Sunday, 18 February 2018

Not Celebrating Presidents Day


I was on the phone to my mother - they had to put her in a wheelchair and install her in the office to take the call.

'I'm not surprised we're in such a mess - the most powerful nation in the world is being run from this office and it's full of old toffee tins.'

It's Presidents Day and there's a moron in the White House, an old toffee that's got loose from the rest of the tin. Not much to celebrate there. I imagine the cunt will be spending the day at Mar-a-Lago, playing a round of golf in a soggy adult diaper.

Amy's not celebrating Presidents Day by playing some tunes on WFMU.

Plenty to celebrate there - her new album The Old Guys is out at the end of the week and it's already getting unprecedented revues and airplay. She says she hasn't sensed such a buzz about a new Amy Rigby album since Diary Of A Mod Housewife.

I feel proud of her. And proud of me too because I engineered and produced the new record. I gave her a garage band edge and helped put a tougher frame around the mature, contemporary version of a unique and timeless songwriter. Her past five albums are a hard act to follow and I took the responsibility very seriously.

And there I go, making it all about me - I could be the President.

Her tour starts on Friday so we've been rehearsing. There are four different drummers involved so it's a little confusing. It's one drummer per night, not some Allman Brothers spectacular, apart from a couple of nights when she's more or less solo with a bit of bass and guitar playing assistance from the chauffeur. And the Omnichord - mustn't forget that - I'm playing the Omnichord too. I reckon this addition lifts me into multi-instrumentalist / utility man status.

And there I go again - it's all about me. Again. I could write speeches for the President.

I've just decided to do Amy's tour under the name Brice McCafferty because promoters keep announcing me as some kind of feature which is somewhat insulting to Amy because she certainly doesn't need a feature to prop her up. I'm going to wear a suit and keep a low profile. And be very afraid because one of the drummers is Steve Goulding, the man who played drums on Whole Wide World. 

I hope I'm up to it.

But there's no room for self doubt, it's Presidents Day after all, and as Amy's about to tell you on WFMU, The President Can't Read. It hasn't stopped him though. It just goes to show - any cunt born in this great land can become The President Of The United States Of America.

Go fuck yourself Donald Trump - heart attack on the golf course please, and die crapping your diaper.

Let's hear it for The Old Guys!


AMY RIGBY tour dates:

February
23 HUDSON NY The Spotty Dog
24 BROOKLYN NY El Cortez
28 HARRISBURG PA Note Bistro & Wine Bar

March
02 PITTSBURGH Club Cafe
03 PHILADELPHIA Dawson Street Pub
04 CAMBRIDGE MA Atwood's Tavern
09 NEW HAVEN CT Cafe Nine
10 NORTHAMPTON MA The Parlor Room
14 ASBURY PARK NJ The Saint
15 VIENNA VA Jammin Java
18 CHARLESTON WV Culture Center Theater
25 HULL O'Riley's
26 BBC 6 MUSIC The Marc Riley Show
27 BRIGHTON Prince Albert
28 LEICESTER Musician
29 BRISTOL Thunderbolt
30 LONDON Betsy Trotwood

Saturday, 3 February 2018

It's a Long Way To Come For a Cheap Laugh

'It was Amy's birthday at the weekend.'

'Oh heck, I missed it. Again.'

'When we go out to the shops we'll have to get her something - I've got that packet of sandwiches but I think this calls for something bigger.'

'I'll just get up and we can be off out.'

It's like trying to contain a mountain goat in a playpen except the playpen is a hospital bed with the sides up and the mountain goat is my mother in a nightie.

There's been a spillage. When I get there she lying in sodden sheets. A nurse is just about to change the bed. She knocked over a cup of water. 

'The trouble is every time I laugh I leak - you surely didn't think this was all tap water did you?'
  
'I appreciate you being here but it's a long way to come for a cheap laugh.'

