town in the province of Varese. We had come here for
two reasons, by now we had developed a passion for Italy and it’s culinary
delights, and also our bass player had married a local girl who, it turned out,
had some experience in ‘Mud Wrestling’, a common form of Italian style ‘pub
entertainment’, at the time. (A pointless digression, but worthy of entry none
the less)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Our accommodation was a newly built apartment block, constructed in red
brick and from memory, pretty ugly. We were each allocated our own flat and on
the top floor was a large room in which we could rehearse. Word soon got round
that we had moved in and crowds of kids would gather outside. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The flats were essentially unfurnished and so, with a small budget, we
were taken to Italy’s equivalent to Ikea, where we were expected to trolley
dash for our contents. I chose a rug, that looking back was not attractive, and
from memory precious little else, but compared to my previous Hulme
(Manchester’s finest) existence, this was minimal heaven. Because Gallarate was
a small town and a good forty-five minute drive to Milan or any other place
where civilization could be found, we would each need a car. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Our singer, (and songwriter) had pockets way deeper than ours and
promptly invested in a brand new Alfa Romeo Spider (Roadster) in red,
naturally. A wise choice and one I was very envious of. I lumped for an Alfa
Romeo ‘Alfetta’ (the Italian equivalent to the Ford Cortina) ten years old and
in black. It certainly had character and was relatively cheap at one thousand
pounds, but the telltale smell of burning oil (which by now I am all too aware
of) would render my investment fallow, and sure enough in no time at all I
would be spending the same again, when one of it’s pistons decided to wrap
itself round the engine. I loved this car though and when in good working
order, it would provide me with an escape route and take me away from the band
and all things music. I would drive towards the Dolomites until the snow
stopped me in my tracks, have lunch in a ‘Trattoria’ and take in the view.
Trips to Milan and Verona were regular events and as, for most of the time,
there was very little to do, it felt like we were tourists, trapped in a red
brick castle.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Although a necessity, driving in Italy was like dicing with death.
Traffic lights were rarely observed and when the seat belt law came into play,
replica cardboard seatbelts with Velcro attached, became available to buy in
some shops. Carefully applied, they could fool a patrolling ‘Carabinieri’ into
thinking the new law was being observed: anything to avoid complying.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Great Britain may have been out of bounds but it didn’t take me long to
realise that The Republic of Ireland, and in particular Dublin might just be a
great place to hang out. As a boy, mainly thanks to my Granddad, I had been
well and truly hooked on the art of fishing. Back then I would walk down to the
River Nidd and easily spend all day lost in all things nature, distracted from
the drudge of school and homework. This would always take place on a Saturday,
as Sunday was a day of rest and definitely not a good time to put a hook in a
fish’s mouth. It was my ambition though, to catch a salmon, and no
self-respecting salmon was ever likely to be found in the Nidd. As I headed
over to Dublin for some expat relief, it dawned on me that the ‘Blackwater
River’ in County Kerry, was a perfectly good place to start trying to fulfill
my ambition.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It had been raining hard and typically, on the day I booked to fish
this beautiful stretch of water, conditions were grim and the river had turned
to gravy. Undeterred, I pressed on and took some advice from the river keeper. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Be sure to try the ‘flying condom’ now”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The ‘flying Condom’ was indeed just that. A prophylactic shaped lure
with hook embedded, was proving a real hit with the salmon fishermen this
particular season. As I cast out my condom into the murky depths with no
interest from anything resembling a fish I noticed next to me another
fisherman, in full attire and with all the latest equipment. He was wearing
chest waders, a waistcoat with flies attached, ‘Polaroid’ sunglasses and had a
special device called a ‘tailor’ used to hook round a salmons tail to aid hauling
a heavy fish up onto the bank. He was a pro and at first I thought he might not
want to talk to me. I had no equipment to speak of and had borrowed a battered
old rod from the river keeper. But we got chatting and it turned out that, far
from being a stuffy old salmon-fishing snob, as some certainly were, he was a
heavy goods lorry driver from Birmingham and a more down to earth chap would be
hard to find. He confided in me that he was a none-swimmer and wearing chest
waders was quite simply suicide, should he slip, death from drowning would be
hard to avoid as the waders filled with water. He had smuggled them out of his
holiday home, as his wife did not approve. Cheerfully though we fished on, not
giving his predicament too much thought, but then suddenly out of the blue, as
I reeled in my ‘Flying Condom’ I felt my line go tight, very tight. My new
friend instinctively knew what had happened.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“That’s a salmon, that is”, he declared, and indeed it was. Fooled by
the rubber, my first salmon had found me. I had a problem though. The bank was
steep and without a landing net there was no hope of getting this magnificent
fish out of the water. He sensed my panic and was soon at my side with his
bespoke piece of equipment.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“It’s alright” he said in his thick ‘brummie’, “I’ll get her out”.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Relieved, and marvelling at his knowing the fish was a female (as I
hadn’t even seen it yet) nothing could have prepared me for what was to happen
next. As he bent over trying to reach out for the fish’s tail, he slipped and
with a forward summersault, crashed in to the freezing black water. He’d been
wearing a flat cap. By now this was the only thing left of him, floating
silently on the surface. Seconds turned into minutes and as a non-swimmer
myself I was helpless and feeling wretched that this very decent man was going
to lose his life, trying to salvage my catch. Rooted to the spot, I knew I had
to run and get help, but as I started to move I spotted some bubbles rising
around his abandoned floating cap, and then breaking the surface like a river
monster, he emerged triumphantly. Hopelessly grateful just to see him alive, I
hadn’t noticed what he had in his arms. It was my salmon.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Didn’t want her getting away now did I”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He promised me he’d never wear his waders again.</span></div>
Confessions of a songwriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04635978592956717814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2666877969678317194.post-6189534937568112512012-11-22T07:26:00.000-08:002012-11-22T08:55:41.486-08:00SON OF A PREACHER MAN<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 18.0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I have mentioned my Dad on a
few previous occasions and I may also have mentioned the beret and cine camera
and the fact that he was a local preacher. As if all that wasn’t enough, there
were other idiosyncrasies that would plague me throughout my early life. School
for me was a mixed bag. My inability to remember anything and hopeless lack of
concentration may today have been termed, ‘dyslexia’. Back then though, it was
called ‘dozy’, and slow progress was made in the classroom. Lunch however, was a
highlight, and as one of the dinner ladies was my friend’s Mum, portions were
big, especially chips, which from memory I had every day of the week. After
this, I would meander my way down to the music block, where an indulgent and
very supportive music teacher would let me mess about on a piano for the rest
of lunch break.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 18.0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The music block, I suppose,
was a sort of haven, a place to hide from the harsh reality of school, but for
me there was another reason to stay hidden; my Dad was the Head of Modern
Languages. I would like to send a strong message to all teachers who might
think it’s a good idea to send their children to the school in which they
teach. IT ISN’T. Dad went a step further, and not only engineered it so that he
taught me French, but also made sure he was my form teacher. It’s strange
though, because with him being my Dad, I never really got a good objective
eye-full as to what sort of a teacher he was. In the late seventies it was
quite normal to hit a child, the cane was in full swing and my maths teacher
found nothing problematic about using a Bunsen burner’s rubber tubing for his
weapon of choice. And so, with all this in mind, I kept my head down and willed
the bell to ring. Looking back, it was little wonder my concentration and
ability to learn, suffered. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 18.0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Being no stranger to the
pulpit, my Dad was also regularly called upon to take assembly. This was
perhaps the most uncomfortable and degrading experience of all. The whole
school, assembled in front of the man I called Dad; As I tried to block out the
taunts from behind me, I would daydream myself away to a far off place of
anonymity. What I would have given for a different surname. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 18.0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There were some advantages
though. A ginger haired boy, who, to be fair was a bit of a loner, had come to
school with a pretend bomb. It was just a crappy old box with a battery and
some wires hanging out of it with the word BOMB written on the side in marker
pen. Nobody thought it was funny and nobody paid any attention to him or the
pretend device. At the end of the day, as I walked through the staff car park
with a friend, homeward bound, I noticed it had been discarded in a nearby bin.
Without thinking, we retrieved it and started to kick it around the car park,
laughing at how pathetic an imitation of the real thing it was. We soon got
bored and wandered off home. Without realising it though we had kicked it under
the Headmaster’s car and now, in the shade and barely visible, it looked all
the more authentic. I’m not sure how paranoid our Headmaster was, but spotting
the device threw him into panic. Thinking logically, even if he was unpopular
enough to get blown up outside school (and he was) surely the perpetrator would
avoid writing the word BOMB, on the bomb. Nevertheless, he had the whole school
evacuated, and summoned the police who in turn summoned a bomb disposal squad.
Several hours later, with the area made safe and with ruined evening plans for
several members of staff, the caretaker was finally given the go ahead to lock
up the School. Back home, as I sat round the tea table with Mum and the Head of
Modern Languages, we were all blissfully unaware of the mayhem that had been
going on at school; until the next morning, that is. It turned out that a
teacher had spotted our fake bomb kick-around from the staff room window and
within minutes of registration, we were standing outside the Headmaster’s office. I
have never seen a more red and swollen face on a grown man; uncomfortably
reminiscent of the scene from ‘Kes’ in the Headmaster’s office (except we were
all guilty) surely this was going to be my first taste of corporal punishment.
The boy who made the bomb was, naturally, caned and very unfortunately, so was
my friend. I was not. No explanation was given. As I juggled and struggled with
the feelings of guilt and relief (for a moment or two) this incident only went
to cement my firm belief that, teaching your offspring, should be banned. (I
had toyed with the idea of sending a petition to number ten, but as my Dad was also
‘Mayor of Knaresborough’ at the time, and about to appear on ‘The Sunday Quiz’
hosted by Keith Macklin (Anglia TV) I decided to shelve the plan, thus avoiding
further shame, that would inevitably rain down on my dysfunctional Father-Son
relationship)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 18.0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My Mum though, in her own
way, helped smooth things along. She could see our pain (my three sisters had
previously walked this difficult path) and without being obviously disloyal or
taking sides, she would be there to offer some comfort. My Dad would often
accuse her of settling for ‘peace at any price’ but this so called ‘peace’ was
a welcome relief from his, very often, ‘Victorian’ approach. Take for example the
School cross-country run. We lived just a short walk away from school as it
happened and our house was conveniently en route. In those days we would be
trusted to run three miles or so, out into the unsupervised countryside.
