tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3522604815951617222024-03-17T01:03:19.589-04:00EriclandThe official Eric Goulden / Wreckless Eric diary (not that I imagine there's an unofficial one)Eric Gouldenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459329733145880773noreply@blogger.comBlogger127125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-352260481595161722.post-17208468102298957862023-12-20T12:08:00.001-05:002023-12-20T22:01:54.368-05:00Leisureland Tour part five<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi3TafNUD4xGoZsqvyBWKI8r5f5rpfYHjLPGPpFuB1oTCqGyesOUuSa74xzuHmrHd23D48GtdLZRwtsazXN4A1AhfifLmnIjvFL0vm-godjR6a6Lk4F2YFxFifQymvWoaw8dMbR6EYEt6y29EsSsk9UUidVG41LPDkudoUNmJgHDzboYwdZrlxT9QVZQ/s1349/wrecking%20ball.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1349" data-original-width="836" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi3TafNUD4xGoZsqvyBWKI8r5f5rpfYHjLPGPpFuB1oTCqGyesOUuSa74xzuHmrHd23D48GtdLZRwtsazXN4A1AhfifLmnIjvFL0vm-godjR6a6Lk4F2YFxFifQymvWoaw8dMbR6EYEt6y29EsSsk9UUidVG41LPDkudoUNmJgHDzboYwdZrlxT9QVZQ/w248-h400/wrecking%20ball.jpeg" width="248" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The rain stopped as I arrived in Manchester. I was an hour late because I’d underestimated the traffic. The load in at Gulliver’s is a nightmare - block a narrow one-way street while you get everything out of the car and through the door into a passageway leading to the toilets and the flight of stairs up to the venue. There’s usually no one to help you. <br />
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You can’t leave everything cluttering up a very public area of a busy pub while you drive off through the city centre in search of a parking space. You’ve got to get it all upstairs to safety. Guitars first, then the stuff that’s light enough and small enough to be walked away with. And the amplifier, a Fender Deluxe Reverb which seems to get heavier with each passing year. Once everything’s upstairs it’s time to face the honking of horns and the abuse of taxi drivers who thought they were taking a short cut. <br />
</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Find a legal parking space, pay a lot of money for the privilage, walk back to the venue through the rain. The soundman’s put the amplifier on a box on a far corner of the stage and carefully miked it up. Waste of fucking time. He could have helped with the load-in instead. <br />
</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I’m really annoyed by sound engineers who make assumptions. There are no assumptions to be made. There’s a tech spec, a pencil and ballpoint plan of the stage set up, and several paragraphs of clear instructions on every aspect of the sound. The drawing may not be one of those dry, corporate diagrams that supposedly professional outfits send out, but it has humanity, it’s real. Good engineers read it, understand, appreciate it, and act on it. The bad ones don’t bother. The mediocre ones glance at it and make assumptions.<br /></span></p></div><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilreGZLiAFOPvaeHG_m9fr-_8_hzYHyh0pkFPqau_br9RDSuf4pa8WVFeGt4Y_LM2AbHfmNi7nG6L3NIezYegwoU1q8T_wAp-AyYJX6LQro-2_OkkDAbOOvqDba7xYDYoGW0QRUIaYpCzhLzwfvhQhI2wpMltD38nlryT-eVwn7w-C-g9AlMHBIz5nBw/s3264/Eric%20stage%20plot.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2090" data-original-width="3264" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilreGZLiAFOPvaeHG_m9fr-_8_hzYHyh0pkFPqau_br9RDSuf4pa8WVFeGt4Y_LM2AbHfmNi7nG6L3NIezYegwoU1q8T_wAp-AyYJX6LQro-2_OkkDAbOOvqDba7xYDYoGW0QRUIaYpCzhLzwfvhQhI2wpMltD38nlryT-eVwn7w-C-g9AlMHBIz5nBw/w438-h280/Eric%20stage%20plot.jpeg" width="438" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It wasn’t actually that hard to do the load in if I’m honest because my friend Marc Valentine was opening so him and his friend Geoff who helps him out hiked everything up the stairs for me. I was glad of that because mid-tour fatigue was beginning to set in.<br />
</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">After the soundcheck I met up with Marc Riley and some friends for Indian food. He’d brought Will Sargeant from Echo & The Bunnymen along with him. I was kind of in awe but I played it cool and he was great, really nice, interested in stuff and engaged.<br />