'I'm not poor - make no mistake, I don't have to live like this - it's art. It's an art project.' She waves a hand in an imperious gesture at the row of beds, each containing an old lady in a varying level of sickness. 'Most of these people' she explains 'are dummies.'

She wants me to take her home. I manage to persuade her to stay in the hospital, but somehow along the route of persuasion she gets the idea that I'm staying too, so she calls a nurse over:

'We need two single beds, side by side, so that we can watch television together and discuss what we've seen. Can you fix this?'

A nurse comes with the ward's cordless phone. Her sister, my aunt, is calling. She agrees to take the call and then carefully explains that her and I are going into business together because she's designed a shopping mall.

'I'm here now. It's in the very far reaches of West Hove. If you want in you're probably too late, but that's the story of your life.'

Some of this is the product of a disarranged mind - a highly creative and intelligent woman amusing herself in the tedious lilac corner of a hospital ward where she's been for too long. 

And some of this is indeed an art project.




Friday, 22 December 2017

Please Stop The Fucking Cavalry

One of the things I dislike most about Christmas is hearing Stop The Cavalry by Jona Lewie. America doesn't have this particular scourge but the UK is full of it. Every shopping centre, every motorway services - I even switched on the car radio and there it was in all its joyous jollity.

We've come over to England to spend Christmas with my mother. But she's in the hospital again - another fall. I seem to have spent most of my time since I got here talking to care agencies, social workers, nurses and physiotherapists, using my best efforts to get her out in time for Christmas.

'I'm coming home with you.'
'Er...no, I'm afraid you have to stay here for the moment but we're working on getting you out as soon as possible.'
'Why can't I come home now?'
Lies, half truths, this feeling that we've somehow let her down as she accepts the situation yet again.
'Where will I sleep?'
She looks anxiously around. Her face lightens up -
'There's a bed here,' she says, indicating her own bed. 'I could sleep here.'

The physiotherapist looks busy, doesn't make eye contact, ducks out of the ward in a flurry of goodbyes - have a great holiday! She won't be back until after Christmas. Without her consent my mother's home care won't be reinstated so she's going nowhere. She's spending Christmas in the hospital and I've got to try and explain it to her.

Even though life reaches its inevitable conclusion nothing prepares us for old age, deterioration and death. Some of us spend our lives sneering at it, not putting anything away for retirement, as though treating it with disdain might somehow stave it off. I'm one of those people, and even now I'm trying to shut out a whisper somewhere in the back of my mind: You're Next...

Getting old is a frustrating and infuriating business. You go through life gathering experience and wisdom until you reach an age when you no longer have the energy to put any of it to use. It leaves you in rages of impotent fury at the the idiocies of the younger and more vital - the ones in charge, ignorant, semi-capable at best, but driven.

It would be far better to start out with all that wisdom and experience and gradually lose it. Old age, middle-age even, would be far more bearable - just give me a Gameboy, a bowl of Cheerio's and I'll be, like... yeah - whatever...

Oh for the Gift Of Stupidity! I could be so happy plodding along, cluttering up some shopping centre, inanely singing along to the brass band on Stop The Cavalry, celebrating Christmas because that's what you do, eating my way to diabetes and an early death. 

As it is some nights I'm practically howling at the moon.