Instead of crossing the bridge to the other side of the river, I would take a
sharp left, and in no time at all would be letting myself into our house, where
I would greeted by this;</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 18.0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Hello love, I thought it
might be you, have you time for a cup of tea and a biscuit ?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 18.0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The look on her face was
priceless, a mixture of guilt and mischievousness, and there in the kitchen,
while she robotically ironed my Dad’s shirts (with Dad, safely distracted at
the coal face) I would enjoy a cup of tea and a biscuit, and forget the
troubles of school and the cross country run. The timing had to be good though.
I would need to re-join the runners as they emerged from the other side of the
river. With mud, fraudulently applied to my legs, from the garden, I would
seamlessly slipstream myself back into the race, making sure I was out of
breath and in no danger of winning. This was our secret, an unspoken bond of
understanding, which despite the risks, she lovingly offered me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As previously mentioned, my
Dad was a lay preacher, and very often he would be required to preach at one of
the many nearby rural village Chapels. This particular week it was Spofforth. We
would all be required to attend. My Grandma and Granddad were also coming
along, as they were visiting at the time, but didn’t need any encouragement to
soak up some family pride from the altar. My Grandma was a very strict and
starchy lady. She would always use my full name (she didn’t believe in any kind
of shortening) and was quick to inform my Mum if something on the television
was inappropriate for my young and impressionable eyes. I can clearly remember
her rushing into the kitchen to summon help with censorship, as the ‘Benny Hill
Show’ got underway. Granddad, on the other hand, was a comedian. A small man with
one leg a good two inches shorter than the other (due to repetitive motorcycle
accidents) He would always be seen with a stick, and would make it his duty to
look for the funny side in everything; And he was much adored for it. As a
younger man he had played piano for the silent movies. This improvisational
role, required a high level of keyboard facility and indeed, he could pretty
much play any tune you’d care to mention, by ear.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My Dad had asked him to play
the organ at the service, something that carried potential worry, as he had
been known to spice up well known tunes with a sprinkling of the ‘Les Dawson’
treatment. As we arrived it occurred to me that our family, quite literally,
outnumbered the sparse and very elderly congregation. As the service began,
nothing seemed untoward and eventually we got to the long boring bit they call
the ‘Sermon’, where we could begin our daydreaming and my Mum could put the
finishing touches to the next days shopping list (All in her head, you
understand) But, out of the blue, I spotted my Granddads very small,
pea-shaped, shiny head in the mirror above the organ. It was brown as a berry,
due to regular Blackpool holidays, where he would toast himself for hours on
end, sitting on a promenade bench. Within seconds I started to titter. Soon my
sister had cottoned on and she too began to shake, and then my other sister,
and then my Mum and even my Grandma too (unaware of what was funny, but that’s
how it spreads) all as the sermon was being delivered by the righteous and
stony-faced Preacher/Dad, Head of Modern Languages and Mayor. My Granddad, who
by now had noticed in his mirror that something was making us laugh, also succumbed
to it’s infectious nature, and before long, he and the whole pew our family had
inhabited, was visibly shaking. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As the preacher noticed our
irreverent behaviour, the schoolteacher in him triggered an audible reprimand,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“WILL YOU <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>BE QUIET” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">But it was too late, by now
things were out of hand and Dad began to lose it too.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The three old age pensioners
that made up the rest of the congregation were mercifully too old and infirm to
care. And so, eventually, order was restored and we could go home to enjoy the
most important part of any church service, lunch.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This incident, gave birth to
the term ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pew Shaker’</i> which to my
knowledge although not yet in the Oxford English Dictionary, when loosely
translated means,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A public and involuntary attack of the giggles in a near silent room’</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 18.0cm;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It often surprises me
though, that despite some of the more unconventional elements of my parenting,
how much I enjoyed these years growing up. More than that, how many foibles and
characteristics of my parent’s (especially my Dad’s) I have inherited; a fact I
am frequently reminded of, by my wife.</span></div>
Confessions of a songwriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04635978592956717814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2666877969678317194.post-30964757171529724092012-11-19T07:34:00.002-08:002012-11-22T07:17:03.177-08:00ACCESS ALL AREAS<span style="background-color: white;"><span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 15.5pt;">It was the late 80’s and we had been touring
Australia. Yes, the Sydney Opera House is impressive enough, and the sunshine
can definitely be relied upon. It’s true the people are direct here and
personable too, but this place they call ‘down under’ has never really appealed
to me. There were some lowlights though. During a meal just in front of this
fine Opera House, I spotted the ex-pat boxer Joe Bugner, also eating (what
looked like his own body weight in steak) and at the same time signing autographs
for adoring ‘forty something’ women. After unsuccessful consecutive fights with
Ali and Frasier he had become something of a minor celebrity and had settled
down in Sydney. Talking of steak, I can remember accompanying our Sax player to
another Sydney meal out. We had seen a pub that, on certain weekdays, boasted a
‘Naughty Lunch’. The only responsible thing to do was to investigate further.
Strangely the only option on the menu was steak and chips but in lieu of this
and by means of some compensation, all the waitresses were topless. At first
this seemed like a novel idea, although when our ‘naughty’ waitress came to our
table to order, keeping eye contact, and a straight face was a near
impossibility. Looking round the room we seemed thoroughly out of place in our
T-shirts and jeans, shoulder to shoulder with suited businessmen grimly pawing
the underdressed staff. The food was good enough, but this unlikely combination
of pornographic cuisine somehow accelerated our mastication and in a cloud of
embarrassment and shame we were soon gone. This ‘poor mans’ America though,
would offer us some compensation, as it was customary to continue down to New
Zealand after our ‘Ozzie’ schlep.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 15.5pt;">At the airport the mood would lift, when our
tour manager revealed she had managed to get two upgrades to first class. It
was a given our singer would take one of them, with the rest of us taking it in
turns to feel the benefit. On this particular flight it was my turn to swank it
up in first. There was nothing much exceptional about an Air Qantas flight. A
four to five hour journey and predictably, steak was on the menu again, (served
this time by fully clothed ladies) but in the seat opposite me, spread out like
a recumbent gazelle, was none other than John Cleese. Disappointingly though, he
slept for most of the journey (I’m not sure what I would have expected him to
do if he’d been awake) but I can remember, as the air stewards carried out the
safety demonstrations before take off, he burst into uncontrollable laughter
when the words “and here is a whistle for attracting attention” were read out.
No doubt he might have enjoyed running up and down the plane as Basil Fawlty,
whistle in mouth, doing just that.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 15.5pt;">Safely over the Tasman Sea, we descended smoothly
into Kiwi civilization. We had been here before, performing in Auckland and
Wellington but this time we would be travelling down to the ‘gateway’ of the
South Island to sample the very beautiful Christchurch. Named in honour of
‘Christ Church’ Oxford, and with a river ‘Avon’ running through it, this place
had a stately feel, a sense of history with an air of importance. The
architecture was grand here and felt more like an Oxbridge College than a city
somewhere on the other side of the world.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 15.5pt;">Not wanting to blow any whistles or attract any
undue attention, it has to be said, that from time to time, in, shall we say,
more cosmopolitan cities, the services of ‘working’ girls were relied upon by
certain entourage members, to provide relief from the stresses and strain of
touring life (you understand)</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 15.5pt;">In Christchurch though, this was never going to
happen, the gig was only small and after which, a small party was planned in a
nearby pub. We would attend out of politeness and then it would be soon to bed,
and away nice and early the next morning.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 15.5pt;">The day we arrived though was our day off, and a
couple of the previously mentioned entourage decided to check if this sleepy
city might indeed, just be able to provide some ‘love for sale’. As it turned
out, we were in the midst of a thriving community of antipodean ‘hookers’, all
keen to sample something fresh from the ‘on tour’ larder. Phone calls were made
and the hotel was soon awash with the sound of girls ‘working’. We were all
surprised that such a prim and proper place should have such a subversive
underbelly, but eventually the hotel quietened down and when tomorrow came we
would prepare for our first Christchurch gig.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 15.5pt;">In such far off places it was rare to have a
lengthy guest list, indeed nobody in the band or crew had anyone to put on the
list that evening, except for me that is. (or so I thought)</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 15.5pt;">I had never met my guests before; they were
relatives of my brother in law, five in all, an elderly couple with daughter
and husband who, for good measure, had brought along their young teenage
daughter. Three generations of respectability, who I would need to meet and
greet after the show, in a presumably desolate green room. Not so desolate as
it turned out. During some miss spent youth a day earlier, each participating
member of the entourage had given their ‘lady of the night’ several back stage
passes. (these hookers, it turned out, restricted their friendship group to
only people of a similar employ) And so, it dawned on me, as our set drew to a
close, that along with one very respectable Christchurch family our green room
could now be awash with a multitude of whores. And it was. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 15.5pt;">As the Grandma remarked that, she’d ‘never seen
so many young ladies in one room before, and did I know any of them?’ I prayed
to God that nobody would let slip about the after show party. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 15.5pt;">Once there, I got talking to one of the bar
staff, who seemed to know every female in the room. He explained to me that,
whilst for most of their week, sex was exchanged for money; the chance to get
laid like a normal person, with no money changing hands, presented a huge turn
on. Which I suppose would explain the ‘I Claudius’ like orgy that ensued.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 15.5pt;">The back stage pass has a lot to answer for.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 15.5pt;">Our sound engineer went on to work extensively
with AC/DC and told me that crew members were routinely issued with back stage
passes, to give out to pretty girls. This is of course is standard, but some
girls were, allegedly, ushered in early and encouraged to have sex during the
gig with (specially chosen) crewmembers, under the see-through Perspex catwalk
that made part of the staging. The band would be fully entertained whilst
churning out songs they could sing in there sleep. This was all in the name of
keeping things fresh, as an average AC/DC tour could last up to 2 years and the
boys would need some inspiration to see them through. Savvy members of the crew
would utilize the high currency of the pass in imaginative ways. Before
administering it, they would ask the willing fan to earn it, by administering
something else first. Pretty girls, invariably have standards though, and would
turn down this ‘tit for tat’ arrangement, thus forcing the crewmember to enlist
a groupie of a lower aesthetic quality. (An unwashed rigger, three months into