</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The Manchester showed was totally sold out, but sadly I don’t think it was one of my best. It was up to standard, but not stellar. The stage sound was very uninspiring - underpowered monitors - and the lighting was utterly abysmal. The promoter was away and the sound engineer who appeared to be in charge was young and insipid. I played half the show with the house lights on.<br />
</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The following night in Hull was a totally different matter. The Wrecking Ball wasn’t easy to find - I had to drive the wrong way down a one way street and along a pedestianised street to get there, but it was worth it. The Wrecking Ball sells books, records and probably CDs too. It has a cafe and they host book readings. Upstairs there’s a fully functioning venue: PA, lights, stage with red velvet curtain behind… And a young and enthusiastic sound engineer. I loved it. <br />
</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Having finally reached the <i>Spoilt Diva</i> stage of my career I was a bit disappointed that it didn’t sell out - Bristol didn’t either - the two place where I went to art college…<br />
</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium; font-style: normal;">I had a day off the following day so I met with my friend Kathie who years ago used to be my art history tutor at the art college in Hull. We decided to go on a quest to find the bench up near the university where I sat to scribble down the lyrics for <i>Whole Wide World</i> back in April or early May 1974. I realise it’s a slim chance that the bench would still be there but it was worth a look. </span><span style="font-size: medium; font-style: normal;">It was raining and the night was coming down.but w</span><span style="font-size: medium;">e drove around and had a look. It's changed in the intervening fifty years, I didn’t recognise anything. <br />
<br />
My feeling is that Hull should start to own that song - they’ve got Mick Ronson, Trevor Bolder and Woody Woodmansey - David Bowie’s <i>Spiders From Mars</i> (formerly the Rats) ; they’ve got Roland Gift of <i>The Fine Young Cannibals</i>, Henry Priestman of <i>The </i></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Yachts</i> and </span><i>The </i><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Christians</i>; they’ve got </span><i>The</i> <span style="font-size: medium;">Housemartins, </span><i><span style="font-size: medium;">The</span> </i><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Beautiful South</i>, <i>Throbbing Gristle</i>, T<i>he</i> <i>Red Guitars</i>. It’s impressive. They could have me too.<br />
</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I don’t come from Hull - I wasn’t born there, but I started my development as an artist there, and I wrote <i>Whole Wide World</i> there. The song is not insignificant - I’d like some recognition from the city of Kingston Upon Hull. I figured that if we could find the bench we could at least put a brass plaque on it, but I want more - I want official recognition from the city.<br />
</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I hope that doesn’t sound hopelessly arrogant, egotistical or unrealistic.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I made a detour on my way to Barnoldswick in Lancashire. I took up an open invitation to visit the East Lancashire Railway. A good few years ago I became aware of a woman called Emma Seddon on Instagram. Her posts were all photos of old trains. I love trains and she was posting a photo of one every day so of course I started to follow her. I wondered what the story was - trains have always been a bit of a boy thing - when it comes to steam locomotives most of the women I know are fairly ambivalent.<br />
<br />
Eventually I met Emma and her partner, Andrew, at one of my shows. It seems she used to walk her dog alongside the railway line so she she started to take photos, and that led to jotting down numbers of diesel locomotives. Eventually the East Lancs Railway and Emma got together, and she went from curious dogwalker to volunteer to engine driver.<br />