Wednesday, 17 May 2017

Belfast, The Hardboard Hotel, A Spider From Mars

I was on an airplane. I was in a rental car driving very fast. I was on a ferry crossing from Stranraer in Scotland to Belfast in Northern Ireland. I was in a hotel in Belfast - the Europa Hotel - the same hotel I stayed in the first time I came to Ireland back in 1978. 
The Europa Hotel is a four star dump, less salubrious than I remember from the first time I stayed in it though it's no longer surrounded by barbed wire. It was known during the troubles as the Hardboard Hotel because the windows were frequently blown out by bombings. It's on record as being the most bombed hotel in Europe having survived thirty six bombing attacks. I've been told there's an old commercial hotel somewhere in Belfast that suffered more bombings but the Europa Hotel is much more high profile so it carries away the glittering but dubious prize.
My room was on the sixth floor. It was small and over furnished - a desk, a round table, an office chair, a small armchair, a wardrobe and a double bed. A frosted glass door lead to a tiny bathroom with a toilet, shower and washbasin, and a collection of clammy white towels. The window looked out onto a grey wall and if I sat on the desk and looked across at an acute angle and downwards I could see the loading door of the Belfast Opera House.
I don't think this was the room the Clintons stayed in back in November 1995.
I played in a place called the Black box. I had no idea what it was going to be like but it was a pleasant surprise. Amy and I played there a few years ago. I had flu at the time and some of the audience were old timers who thought I was there to recreate 1978 for them. Some of them turned up again this time but I was on top of it, and anyway they were outnumbered.
My show was in the afternoon and afterwards Woody Woodmansey was doing an In Conversation thing. I felt a strange panic rising up. I wanted to get out before he arrived. He played the drums on some of my all time favourite records. 
I'm not much for meeting celebrities and musical heroes unless they know who I am and what I do and we can meet on an equal footing. Otherwise I'm just some nerdy bloke trying not to ask a load of dumb questions. 
I don't know why I worry about that, I've meet plenty of nerdy blokes who ask what they probably think are dumb questions and I love them for it. They're fans, they're into what I do, they're interested, they support me and help keep me going.
What I'm trying to say is I didn't want Woody Woodmansey to be an arsehole, and if he was I didn't want to find out about it. I thought it might be better if he remained intact, a concept, the last surviving Spider From Mars.
I didn't make it out in time. the promoter was suddenly at my side:
'Eric, I'd like to introduce you to Woody - Woody this is Eric...'
He was a perfectly approachable looking Yorkshire sort of bloke. We shook hands.
'Did you really live in Woodmansey?' I heard myself say, while some other version of me standing off to the side shouted YOU FUCKING TWAT! at me through cupped hands.
'Er, well, yeah, for a bit'
'I used to live in Hull' I offered, by way of an explanation.
'I know you did' he said.
We had a talk about Hull, who's left , what a special place it is. I stayed for his talk and it was absolutely riveting. I didn't join the queue to buy his book, I'll buy it and enjoy it when I get home rather than lug it around with me, fall asleep over it and forget where I'm up to. I know it's going to be good. 
I met him and his wife again outside, smoking cigarettes. I thanked him for the talk and we discussed the vagaries of touring. He wished me the very best of luck. They were nice people. 
I went back to the hotel and watched an episode of Last Tango In Halifax.

Sunday, 7 May 2017

Another Cheery Story about Another Squalid Hotel

Last week when I had to drive to Stranraer to catch a ferry to play in Belfast a friend booked me a fantastic country hotel in the wilds of Lancashire through Hotels.Com. It was a luxury suite - more like an apartment - and it was only £40 for the night. I'm usually all about Premier Inns - they're very unexciting but at least they're consistant and there isn't a nosey old git in a sleeveless V neck pullover hanging out in the basement dining room, diluting pineapple juice behind a reeded hardboard partition.
As I had a night off tonight followed by a show in Barnoldswick which is itself in the wilds of Lancashire I thought I'd give hotels.com a go myself. The hotels were all a lot more than £40 a night, apart from a few that were basically rooms above pubs but I decided to splash out on somewhere nice to hole up for a couple of days. I found one in Skipton that I thought would be perfect.
The entrance was very smart with its canopy that had HOTEL picked out in lights you could see a mile off down the road. Any effect of grandeur was lost because the building looked like an ex-hospital/mental institution/rope factory/gunpowder factory/barracks or workhouse.
I could smell the deoderisers as soon as I walked in. The man at the desk was having an overlong phone conversation with a future guest:
Yes, yes...yes that room will be available....yes...the duration of your stay... with full leisure centre access....yes, yes it has been...for the time of year...mmm, yes, they should do, yes indeed...yes...yes, looking forward to seeing you on the 15th....mmm, yes...yes, and you too....yes...
He didn't acknowledge my presence until he eventually got off the phone and we got down to business. No apology for keeping me waiting. I didn't mind waiting but front desk etiquette demands an apology to which guest etiquette demands a not-at-all brush-off. There's a system in place, an accepted order of things.
Have you stayed with us before sir?
No, I usually stay at the Premier Inn. (I don't know why I said that)
Why would you do that when you could stay here?