a tour and living on a bus would, to be fair, present a challenge to even the
most rugged of groupies) When the band noticed however, that the eye candy had
taken a turn for the worse, they changed the system slightly and each pass would
have the crewmembers name written on it in indelible ink. A days ‘per diems’
were withheld for any sub standard ‘tottie’ found back stage, and soon the band
were back in business.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"></span></span>Confessions of a songwriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04635978592956717814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2666877969678317194.post-58208093546547521552012-11-09T01:31:00.001-08:002012-11-09T01:31:20.388-08:00NO SMOKE WITHOUT FIRE
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Thankfully, so far in my life, drugs had not
featured heavily. One thing that can be said of my strict religious upbringing
is that it kept me blissfully ignorant of most things illicit. Having said
that, I can remember, whilst cutting the grass of an old lady who lived
opposite (aged thirteen) also finding time to secretly slip into her garage and
make a cigarette out of newspaper (just newspaper). This resulted in a less
than smooth smoke and how I got away with it, as I returned home stinking like
a bonfire, I’ll never know. And so, for the first 18 years of my life, it is
fair to say, I was genuinely disinterested in smoking and even in the pub I
would limit my taste for alcohol to the odd gin and tonic, which looking back
was perhaps even more dysfunctional than the newspaper cigarette.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">However, when Music College came into my life,
so did real cigarettes and pretty soon after, I noticed that some of my friends
were rolling their own but with an added ingredient. With only a few weeks of ‘nicotine
high’ acclimatisation under my belt, I was promptly thrown into a much more
grown up arena of smoke. Like most cities, Manchester could provide all the ‘goods’
and for a time we would frequent the toilets in the ‘Band On The Wall’ for our
combustible purchases, where, waiting for us, would be a small ‘rasta man’ by
the name of Benji. We only ever heard him utter two words.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">“Two Pound”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Green as the handful of tomatoes I managed to
produce this summer, I put it to him that we wouldn’t require that kind of
weight and perhaps he could consider selling us a smaller quantity, a half
ounce perhaps?</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">“Two Pound” was the response and when the penny
finally dropped I handed him two crisp (also) green paper pounds and left with
our weekend supply.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">During this period we also had heard
that magic mushrooms could provide extra nuance to one’s evening and after a
tip off that the nearby Lyme Park had a plentiful stash, we hotfooted it over
to Disley and began to search for the elusive Psilocybe Semilanceata. We soon
amassed a heavy ‘SafeWay’ bag full and returned home to begin the task of
drying out the little beauties in our airing cupboard. There, they would be
laid out ‘in state’ for a week or so, by which time we would have a ready made
stash of ‘natural’ high. From memory we would boil up seventy or so mushrooms
in a large pan of water. Coffee would be added and sugar and anything else that
could mask the foul bitter taste of this special fungus. Swiftly moving onto
beer, to cleanse the palate, we would then settle down on the sofa and quite
literally watch a pair of drawn curtains. After about twenty minutes, when the
pleats started to swirl and swim, we knew we were in. Several hours of uncontrollable
laughter would follow, but in the morning a red roar throat would make us pay
for the enjoyment.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In a nearby street, another student
house had taken the whole mushroom thing to a higher level. They had a
psychedelic light box called a ‘Skiffington’, which, whilst under the influence
of the ‘shroom’, could take you to forbidden places. On the side of the box was
a picture of its inventor, a man by the name of Gerry Adler, a scary looking
creature with a beard and certainly not easy on the eye. One evening we decided
to join forces and see for ourselves what the ‘Skiffington’ could do. It didn’t
seem to take me anywhere I wouldn’t have ordinarily gone, but one of the other
housemates reacted badly, spooked by the image of Mr. Adler, disappeared to the
cellar below and began to smash the place to bits. It was time to go.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Post Music College and in a band of
keen smokers, clearing customs could prove tricky. Even if we weren’t carrying
anything, our clothes would harbour the tell tale odours of misdemeanour.
Anybody who has travelled to Italy will know that it is ‘de rigueur’ to be
greeted by a pack of Alsatians, highly trained to sniff out the pot smokers.
When we arrived it was always a feeding frenzy of canine excitement. Lumps of
expensive cling-filmed hash could be seen flying through the air, evidence
scattered in panic, as the dogs moved in. Our drummer on one occasion decided
to ingest his stash to avoid being detained. I’m not sure this plan had been
thought out properly, as once his digestive juices got to work he became
unarousable for the next twenty four hours, which luckily coincided with a day
off. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It was clear that travelling with
Hashish was a ‘no no’ and we soon adapted by making new European dope smoking
friends. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Amsterdam, under the circumstances,
with it’s coffee shops openly selling grass and hash quite legally, was a Godsend
and as luck would have it Holland became one of our biggest territories outside
Britain. We would visit Amsterdam on numerous occasions, staying in ‘The
American Hotel’, situated just opposite the famed ‘Bull Dog’ café. There were
two menus here, one for food and drink, and one for the extensive selection of
red and black ‘Lebanese hash’, ‘Grass’ (of all kinds, including ‘Thai sticks’,
Sensimilla and the notoriously potent ‘Skunk’) were all on offer. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">We were in heaven. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It didn’t take long for some of us
to start thinking about how we might get some of this quality produce back
home. Perhaps posting it might work? And so, with no thought given, and after a
concerted smoke, I packaged up some quality ‘black’ into an envelope I had
found in my hotel room. Needless to say, the envelope was emblazoned with the
Hotels name and I had stupidly addressed it to myself. Even the most amateur of
smugglers would not have made these two errors, but once it was in the post box
I didn’t give it a second thought.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Landing at Manchester was usually a
smooth, speedy operation, the men at customs knew who we were, and we knew who
they were, sometimes an autograph was requested and we would always oblige
willingly. But this time something was different.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I noticed they had pulled over one
of our managers and had started looking through his luggage. I made my
customary bee- line for the exit, and as usual I made it through the sliding
doors without incident. It wasn’t until I was literally half way into a black
cab that I felt the ‘arm of the law’ upon my shoulder. They had detained my
manager in error; it was me they were after.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Once escorted back to the airport,
and with a beating heart, I was shown into a small room where for the next 2
hours I would be rigorously questioned and then strip-searched. The man doing
the interrogation bore an uncanny resemblance to ‘Mr Mackay’ in the British
sitcom ‘Porridge’ and took pleasure in whistling one of our bigger hits, as he
rummaged through my dirty laundry, with me standing on in just my underpants. In
a thick ‘Glaswegian’ accent he uttered these reassuring words:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“ a hope you’ve noh planned anything
fo tonight laddie”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After what seemed like a lifetime, a lady lawyer showed up
and explained to me that the dogs at the airport had easily intercepted my
illicit package. If I were to pay a small fine then they would let me go. I
would have given them my life savings and found out later that if I had driven
away in the cab I would have eventually been arrested by the Police, and this
then would have resulted in a criminal record, scuppering my chances of going
to America ever again, and guaranteeing me a splash on the front pages of the
Manchester evening news. My parents were never to get wind of this unfortunate
incident. I was a lucky boy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I am probably one of very few ‘forty
something’s’ working in the music industry, who can claim to have never snorted
a line of coke, or snorted anything for that matter (well perhaps water, whilst
trying not to drown, each time I try to swim) It’s also true that in my time in
bands during the 80’s and 90’s the drug of choice seemed to mainly be smoke,
but when the insidious white powder did arrive, things would start to go wrong.
Smoking was inclusive and a mellow social icebreaker, while coke and its
admirers were banished to the toilet, sheepishly snorting, and bolstering up
their paranoia levels. Coke was, of course all around us, and there are many
tales of heavy users behaving badly. My favourite though is of a female singer
in a very successful 70’s rock band who with an insatiable appetite for the
white powdery stuff had completely worn out her septum. During the bands shows
she would need to be constantly topped up, and with a, now redundant nose, had
developed her own unique technique for maintaining a high during a gig. At the
side of the stage, a small tent was erected, hidden in the wings, and between
songs she would disappear into it. Inside the tent was a roadie. This
unfortunate individual had been supplied with a straw and with it, a large bag
of coke. As his musical mistress bent over to touch her toes, he would be
required, with straw in mouth, to shoot a quantity of the said powder,
somewhere in the vicinity of a place the sun would seldom shine. Apparently the
lining of this particular orifice, is super efficient at absorbing anything you
might care to mention, into the blood stream, and so really this was a
perfectly logical solution to the problem. Back out onto the stage, with rear
end fully supplied she would sing on, to her unsuspecting fans. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It is extraordinary, the lengths
some people will go to and how cruelly the pleasure threshold gets raised when
addiction kicks in. The man in the tent, I assume, must have signed the ‘Mother’
of all confidentiality agreements before undertaking the job of pimping this
lady’s derriere. And today, as his grand children bounce on his knee, I wonder
what words of advice he will offer them?</span></div>
Confessions of a songwriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04635978592956717814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2666877969678317194.post-66051780037660336522012-11-02T05:07:00.001-07:002012-11-02T10:39:52.218-07:00THE 'EMERALD ISLE' (POULTRY STYLE)Montserrat is perhaps one of the most beautiful places I have had the pleasure of visiting. The ‘Emerald Isle’, nestled into the Leeward Islands, deep in the heart of the West Indies, was discovered by Columbus in 1493. It was late 1988 and from Antigua we took a perilously small twin prop plane that would land us virtually on the beach at W.H Bramble Airport, a glorified rough track that has now, along with most of the south of the Island, been destroyed by the previously dormant volcano in 1995 (to add to that tragedy, in 1989, just months after we left, Hurricane Hugo also made a visit and destroyed 90% of the Islands infrastructure) Clearing customs was a ramshackle affair, much like a car boot sale, all carried out in the open with fragile looking trestle tables, our luggage and passports were given a cursory glance and we were soon set free to roam the island. Pre the afore mentioned natural disasters, this small nugget of paradise was home to ‘Air Montserrat’ a purpose built ‘state of the art’ studio, who’s proud owner was Sir George Martin. We were to stay in his ‘plantation’ house, a wooden, single story structure surrounded by a classic picket fenced veranda. As a child I was always encouraged to notice and appreciate nature. This is something that has never left me and so, typically I suppose, while the rest of the band settled in, I chose to wander round the extensive gardens. In front of the house was a large expanse of grass that had an unusually large number of golf ball sized holes in it. If this was somewhere to practice ‘putting’ then whoever had made the holes had got carried away, as they were dotted around everywhere. Instinctively reaching for one of the long blades of strong grass that grew at the perimeter of the garden, I inserted it deep into the hole to see what might live there. As soon as the grass reached the bottom, something latched on violently, attaching itself and making the blade heavy. Carefully I slowly retracted the grass wondering what might be holding on, a mouse perhaps or large native beetle? The legs came first, followed by a huge fury body. I am no arachnophobe, but I wasn’t prepared to be up close and personal with a real live tarantula. As I fled to the house it struck me that we would be living amongst these creatures for some time. To their credit though, they kept themselves, to themselves.<br />
Morning came and with it a sumptuous breakfast, prepared by two ‘Tom and Jerry’ style apron-wearing ‘mamas’, both showing evidence of a committed eating programme. Freshly made pancakes were lovingly laid out before us and it was here that I would learn to ‘hedgehog’ a mango; each half, cubed with a knife and then turned inside out, still a delight to this day. Fruit of all kinds, grew in all places, begging to be picked.<br />
The studio itself was beautifully positioned, set high up with far reaching views of the Island. Outside, was a large swimming pool, warm and inviting, and for refreshment, cold fresh coconuts (with straws inserted), were offered with a smile by the aptly named studio assistant, Sugar Daddy. All this and more lay on hand to cool and sooth away the stresses of recording. Food, and my hunger for it, has seemed to define and punctuate most of my life. This trip and the gastronomic delights it offered would provide no exception. Our chef, born and bred on the Island, and economically named X, was a giant of a man, who would prepare for us some of the best food I have eaten. Locally caught fresh Lobster (with curry sauce!) and fish of all shapes and sizes and of course chicken, lip tingling with hot sauce were all standards in his repertoire. We discovered in time that only chicken legs made it onto the island, perhaps breasts and thighs were deemed too expensive, so, when we saw ‘Mountain Chicken’ on the menu we fully expected to encounter other parts of, a perhaps, more local bird. But again, only legs arrived. This time though they looked slightly strange, bigger and darker in colour. They tasted great and it was only when X appeared for his after dinner applause that we noticed a suspicious smirk on his face. ‘Mountain Chicken’ was in fact, a frog, a huge local variety of the species, and the size of a melon. On occasion they would hop up to the pool and sit silently in the sun.<br />
Meal times were the high point for me. The time spent in the studio could be exhilarating alright, but with a ‘deliver or you won’t feature’ policy in place, stress levels would rise (for me at least) At dinner though, the work was over for the day, and now there was eating to be done and some interesting banter with it. One evening when we had finished our food and the chef had made his customary appearance (to be told how talented he was) the conversation turned to the local female ‘talent’ and what bar or night club might be worth visiting, understandable given we were all male and with healthy levels of testosterone between us. Suggestions were made and long tales of fine Montserratian ‘babes’ already conquested were banded around, when suddenly, out of the blue, X hung a dubious left in the conversation. In a strong local patois, he uttered these unforgettable words.<br />
‘Yeah but, ya aft ta *uck a duck’<br />
As silence enveloped our table, someone plucked up the courage to press for further detail, which resulted in the realisation that it was indeed true, our man in the kitchen, had stayed from the beaten path and had a weakness for a duck. Later that evening, prompted by this earlier revelation, our producer divulged to us that, a now famous blues legend (who’s name I will keep to myself to ensure my future health and happiness) had grown up on a farmyard and also took ‘pleasure from the feather’, in his case it was chickens. There must be an easier way, I mused, even though poultry may well provide for an uncomplicated mistress, but could this be a clue as to why only chicken legs made it onto the island, and why our chef had turned his eye to the larger ‘billed’ ladies?<br />
Moving swiftly on and to more savoury recreational matters. At the weekends we were invited by an English expat to spend the day on his catamaran, something we ended up doing on a regular basis. The beaches on the island had a rather dark brownish sand due to the volcanic rock, but he knew a beach that was pristine with untouched white sand that could only be reached via the sea. After an exhilarating sail round the island with sightings of flying fish and dolphins we would dock up and enjoy the snorkelling (As a near none swimmer I found that with a mask on, I could submerge my face in the water, and miraculously, my body would float, although sadly I also discovered that if I laughed, I would sink) Before leaving the studio for the catamaran, our singer had commissioned X to make a cake, the kind of cake that would leave a long lasting impression on everyone who sampled it. As the snorkelling came to an end and the skipper prepared to sail us home, we noticed that our technician was nowhere to be seen. It turned out that fully stocked up on cake he had headed off into the sunset. Delirious and happily hallucinating, we would have to wait two hours for his return, by this time sobered somewhat by the third degree burns to his back. By way of compensation though, the mermaids and sea monsters he had witnessed would provide endless stories for his grand children. Tired out by the fresh sea air we would very often sit and watch a DVD from the studios varied collection. This particular evening we had chosen ‘Spinal Tap’. As we sat down (not for the first time) to enjoy this very funny film, the studio manager, an English lady who had worked at ‘Air Montserrat’ since it opened in 1979 remarked on how popular this ‘rockumentary’ was with the very type of band it mocked. Under her watch at the studio she must have witnessed some of the biggest names in the business, from Stevie Wonder to Michael Jackson, Lou Reed to the Rolling Stones, they had all been here, but it was Black Sabbath that sprung from her memory, as Rob Reiner began his introduction to this spoof.<br />
The boys from Sabbath, she recalled, had sat in silence for the duration of the film and as the credits rolled, with misty eyes, they began to discuss what they had seen.<br />
“that was sad”<br />
<br />
(long silence)<br />
<br />
“yeah” (long silence)<br />
<br />
“yeah, that was sad ... but they had some great songs”<br />
<br />
Having been to the top of the Soufriere Hills volcano and peered down into its molten yolk, I couldn’t have been more unaware of what would soon happen. Shocking were the images of the islands capitol, Plymouth, reduced to an oversized ashtray, this small slice of paradise is now forever tainted. I often think of the homegrown (now late) Montserratian ‘soca’ star, ‘Arrow’, who was responsible for the worldwide hit ‘Hot Hot Hot’. He was reputed to have an arrow shaped swimming pool and known for his no nonsense, direct approach to life. On one night out we would meet him and indulge in some mutual backslapping. The conversation, however, ended with his trademark honesty as he uttered the words, <br />
“yeah I like ya music”<br />
<br />
(long pause and whilst walking away)<br />
<br />
“to a point”Confessions of a songwriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04635978592956717814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2666877969678317194.post-23374914769604582982012-10-26T01:52:00.000-07:002012-10-27T02:53:12.011-07:00THE CATHEDRAL<span style="font-size: large;">As a performer, it is in my opinion, much easier to play to a large crowd than a small one. Being of a nervous disposition, I much preferred a sea of anonymity as apposed to being able to pick out the members on my guest list. With the big gig I could forget there was anybody there and just get on with the job, more intimate performances would lay bare my every imperfection. On an 80’s American tour I remember a hideous scenario where the audience were essentially, dining three feet away while we played. Burger and chips, chicken in a basket and pizza would pass under our noses as we tried to entertain, the music reduced to an irrelevant backdrop, in front of which, punters could top up their cholesterol levels. Being close up to the band is, I’m sure, great for the audience, but for me, ideally, they could listen via a ‘tannoy’ in the car park (where they could also indulge in food and beverage) I have never been in the slightest bit interested in football but when I heard we were to play Wembley Stadium, two nights on the trot, even my heart skipped a beat. This of course was the Wembley ‘of old’, known as the ‘Empire Stadium’, built in 1923 and famously dubbed ‘The Cathedral of Football’ by the great Pele. To me, and I am a football ignoramus, this fine building had infinitely more stature and atmosphere than it’s bigger, brasher replacement in 2007, but I am most definitely not qualified to judge. We were to be supported by the band, ‘Danny Wilson’. They had opened for us on an earlier American tour and who can forget, even today, their standout anthem, ‘Mary’s Prayer’. As we entered the stadium I remember being struck by how immaculate the turf was, albeit mostly covered by a layer of thick plastic in readiness for the seventy thousand strong crowd, a moment perhaps wasted on me, as I focused on the groundsman’s challenge, as opposed to the heady football scent of years gone by. (I’m afraid that lawns, along with fish and chips are areas of my life that have fallen foul of an inexplicable obsessiveness that, when indulged, can bore the pants off even the most earnest of listeners) During sound check, I looked out from behind my keyboard at a vast landscape of empty seats, in front of which, in only a few hours, would stand many more thousands of people. The stage was the largest I have encountered, larger than many gigs I have subsequently performed at and at each end was an ‘ego’ platform, somewhere to run to and deliver your solo. With video screens in place, this was big.<br />We had been opening our shows with a tune that started with an unaccompanied riff from a trumpet (being the bands trumpet player there was no avoiding this) In theatres I would be expected to stand in front of the curtain and blast out the said intro, and as it rose with stage illuminated, I would then be joined by the rest of the band as the tune began in earnest. To say the least this was stressful and sadly came at a time before my discovery of the trumpet players savour, the ‘beta blocker’. Tonight at Wembley stadium, as the lights went down and the vast crowd roared its appreciation, I would once again have to perform this task. It’s fair to say that in the past, my track record for acquitting myself without blemish, had not always gone to plan and certainly not unnoticed. If the man up front had been James Brown I would have been long gone and not before being heavily fined. Surely tonight, the Gods would be with me.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />It’s 1996, and I am making some headway in a new band. This time it’s a three piece with a ‘Drum and Bass’ direction. After two or three releases, all bizarrely reaching the frustratingly inadequate heights of number 41 in the single charts, we would soon land a whopper, that for a brief moment in time would herald us as the new kids on the ‘Trip Hop’ block.<br />From time to time, as with every up and coming band, we would be expected to take part in promotional activity, that despite often being far removed from our chosen subject would somehow cross pollinate and haul in new audience members. There was to be a charity football match, held at, none other than the afore mentioned, Wembley Stadium, , where bands such as Blur, Massive Attack, and Supergrass, to name but a few would join forces to create two teams (England and Scotland) and fight it out on the ‘Hallowed’ ground. Overcome by the galling feeling that although this was one of the most inappropriate things I should consider doing (but how could I miss out on such an adventure) my ego swung into action and soon enough I could be overheard agreeing to be a team member, along with my band mate and co-producer who was, needless to say, in a different class to me at kicking a ball around a pitch. I was to play for England and my band mate Scotland, and were each issued a pair of boots and a strip with our names emblazoned on the back<span style="font-size: large;">, however, there had been a mix up and my colleagues shirt had the<span style="font-size: large;">, absent, Nicky Campbell's name on it. On his radio show the next day, he remarked on how he'd been able to play at Wembley without even being there<span style="font-size: large;">. I have never much cared for<span style="font-size: large;"> Mr Campbell</span>, but for the time it took to play out this ch<span style="font-size: large;">a</span>rade, I would have happily swapped identities.</span></span></span> As we lined up on the pitch for a pep talk with the ref, I have never felt more out of place, a fraudulent pretender with a very poor foot to ball coordination into the bargain.<br />As the match got underway, we didn’t have to wait too long for a goal. Daddy G of Massive Attack fame, a six foot five statue of sinew and muscle, planted a peach of a goal in the back of the net and celebrated with a mid air somersault. Shortly afterwards Damon Albarn repeated the process. In the second half my band mate broke away and beat everyone including the English keeper to score for Scotland, but there was no equalizer and the final score was 2-1. All very impressive.