The room was long and narrow with one double bed, two bedside cabinets and a two-seater settee that was probably a sofa bed though I was too squeamish to investigate. There was a line of cabinets with drawers, a flat screen TV and a tea making station, all bunched up at one end of the room, and beyond was a large expanse of mauve carpet running out to the badlands somewhere beyond, over towards the window. A  trouserpress come ironing board configuration was screwed to the wall under a bad painting of a hyacinth with a decorative brass striplight over it to perhaps facilitate closer study of the brushwork.
The person who furnished this room had obviously run out of either ideas or furniture or both. There was a strong smell, some sort of deoderiser - the stuff that brings the carpet back after the incontinent dog dies on it. A strange smell, chemical lavender with sour undertones masking something infinitely more unpleasant but possibly by comparison much more wholesome.
I sat on the sofa, much like I imagine a normal person might, and tried to get on with answering an email or two. The wi-fi kept cutting out. I realised I was cold so I went to investigate the heating. The thermostat was old, seventies, possibly early eighties. A grubby set of instructions was glued to the wall underneath. I read the instructions, switched on and cold air billowed into the room along with a faint aroma of old cooking oil. I turned the heating control up full. 
Ten minutes later the room was icy.


I went down to reception to complain. I could have phoned but I wanted to get out of the room because apart from being freezing cold it was starting to give me the creeps.
Down in reception a notice by the phone on the unattended desk told me to dial zero. I explained myself to a man who was very sympathetic and suddenly appeared, bounding down the palatial staircase and talking to me on a cordless phone.
He was a faintly ratty individual, a young man dressed in black with facial hair and a ponytail. He said that as the hotel wasn't fully booked he could find me a room on a different floor where the heating worked. We settled on floor number three and he took me up to see the room. It was horrible but it was warm. He agreed with me that the hotel was a dump and volunteered that considering the state of the place it was way over-priced.
I asked him what it was like working there at night. He paused for a moment, looked around furtively:
'The night brings out all the crazies' he said.
'Some of them answer the door naked - room service...'
'Have you ever had anyone die?' I asked.
'Just the one since I've been here but yeah, it does happen.'
'One night a couple in the honeymoon suite rang down for champagne and strawberries. I went up with the order and the woman answered the door completely naked. He was sitting in the jacuzzi. "My husband likes to watch" she said'
He did a quick glance around, lowered his voice:
'Four hours, I were in there for four hours.'


My new room was warm but in every other respect it was worse than the old room - a kingsize mattress balanced on two single bed bases next to a single bed, and next to that where the bedside table would normally be an ancient trouserpress. The room smelled faintly of airlessness and squalor. This was the family, or threesome room - plenty of room for action on the kingsize bed and afterwards the third wheel can sleep over on the single bed next to the trouserpress.


Or the son or daughter could sleep grimly on the single while the parents sit at the table and play cards before retiring to the kingsize where there's plenty of room to sleep in their pyjamas, out of touching distance from each other.
Myself I slept fully clothed on one side of the big bed.
I checked out in the morning. The duty manager was quite snippy about it: 'I'm sorry you don't like our facilities Mr Goulden.'
'What facilities? Are you talking about the trouserpress?'

I checked into a brand new Premier Inn and slept all day in glorious comfort.