<br />For me however, this was to be a game of two halves. I was on the pitch for the first half, but off for the second, and difficult to determine which half showed the greater contribution. I do recall nearly coming into contact with the ball though. It was just before half time and I can remember willing the referee to blow his whistle and put me out of my misery (the football scene in the film ‘Kes’ will do as a good illustration) Shocked by the vast distances you are required to run and completely out of shape, I noticed a large youth approaching me with the ball. As a defender, I knew that my role was to keep the ball from going in the net and therefore I must, in theory, tackle this chap and dispossess him. Instead, as he got nearer to me, my survival instinct kicked in and I quite literally ran away. Luckily, another defender stepped in and mopped up my mess, temporarily<br />reducing the shame, or so I thought. To my horror, the whole match was filmed and we were each presented with a keepsake copy. I have lost mine, but Mr G (who, incidentally, has subsequently become my brother-in-law) takes pleasure in reminding me that his is safely tucked away in his DVD collection.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />Back at the show and safely out onto the ‘ego’ platform without tripping myself up, deafened by the roar of the crowd I began to blow my own trumpet. I remember how it ricocheted around the stadium and from memory most of the notes were, this time, in the right place. Mid riff, I looked up to take in the crowd and noticed opposite me at the back of the venue, lost in a sea of people, my Methodist preaching and beret wearing Father with cine camera at the ready, sitting with my Mum in the Royal box. He would, throughout my childhood, refer to all pop music as ‘monkey music’ (I will leave you to evaluate alone the dubious undertones of this statement) To him, only classical music and ‘trad’ jazz were deemed acceptable exponents of the art. But here was his son, performing at Wembley stadium; surely there was something there to be proud of? (he once declared that he was genuinely disappointed that none of his children had become Doctors!) In time however, he would soften, and sometimes when off guard, could even be caught bragging to the neighbours. Music is a great communicator, and I’ve always been genuinely amazed at what monkeys can do.</span>Confessions of a songwriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04635978592956717814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2666877969678317194.post-44805249678867251272012-10-19T02:55:00.001-07:002012-10-22T05:13:40.677-07:00FUOCO CON GHANJA E FINLANDIA<span style="font-size: large;">Today, every song released into the ether is accompanied by the obligatory ‘remix package’. The engineer (or today, the shmuck sitting behind the computer, who is carrying out the roles of writer, producer, mixer, tea maker, psychoanalyst etc) will be required to commit the vocal to the nearest hard drive. This will then be sent to several of the hottest re-mixers, and in time, regurgitated gracelessly onto the dance floor, in an attempt to extend the songs demographic reach.<br />In 1987 this phenomenon was yet to be encountered, except perhaps in the world of ‘Dub’, where reggae originals would be mashed up by the likes of Osbourne ‘King Tubby’ Ruddock and Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry, ambient and vocally economical re-workings of the classics, laced with reverbs, delays and extra special effects. Our singer, who had perhaps one of ‘the’ definitive collections of ‘Dub’ records, would, with a bespoke ‘Bose’ system fitted to our tour bus, treat us to his own ‘ganjah’ fuelled ‘remix package’ as we drove through the night. Albeit enjoyable, to me the volume was blistering, harsh on the ear and the possible reason why my ‘top end’ hearing today, has had its edge smoothed away. As a captive audience member, only my ‘onboard’ bunk could provide me with a means of escape. We were told to always sleep with our heads towards the back of the bus, as a sudden stop could be a potential neck breaker. Our drummer however confided in me that on occasion he chose to lie ‘head facing the front’ so he could imagine he was ‘Superman’ as he fell asleep. There’s an irony in there somewhere, as time would attest to.<br />We had recorded a version of Bunny Wailer’s ‘Love Fire’ for our second album, produced by the late Alex Sadkin, who was responsible, amongst many other things, for the sublime ‘Nightclubbing’ album by Grace Jones. Despite the fact that remixes were rare in these days, it was decided that Lee Perry would be invited to put his spin on the track. A couple of the band had connections with Adrian Sherwood, a producer/engineer Perry was working with at the time, and to everybody’s excitement he had agreed to come along with Adrian to work his magic, and even more surprisingly, there was an invite to come to the studio and watch.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">We were told to meet at a small underground London studio, sometime after 9pm. The studio door, once opened, led straight from the street down a long narrow corridor, thick with the inviting odour of the finest Jamaican weed. The first thing I noticed was a microphone lead that seemed to come from the main control room, but disappeared into a door way to the right of the corridor. This room turned out to be the toilet. In it, with door open, was Mr. Perry, standing with microphone in hand, capturing the sonic charms of the contents of his bladder. It might be fair to point out, that Lee Perry, was by some, and putting it mildly, regarded as eccentric (‘clinically insane’ might be more accurate) In 1980, he had burned his Jamaican ‘Black Ark’ studio to the ground. When asked why he might do such a thing his response was immediate, “I’m a toaster”. Silly question, I suppose.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />Publishers live for one thing only, a ‘smash hit’ single. Album tracks are now of course redundant, as they will be left in cyber space to fester, with only the radio friendly singles being deemed worthy of a download. In the last fifteen years or so it has become increasingly common to send writers away to various parts of Europe to take part in ‘Song Camps’. Here, small numbers of young (and some not so young) hopefuls, will gather to chase that illusive ‘smash hit’. These trips are expensive, but in recent years publishers have been all too keen to stump up the cost, knowing that if their investment pays off, they can recoup it all from the writers share of the spoils. More recently, however, the ‘credit crunch’ has tempered this uncharacteristic seam of ‘temporary’ generosity.<br />In 2008 I was invited to attend a Finnish ‘Song Camp’. Ordinarily I would have declined but a good friend, and fellow songwriter had also agreed to go, so I decided to join the crowd. I knew we would have fun, and who knows, we may also come home with a means of repaying our un-recouped balance. My partner-in-crime, was to say the least, a character. A master of the funniest anecdote, he divulged to me, on the way to the airport, that as a teenager, he dated a now very famous singer with a stage name that rhymed with the word ‘sink’. He added that, instead of enjoying sex in the way most of us hope to do, she had a penchant for climbing to the top of his wardrobe fully naked, and launching herself onto him, where below he would be laid out on the bed, also naked, with crown jewels suitably prepared. With eyes watering, and grateful for my own more mundane approach to such activities, I couldn’t help imagining the unthinkable scenario of a bad landing.<br />Once arrived and acclimatized, shocked by the minus ten Helsinki temperature and the foot of snow that lay outside, we were split up into two’s and three’s and led off into various temporary studios to start the hit making. It was what happened at the end of the day though, that will stay with me for some time.<br />Dinner was going to be served in the sauna.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I don’t mind telling you, I have a fair skin. So fair, that once on a cross country run at school, a revolting child, by the name of Lee,( no relation to the afore mentioned) decided to ‘nick name’ me ‘ghost’. Thankfully none of my better friends were present at the time and it didn’t stick (until now perhaps). At any rate, the prospect of de-robing in front of perfect strangers of both sexes (in Finland, swimwear is not expected to be worn in a sauna) was filling me with dread, let alone the technical challenge of then eating, and chatting, all in a stifling heat and with the knowledge that another English songwriter present at the camp had the reputation of being hung like a donkey. It was too much to bear. After a quick ‘heads up’ with my UK colleges it was decided that we would wear towels and with a stiff upper lip we entered the sauna and sat down to enjoy dinner. As the booze kicked in, naively thinking my troubles were over, I couldn’t help picking out the words ‘ice pool’ and ‘plunge’ in an otherwise bland conversation. The horror of sitting semi naked in a sauna full of strangers whilst eating dinner, had now just been dwarfed by the incomprehensible horror of having to jump into a hole, cut from ice that had formed on a nearby lake. Fully stocked up on vodka, I ventured out to at least give it try and despite the fact that I could hardly swim at all, I was determined to at least somehow submerge my ghost-like body, now fully camouflaged by the snow, into the water. What followed was not elegant and to add insult to injury I spotted my ‘well endowed’ and bronzed colleague, exiting the ice cold water (I stress exiting) yet still in clear danger of tripping himself up on his appendage. Some guys have all the luck. This was my first and last song camp.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />Back in the land of Lee, sitting at the back of the studio, like students taking part in a master class, we eagerly watched the proceedings unfold. Bladder emptied and the intro to his remix, quite literally ‘in the can’, Perry entered the control room resplendently, with ‘dreads’ folded up into an impossibly tall hat. He then proceeded to add his own touches to our tune. Various bottles were used as percussion instruments and smatterings of his ‘Toasting’ were overdubbed into the mix. In those days, all the effects had to be hand administered, as the remix went down to tape, unlike today where everything can be rehearsed and ‘automated’. Sherwood and Perry would stand at the desk and perform ‘live’ all the necessary ‘knob twiddling’, while we looked on in ‘smoke fuelled’ awe.<br />If you listen to this mix (which is still available on ‘YouTube’) you will hear at the beginning, Lee Perry, AKA ‘The Upsetter’ imitating a baby, crying out “I want my mummy” with his very own watery accompaniment in the background. A moment in time, I will treasure forever. It was, and still is, indeed a privilege to be able to say, that Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry had ‘pissed’ all over our tune.</span>Confessions of a songwriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04635978592956717814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2666877969678317194.post-29418130913997229582012-10-12T03:30:00.000-07:002012-10-12T03:30:17.301-07:00HACIENDA, RETURN TO SENDER
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">1983. With a year under my belt at the RNCM and now on
a concerted mission to escape, no matter what it might take, I had joined
forces with two similarly likeminded friends to form a ‘horn section’. Trumpet,
trombone, and sax, we called ourselves ‘Rebop’, a nod to the retro and all
things ‘Bebop’, a 1940’s jazz sub-genre that was making a comeback in pop music
at this time. Local Manchester bands such as ‘The Jazz Defektors’ and ‘Carmel’
would look to include brassy ‘bebop inspired’ elements if they could, not to
mention ‘Working Week’ with the great Harry Becket, and Sade, who we would
later meet whilst supporting her at the Ritz with the aforementioned JD’s. So
it was simple, with a horn section, we could bolt ourselves onto the ‘already
successful’ and rise from our classical ashes like the proverbial phoenix, but
with no further need to hang out with our throwback friends in the college
refectory. Not that simple, as it turned out.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Rebop’ soon augmented itself into a full band and
inexplicably changed it’s name to ‘Blast of Defiance’, a move which would
inevitably cause embarrassment and shame, thrusting us in a trajectory that was
going nowhere, fast. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And then a light bulb illuminated itself.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Why don’t we write to Tony Wilson? Surely he would be
able to assist us in our quest for freedom, and ideally, stardom? In our eyes,
this man was the definition of cool. Not for the fact that he was the ‘anchor
man’ for ‘Granada Reports’ but more specifically because he co-owned the ‘Hacienda’,
the coolest club in Manchester by far, and also ran ‘Factory Records’ which, a
few years earlier, had signed ‘Joy Division’. (I say ‘signed’, but in actual
fact nobody signed anything at Factory. Their 50/50 deals were all hung on a
handshake, a two fingered gesture to the ‘established’ mainstream record
industry that had tap-rooted itself to the smug of London, and where it remains
to date)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Our sax player, who was studying at the University,
and to be fair, had a better chance of writing anything legible, was enlisted
to pen our request, which when loosely transcribed, read, ‘Giz a job’. We
certainly didn’t expect a reply, but a couple of weeks later, when the three of
us found ourselves in the same room (as of course this was before emailing, texting
and tweeting) it became apparent that Mr Wilson would like to have us perform
for him in a private audition at the Hacienda at 10.30 AM the following
Saturday morning. Nothing like this had ever happened to any of us before, it
felt like we had won the ‘pools’ and we hadn’t even met the man. After much
deliberation and frantic rehearsal we chose the Charlie Parker classic,
‘Yardbird Suite’ as our test piece. When the day came, and with the music
memorised, we would embark on an adrenalin-fuelled walk down Oxford Road and on
to Whitworth Street West where the curves of the Hacienda waited patiently for
us. As we turned the corner, the first thing I spotted was Tony’s ‘British
Racing Green’ MK 2 Jaguar parked up outside. From memory it was a ‘Vicarage’
rebuild with classic exterior and ‘state of the art’ interior and like the
Union Jack, raised high above Her Majesty’s palace, this was proof enough that
he was actually in there and we weren’t taking part in some kind of cruel dream
(I have, from this point in my life, had a deep and meaningful love affair with
the Jaguar MK2, indeed I would, some years later, buy for myself an inferior
‘Old English White’ example which would massively back fire on me as the
‘classic’ market crashed in the early 90’s, but would at least compensate me on
my wedding day)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">We were to set up on the dance floor, which was strewn
with plastic cups, cans, bottles and flattened cigarettes, evidence of a
popular Friday night out. This giant ex-ship-building space seemed unusually
quiet and empty and as we looked up to the balcony just to the right of the
famous suspended DJ booth, like something out of Hollywood, three shadows could
just be made out. I instinctively new this was going to be important.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The music industry today is, perhaps, one of the
rudest and ill-mannered environments known to man. As a songwriter, I can tell
you that communication, be it to deliver the good news or the bad, is an
essential commodity if the creative juices are to be kept flowing. Ironic then,
that the advancement of technology which has opened up creative opportunity for
so many (that would have ordinarily fallen at the first expensive hurdle) has
allowed people in power to treat their associates with such disrespect. I am of
course talking about the ‘unanswered email’.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Thanks to the MP3, finished mixes these days are
delivered in this way. Fast and convenient, seconds after the production is
complete it can be sitting in the ‘A n R’s’ inbox.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">If I turn in a piece of work that is deemed ‘great’, I
am showered with a plethora of email goo.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“this is genius” “loving the vibe” “out and out smash”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It will just keep coming.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">If I turn in a piece of work, that is deemed ‘not
great’, I am, then hit, by a wall of deafening silence. Then, of course, comes
the dilemma.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Are they being rude? Or perhaps the email has not
reached them? Self doubt, paranoia and a sinking Sunday feeling (even though it
might be Tuesday) sets in and you know it’s only wishful thinking to suspect
the technology may have let you down. I am of course not advocating going back
to the days of driving to the post office with a cassette tape (always special
delivery, to avoid the fabricated ‘lost in the post’ old turkey) and waiting
for the phone call months later to receive feedback. No. Email is much better.
It is the people at the other end who are to blame. Email has spawned an
unwelcome culture of laziness, an inability to engage and just be honest.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“your tune is shit” “your lyrics are weak” “no one
will play this”, would be music to my ears.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Back at the Hacienda, we wait patiently for the
signal.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“ok darlings” Wilson shouts out, “off you go”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And so we did, blasting out our ‘Yardbird’ with
defiance.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And then there was silence. But, soon enough, out of
the morning fug of this unlit industrial space, emerged a small and skinny man
with ‘John Cooper Clark’ hair. We honestly thought he was one of the staff,
helping to clear up the place from the previous night.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Hi, I’m Vini, I’d like you to play on my next album”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">None of us new much about ‘The Durutti Column’, a post
punk guitar and drum combo, that showcased the genius of Vini Reilly. Indeed it
wasn’t until we got home and offloaded the news to our ‘viola playing’
housemate that we could judge, by his vivid shade of green, how special the gig
we had landed was.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">With a date in the diary to record at ‘Strawberry
Studios”, I had somehow, from somewhere, landed the beginnings of my great
escape. Tony Wilson, may you rest in peace.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Confessions of a songwriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04635978592956717814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2666877969678317194.post-76792297733639203682012-10-05T04:10:00.000-07:002012-10-05T04:10:26.581-07:00TRUMPET OR FLUNKET
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">At school I was a lazy daydreamer. Hunger and fatigue
kicked in the moment my satchel crossed the threshold. Academically I would
disappoint at every available opportunity, sporting an uncanny ability to
retain absolutely nothing at all. I did however excel at music, something I can
partially attribute to my Dad. He was a compulsive cine cameraman. Beret clad
and permanently dressed in suit and tie, Channel 4 would not hesitate to
document his behaviour, along with the hoarders and body-shockers, if they came
across him today. Nothing went un-filmed and every second of my childhood
became footage. As my siblings and I grew older though, the joy of this
eccentricity would tarnish and wane. I’m sure he would have turned up at the
hospital for the birth of our first child, if my wife hadn’t tricked us all
into a last minute emergency home-birth.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In the summer of 1971, on a ‘compulsory’ holiday
outing at the Scarborough Open Air Theatre, he spotted, somewhere in the corner
of his viewfinder, a young seven year old boy copying the movements of a
trombone player, armed with just a bucket and spade.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">That Christmas there was a real life trumpet in my
stocking (I don’t think my dad had planned for me to be a trombone player) and
an obsession would begin (and be filmed).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My Mum had gone to my school and asked if there were
any instruments available. Indeed there were; two trumpets, one at seven pounds
and one at eleven. I was the lucky recipient of the seven-pounder, which being
made of brass and un-lacquered, was dull and would after half an hour of
playing, turn my hands green. This was of no consequence to me until I met the
boy with the lacquered, eleven-pounder. I enquired naively as to why his
trumpet was so shiny. “because I polish it .. stupid”. That year our local
hardware store would discover that ‘Brasso’ was a very successful line. It never
quite did the trick though.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My Dad, being a gifted academic, must have been
disappointed and frustrated by my slow progress at school, but things would
pick up after a successful audition at the Royal Northern College of Music. All
I needed now was an O’level in Maths (which I had failed the previous year) and
I was good to go. Thankfully in those days there was something called a CEE
which somehow managed to scoop up the dullards, spoon feed them with the
answers and force them into achieving an equivalent in something or other that
amounted to an O’level. Shame all round.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Let nobody tell you “a music college is the same as a
University, it’s just that everybody is studying music”. This is a lie.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Music College is a hot bed of young adults who have
been spared a childhood, and with some coaxing from their parents, have
willingly traded disco’s, youth clubs, record collections, pop music, fashion
(and any knowledge of it), sex, alcohol, sport and of course drugs, for hour
upon hour of practise on their chosen instrument. School then practise, sleep
then school (after an hour of practise) and so it goes on. They think they have
had a childhood but they haven’t. They have mutated into something else. They
have become a ‘Walloon’.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And so in 1982 an unsuspecting Yorkshire boy, with
trumpet in hand (by this time it’s a lacquered one) will arrive at such an
establishment to discover the difference between a University and a Music
College.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">A ‘Hall of Residence’ is I think for most first year
students a pretty good idea, an easy way to make new acquaintances even if they
don’t manifest them selves in to life long friendships. This theory loses
weight however when each one of the little f**kers is practising from dawn
until dusk, filling my cell-like ex-seminary room with a cacophony of
well-honed technique. Where are the parties? Where is the fresher’s ball? Where
are the students for that matter?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">When a Music College student is not practising or
studying, you will find them in the refectory, for like humans they must eat to
survive. It is here that I learn more about this culture. The brass players are
the boozers and will display a brash and crude behaviour pattern. If you are a
female brass player you must quickly learn to shed all femininity and ‘hang
with the guys’. For both sexes an RNCM sweatshirt and unfashionable jeans are
the order of the day (every day). String players will sit around sipping tea,
reading books and discussing bowing technique while Opera singers burst into
song between mouthfuls of pepperoni. Percussion students manage to combine
refectory time with practise by hitting any available surface with a biro,
while woodwind players shave their reeds into shape in readiness for more
practice.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Practice, practice and more practice.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">A riot if ever I saw one.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And so I have landed in the wrong place and must
escape, some how.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It will be a year or so before I manage this and rest
assured when I slip unceremoniously from this ship it is not something my Dad
will decide to film. I am in good company though. As I face the Dean of
Undergraduate Studies to be told my time is up he informs me that Howard Jones
had gone in a similar way. With the singers hit single ‘What Is Love’ ringing
round my head, I knew that I hadn’t found the answer to that question here, and
must tread some pastures new.</span></div>
Confessions of a songwriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04635978592956717814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2666877969678317194.post-70155020074417255772012-09-28T05:31:00.000-07:002012-10-22T05:14:19.370-07:00MR SMITH, WHIPPETS AND JEHOVAH<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">Every successful band must have an identity. It is not
enough to have a standout front man with his own individual look. Although we
certainly had this in abundance, we also needed to be dressed, in what could hopefully
be described as, a stylish and fitting way, something to reflect and perhaps
compliment the music. In the early days though, we would make do with what we already
had in our wardrobe, and myself, with one foot by this time in the world of
Factory Records, would bring to my own sad party, a plethora of long grey rain
coats and other charity shop dourness. This was, after all, 1985.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">The ‘blue-eyed soul’, I have previously referred to, would
in due course require a much more sartorially elegant accompaniment and so, by
some pulling of strings from high up, a Mr Paul Smith was enlisted to help out.
Today of course, Mr Smith’s empire is colossal, with shops and outlets
worldwide, a far cry from his debut operation in Nottingham (1970) and his soon
to become ‘flagship’ store in Floral Street, Covent Garden. It was here we
would meet the man himself to discuss our ‘look’. In the head office, a
smallish room above the Floral Street shop, we gathered round a large
antique-looking table, strewn with samples of material, new designs and clippings
of glowing editorial. His ‘English Gentleman look’ with trademark flashes of eccentricity,
usually manifested in colourful linings and mismatched check and stripe, would
soon earn him the stellar reputation he has today. As the shop closed to the
public, and with certain budgetary guidelines in place (we were to avoid
anything made from cashmere or silk) a spending limit of £800 was levied (with
40% discount) and we were let loose to begin the most decadent ‘supermarket
dash’ of our lives. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">I am not a ‘natural’ shopper. Even today, if the need
for new clothing is deemed quite essential, only then, will I very reluctantly,
enter a shop. It is perhaps because of the above scenario, with young stylish sales
assistants attending to our every need and Paul himself, on hand, advising and
adjusting, and with no money visibly changing hands, that I feel the way I do.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">And so it was, that these six young musicians would
attend their next photo call, suited and booted with waistcoats and ties in
place. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">One of us though, had chosen a ‘bow’ tie to complete
his look, a departure I had put down to being a practical joke, until I was
invited to admire his large collection. Classical musicians and businessmen at
gala functions, can all legitimately ‘rock’ the ‘bow’ tie look, but to my
knowledge we were qualified to be neither. I was the youngest though and as the
shutter blinked, I would have to cringe in silence. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">The hardest part of my job is the never-ending dilemma
of where to take the ‘artist’ to have dinner. In London of course it would be
easy, with a myriad of options to suit every diva-fuelled diet. The
macrobiotics, the pescatarians, they would all be catered for. Where I live
however, there are just two food types to go at, ‘Good Pub Food’, and ‘Pub Food’.
With that in mind, it is a pub in Wardlow, by the name of ‘The Three Stags
Heads’ that I have selected for none other than the ‘princess of pop’ Ms Kylie
Minogue. I know already she is a vegetarian, but for some un-explained reason I
plough on with the plan, on the grounds that she will always remember the
experience.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">This pub, to say the least, is eccentric. As you
descend into the two small rooms, each with fires burning, folk musicians
playing (and telling the occasional story), lurchers and whippets</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">outnumbering customers and with the air reassuringly
thick with ‘roll your own’ smoke, you know you are somewhere special.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">The husband and wife team that run the place, he a
‘potter’ by trade and her a talented chef (who makes full use of said pottery)
don’t exactly go out of their way to make you feel welcome. The first thing
that greets you is a sign saying ‘do not ask for lager, as a punch in the face
often offends’. Food takes ages to arrive and on one occasion when I nervously
enquired as to where my lamb might have got to, I was told “it’s in the field”
(everybody else had been served ten minutes ago)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">But, when it arrives, ‘oh boy’.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">Lets get one thing quite clear. I have been a huge
admirer of this particular singer (a list of reasons I will not bore you with)
for many years, and even in the midst of the rather disappointing ‘Indie Kylie’
period, as we are when she arrives, I will have nothing said against her. Our
sixteen year old ‘tape op’ is virtually hyperventilating with excitement (along
with me) and as we prepare to leave the studio for the pub (and as if the icing
on the cake could get any sweeter) she offers to perform a dance routine she
has choreographed for the tune we have just written.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">“what, here? now?” I gasp.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">“yeah , if you like?” she says.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">The pub will need to wait for this. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">The entire room dies and goes to heaven.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">The meal itself is pretty much disastrous. The heavily
meat led menu is of course a triumph, but the disappointing vegetarian option,
sits unloved, on our chanteuse’s plate, until the waitress, who is the only
person in the place young enough to recognise her, comes to clear. As the
recognition kicks in, it is not just the penny that drops and simultaneously, everything
she has collected ends up on the floor. Lurchers and whippets, more liberal in
their dietary demands, move in to begin a feeding frenzy, which we take as a
signal to leave.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">On a plus point, nobody ordered lager.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">Our new Paul Smith wardrobe would now begin a worldwide
tour. One of our band however, was (although I don’t think still is) a
committed Jehovah’s Witness and point blankly refused to wear the clothes on
stage (the detail of his problem I forget). His views were grudgingly
respected, until that is, one sunny American Sunday morning, our female tour
manager woke early, drew back her hotel curtains, and witnessed a young man
fully clad in Paul Smith attire, complete with copy of ‘Watch Tower’ embarking
on a days impromptu door-stepping. It was put to him that, ‘if Paul Smith was
good enough for Jehovah, then he was sure as hell good enough for our audience’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">That night we were, for the first time, the united
front of Paul Smith.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Confessions of a songwriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04635978592956717814noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2666877969678317194.post-24338706526433949162012-09-21T03:38:00.000-07:002012-09-21T03:38:03.073-07:00RIVA DEL GARDA ( TIKKA MASALA )
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">We are bound for Riva
Del Garda, Northern Italy, and this is a gig I am uncharacteristically looking
forward to. Why? You may well ask. Surely this would be a trip anyone would be
gagging for? And you’d be right. We are staying at the ‘Hotel St. Vincent’, set
amongst the splendours of lake Garda, overlooked by and in the picturesque bosom
of the Dolomites. We are surrounded by breath taking scenery. Smartly dressed
waiters, hover for the chance to serve us ice cold ‘spumante’.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Way back when, in the
days when record companies had more money than sense and un-recouped balances
were just a twinkle in a ‘head of A/R’s’ expense budget, it was customary to
send bands, ‘per diems’ in hand, out to these exotic Euro-festivals to promote
their latest single.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“We would be miming”.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">These words were gold
plated and studded with diamonds. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
would lovingly caress the true meaning they had for me, for the full duration
of the trip. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Most bands, I think,
took this miming thing for granted, but here was one nervous trumpet player who
would cartwheel with joy, (if he could) in the sure-fire knowledge that our
lead singer would have no recourse or reason to chastise said trumpet player
for the inevitable array of split notes he was fast becoming renowned for. (A
subject I will undoubtedly return to in due course)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">As our white
Italian-style transit van deposited us at the hotel we could see ahead of us,
and alighting from a black stretch limo, none other than Boy George, milliner
in tow (I made that bit up) along with The Thompson Twins, Paul Young and
several other 80’s luminaries. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The show was a blast.
Thousands of screaming Italian children singing the wrong words, I would mime
my face off adopting ridiculous poses that no self respecting trumpet player
could possibly entertain and as long as ‘His Masters Voice’ didn’t turn round
to witness the charade, all was well with the world.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">My Father-in–Law
seasonally points out to us that the Turkey we eat on Christmas day has ‘changed
out of all recognition’. Being the son of a Poulterer, he should know.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Song writing I fear
has suffered in the same way and being the son of a Methodist preacher I should
have no good reason to know. But, by some quirk of fate, after an abortive
spell at Music College and a decade of pretending to play the trumpet, I find
myself with that dubious title.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">In the last 15 years
the number of people who now call them selves ‘song-writers’ has multiplied
like bacteria in a petri dish. Sixteen year-olds will now emerge from school,
iPad in-hand, quietly confident that this is what they have become and before
you accuse me of being a Luddite, I will be the first to acknowledge that a
handful of them are fiercely talented. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It’s 2002 and tomorrow
I have the pleasure of writing with none other than Gareth Gates. At 10AM I’m
still lying in bed perusing what I might buy him to eat for his lunch. No rush
though, as this is all happening tomorrow. We live in a remote rural spot deep
in the heart of the Peak District. I pride myself on ‘laying on’ a tasty sandwich
for lunch, which always necessitates a lengthy shop in 'M and S' the day before
the session. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">As my wife enters the
bedroom I instantly know something is wrong. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“there are two people
at the front door! I think one of them is Gareth and the other looks like his
Dad?”, she worryingly observes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Impossible”, I shout.
“the session is clearly tomorrow!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The one thing I have
learnt in this business is that the artist is always late, never early, and
never ever a whole day early.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">To my horror it is
indeed Gareth and Manager/Father standing at the front door and I feverishly
spring into action. Donning yesterday’s dirty clothes I descend the stairs to
meet and greet.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">This is not how it was
supposed to be.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">They are apologetic
and very sweet, blaming the mix up on bad diary keeping but I know this is a
bad omen. Gareth has a stinking cold but insists on wanting to write something
along the lines of, Bon Jovi’s ‘Living On A Prayer’, periodically snorting salt
water (yes that was salt water) over the kitchen sink. The only thing in the
fridge is a frozen chicken tikka massala.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I am doomed and before
long they are gone.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The day after
St.Vincent, with an early evening flight to catch, we had some time to kill.
Our drummer and I decided to take a walk by the lake. We both knew there would
be hoards of screaming Italians waiting to spot Boy George’s hat and perhaps
recognise us, but as we effortlessly meandered through the crowds, we suddenly bumped
into some of the members of Depeche Mode.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I loved their brand of
synth-fuelled electronic music, a far cry from the ‘blue eyed’ soul we served
up, so when the blonde curly one in the dress invited us back to their hotel we
eagerly accepted.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">As we entered one of
their several suites I couldn’t help noticing two people having sex, fully
clothed, on a nearby bed. Fan and band member in joyful union, and with no
apparent need for the removal of clothing, I was witnessing for the first time,
the art of the ‘dry shag’. So this was Rock and Roll.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Whilst trying to avert
my gaze, we finally reached the balcony, below which, stood hundreds of excited
fans. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Champagne flute in
hand, like the Queen at a Jubilee celebration, we waved back, importantly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I’ve often wondered
what exactly went on behind that balcony at Buckingham Palace.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Confessions of a songwriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04635978592956717814noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2666877969678317194.post-48909119835056923402012-09-14T02:58:00.000-07:002012-09-14T02:58:25.649-07:00FENG SHUI AND THE GODFATHER
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">25<sup>th</sup> May 1985. The ‘Godfather of Soul’ is
coming to town, which would be exciting enough, were it not for the fact that, through
deft management or someone doing their job at the record company (I cannot
remember which) we are also ‘supporting’ him. Three gigs are planned at the HMV
Hammersmith Apollo. This will take some beating. There are ground rules though.
Mr Brown will approve the set list and personally scrutinise the first nights
performance. If we are deemed worthy, we get to play the remaining two gigs. If
not, we go home.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The Hammersmith Odeon is a truly great venue and as
our crew set up the gear for sound-check, in front of Browns rather amateur
looking ‘New York skyline’ set, we are unaware that over the next few years we
will revisit this hallowed ground several times, but in the future, as head
liners. Strangely though, nothing would compare to what was about to come.
James Brown had not played the UK for some time and with ‘Living in America’
still commanding the airwaves, the buzz was palpable.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Our sound check was brief, but, somewhere in the
middle of it, an eerie presence descended from behind. He was on stage. With a
fairly large entourage and wearing what must have been his ‘everyday’ cape, he
had come to say hello. I stayed well away, but our singer, not known for being
backwards in coming forwards, approached with uncharacteristic caution. With
reverence, like one might reserve for the Queen, (after shoulders have been
touched by her sword) the two front men exchanged words. There was nothing ‘new
bezzy mates’ about this and almost instantly, it was over. Swiftly, we shuffled
back to our dressing room to digest. Nobody was allowed to watch the James
Brown sound-check. Despite the closed set, open only to his crew and minders, it
was still possible to hear, emanating from beneath our dressing room, a muffled
soundscape of pure legend. A medley of hit after hit, with slick stops and
starts, all segued beautifully together.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">After a while though, everything became quiet. As the
crowds gathered outside, the building filled with anticipation. All gathered in
our dressing room, contemplating, in near silence, two faint taps on our
dressing room door were clearly heard. There, in the doorway standing somewhat
nervously were two of Browns band. After introductions and pleasantries were
exchanged, it became clear that they hadn’t come to just say hello. They had
their sights (and noses) set on a particular kind of combustible form of
contraband we had become rather partial to. Both men were duly gifted, and retreated
gratefully to there own quarters. It was well documented that Brown ruled his
band with a rod of iron. Wrong notes were rewarded with fines, and drugs of any
kind, before, during, and after gigs were strictly forbidden. Ironic,
considering his own ‘alleged’ weakness for ‘Angel Dust’ and a partiality for ‘Class
A’ specialities.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Everyone who was anyone was at this gig and the press
especially would be ready to slate us if we bombed. But we played well and
somewhere in the middle of it all, Brown appeared in the wings, wearing only a
pink dressing gown, with rollers to match (the kind Bet Lynch would have killed
for) Satisfied, he disappeared to complete his look.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">With the Millennium safely behind me, and still
enjoying the novelty of living in a new, very rural part of the Peak District,
I must face up to the task of trying to earn some cash to float my burgeoning
and costly lifestyle. I am often heard moaning about the artist’s inexplicable reluctance
to traipse four hours north to work with me, and instead choosing to hop, skip
and jump on the nearest tube to a hit maker just down the road in London. And
so, to quash this problem, I have lavishly renovated a barn next to my house to
entice the unwilling. I say I, it is my wife who has effortlessly styled the
operation, with me standing by, trying not to open my wallet too widely. It is
a very lovely space, with the idea being that when I disappear home, the
‘artists’, will be left behind in a sumptuous country pile they can call their
own. (until, that is, I’ve had enough, and take them back to the station)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Today I am the victim of a young lady who frankly has
very little talent to speak of (let alone sing of) She is not signed and
doesn’t have a publishing deal, and is unlikely to achieve either in the near
future. Why then, you rightly enquire, would I waste my time? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My publisher has explained to me that the girl’s
manager is a ‘big noise’ and also has on his roster a hugely talented and
successful writer that I could possibly collaborate with. Ah now I get it. Go
through the motions with this one and it may lead to gold. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Confidence is, of course, one of the main ingredients
in the singer-songwriter’s check list of things to bring to a session and when
she offers to play me one of her recent demo’s, with inner dread concealed, I
willingly oblige and listen, in the hope that her ambition matches her talent.
I am missing ‘Woman’s Hour’ for this, a programme I particularly love.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’m thinking it could be my first single” she says</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Oh yes?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“yeah, it’s called ‘My Aura’”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Oh my God.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Needless to say, it is worthless and the first day’s
writing spawns nothing but rage and anger in me. I am committed to making her
comfortable though, and take her through the contents of the fridge, not just
out of politeness, you understand, but also to affirm the notion that breakfast
can be eaten at anytime, as long as it’s made by her. All seems well, and with
a large glass of red, winking at me from my house, I hear a sentence I never
thought I’d witness at the end of a days writing. (or, at anytime for that
matter)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’ll need to ‘Feng Shui’ the bedroom” “would you help
me?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">What?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">With incredulousness and bulging eye I go upstairs to
assess if the bed can be moved. It is heavy and made of oak and if pulled would
scratch the floor. I’m a little anal about floors (a subject I will have to
return to) If I were living and working in LA a request like this would be ‘de
rigueur’, indeed I would have fitted castors to the heavier furniture to ease
the re-positioning. Couldn’t she just sleep facing the wrong way for one night?
I persuade her to sleep in the living room on a ‘Futon’ that can be easily
manoeuvred into the optimum position. Several other pieces of furniture are lugged
into place and the mood lifts. With my aura in tatters, I leave.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">When her manager hears of this ridiculous charade, he
is, to be fair, very embarrassed and promptly offers me a session with his
super-star writer. Lovely. I like it when a plan comes together. To date, I
still haven’t heard from him. A lesson learned.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Back at the Hammersmith Apollo and with gig number two
under our belts we stand near the mixing desk to take in the James Brown show.
(Always stand near the mixing desk if you can, to get the best sound, as I have
yet to come across a sound guy with removable ears)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It is a spectacle I will always remember. With fifteen
plus people onstage, the percussionist perched high up on the tallest
skyscraper, being periodically and bizarrely acknowledged by Brown and the
band.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The musicians are tight. Maceo Parker shines like a
jewel and a personal MC fusses round Brown, mopping his brow when things get
too emotional.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There is something different though. One sax player is
missing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">An older player with ‘salt and pepper’ Afro has been
sent home for playing too many wrong notes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As we leave the venue and head for our hotel, my heart
bleeds for him. </span></div>
Confessions of a songwriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04635978592956717814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2666877969678317194.post-44422729287153146042012-09-07T07:42:00.003-07:002012-09-07T07:43:17.264-07:00SUNBLUSH AT THE ROXY<br />
When I think of LA I have an image in my mind of concrete. Single story flat-roofed prefabs mingle with a sprinkling of high-rise glitzy hotels. The cars are big and vulgar and the people in them are not the walking kind. In the sky is a giant fireball, an organic hide and heal illuminating the set much like theatre lights transform a dirty stage.<br />
I now know there are other, nicer parts of LA to enjoy, but here on Sunset, (it’s 1986, I’m 22) I begin to form my first opinions of this alien space. It’s my first time here and my North Yorkshire roots I’ve left behind feel precious, humble even and I know instantly that I would never want to live in LA. We are staying at the ‘Hyatt on Sunset’, dubbed the ‘riot house’ as it’s often frequented by the good, bad and the ugly of Rock n Roll and also, of course, was featured in the classic ‘Rockumentary, if you will’, ‘Spinal Tap’. If you stay here, check out the roof-top pool! I’m in a band, by the way. We are successful in Europe but less so in the States and tonight we play the Roxy. It’s on Sunset. Everything seems to be ‘on Sunset’. As the arduousness of a long American tour kicks in, gigs seem to merge together, details and memories fade, anecdotes become folk law. This gig however, will always stick in my mind. The Roxy is a smallish dirty little theatre, damp and absorbent, it has over the years soaked up all the juices of Rock n Roll. Neil Young was the first to perform here back in 1973, it’s previous incarnation being that of a strip club. I wonder what kind of punter will turn up to see our so-called ‘blue-eyed soul’?<br />
<br />
Fast-forward 26 years. I am in B n Q eyeing up a plastic and aluminium greenhouse that looks a bargain at £199. (All real men know they should have their tomatoes in by May) I really wanted a wooden one, maybe made of cedar. It would silver in the sun and blend well with my garden pod/studio I have just had built. This extravagance has however cleaned me out so I leave with the plastic one. (I think I mentioned earlier where I was from) A friend arrives to help assemble and as it’s pouring with rain and there are no less than 500 nuts and bolts to deal with we have the bright idea of using my living room to complete the task. I muse that when we finish we will majestically open the French windows, carry out and unveil this plastic and aluminium beauty.<br />
Six hours later (no exaggeration) with me, and said friend sweating profusely, the greenhouse is fully assembled. And then it dawns on us. It won’t go through the French windows. Too tall by just one inch we are forced to de-assemble the said piece of crap and finish the job outside in the pouring rain.<br />
How can my life have changed so much? How did it come to this? You see, these days, I’m a songwriter. No longer a band member, no longer a musician. I have joined another fraternity entirely and it’s a room I feel much less comfortable in. Before, I created when I felt creative. Now I drag myself to a garden pod every weekday to turn on a computer and try to write a hit song. ‘What shall it be today sir’ ‘why a smash hit me thinks’ I know very well that this is not how great music comes about but never the less I struggle on and force myself to go through the motions.<br />
<br />
Back at the Roxy and half way through the gig our lead singer turns to me and says<br />
“I recognise that nose”<br />
“what nose?” I reply<br />
“behind the pillar at the back, look at that nose”<br />
It was true that behind a pillar there was a man hiding himself, but still revealing a distinctive nose, that seemed strangely familiar. Who could this be that had us all talking about his nose whilst playing through our well honed set? It turned out to be Jack Nicholson who had heard our record and thought he’d like to see us live at the Roxy. For good measure he’d brought along Harry Dean Stanton and Deborah Winger. After the show we are ushered upstairs to Jack’s private bar. It’s tiny, just us and them and a blonde bar maid. Nervously, we try to feel at home. Some of the band stand with Jack, transfixed by his story telling. For some reason I find myself sitting between Harry and Deborah up at the bar. Paris Texas is one of my favourite films not least because of Nastassja Kinski’s performance, but I resist telling him. We talk about life on the road instead. Also, during our performance, and with no affiliation to Jack and friends, standing at the very front of the crowd, was the porn star and ‘tour de force’ tour bus video favourite, Amber Lyn. Wiki tells me she is exactly my age. I wonder if she got her tomatoes in, in time?Confessions of a songwriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04635978592956717814noreply@blogger.com3