</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I have a huge affinity with trains - I was born next to the railway line in Newhaven, East Sussex. My earliest memories are the sound of shunting in the freight yard in the middle of the night. As a youth I spent hours hanging around railway lines. I used to make drawings of signal boxes, signals, those big old telephone and telegraph wires…</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
I can’t tell you what a thrill it was to walk around the sidings and through the engine sheds with Emma and Andrew. I even got a ride on a steam locomotive! I felt a bit guilty about that - my nine year old grandson should have been there. I recently offered to take him to the Aviation Museum in Norwich - you can climb into the cockpit of big old aeroplanes - they’ve even got a simulator. He declined the offer: ‘Thanks Grandad but I’m more of a train guy…’ He’s a lot more enthusiastic about the possibility of a trip to the East Lancs Railway.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF2ml7H5Q8yn8_hK1OK9nNrTQWHnfUt9sWgILaK27smtaHyHwySvtBJELS49W_r5wIyngUnmIqbZiyj_Y5ybFdDpGqmkG21H6jXUTwBUMhjQIkM80kV4a6vp0FBEK7FtTcm_zL-CywYahwAiSC9n0Z-QHfW_YXfZrIDioZL7jf7D39EByVAw4wEAJuCw/s2048/east%20lancs%20railway.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1542" data-original-width="2048" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF2ml7H5Q8yn8_hK1OK9nNrTQWHnfUt9sWgILaK27smtaHyHwySvtBJELS49W_r5wIyngUnmIqbZiyj_Y5ybFdDpGqmkG21H6jXUTwBUMhjQIkM80kV4a6vp0FBEK7FtTcm_zL-CywYahwAiSC9n0Z-QHfW_YXfZrIDioZL7jf7D39EByVAw4wEAJuCw/w400-h301/east%20lancs%20railway.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The Music & Arts Centre in Barnoldswick was a lot of fun. It’s an awkwardly shaped basement under a pub, not ideal as a venue, but nonetheless quite wonderful, and it was packed.<br />
</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I had a few days off after Barnoldswick. It was a relief, and much needed as it turned out because the next section of the tour was quite unrelenting.</span></p></div>Eric Gouldenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459329733145880773noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-352260481595161722.post-28157309163997090292023-12-11T13:57:00.007-05:002023-12-12T11:24:02.064-05:00Leisureland Tour part four<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGQbGAoDmykydWTQscXvv3EfLTrsnBcwalEQN5BXhZ7Fi4iib3g90PAlC02RKjKgLgLfCEKyU-f95VGE6-FkZCEJDih8_h2GqcdzKoIP7MfwyDlrVWdSSqpYOBCLQcQ0LZAsVem0U88kYiW1q9upetq2oEjKxtGXm2bfWeC6TZe1GpRY7rBNxcgEmoPw/s2050/header-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="2050" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGQbGAoDmykydWTQscXvv3EfLTrsnBcwalEQN5BXhZ7Fi4iib3g90PAlC02RKjKgLgLfCEKyU-f95VGE6-FkZCEJDih8_h2GqcdzKoIP7MfwyDlrVWdSSqpYOBCLQcQ0LZAsVem0U88kYiW1q9upetq2oEjKxtGXm2bfWeC6TZe1GpRY7rBNxcgEmoPw/w529-h202/header-6.jpg" width="529" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I remember feeling overwhelmed. The Prince Albert in Brighton was fuller than I’d ever seen it, even for other artists who aren’t me. I’m more used to a respectable forty-two people (or less). </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Then London. The Lexington. Again, sold out. Robert Rotifer opened for me. Acoustic guitar, snappy thirty-five minute set. He went down alarmingly well and came back into the band room glowing - ‘I LOVE your audience!’ he said. ‘I love them too,’ I said. I felt proud of all of us. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Amy was there for Hastings, Brighton and London. I would have liked to have got her up on stage but it’s a very solo set I’ve been doing, a certain thing, not easy to bring another person into. Some of the point of it is its utter aloneness.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The audience in Hastings were rowdy and vocal, just along the coast in Brighton the audience were cooler - I began to worry that I was disappointing them, but afterwards the promoter, my old friend Will Moore, told me ‘those people weren’t ready for how good that was’.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br />
The London audience is the London audience - there’s nothing like it anywhere else. I look out at the crowd and see people I know everywhere. They shout stuff in between songs. They’re willing me on even though they’re not going to give me an easy ride, not if they can help it. But they can’t help themselves, and neither can I. So much love, so much barracking and backchat. And pride. I’ve been playing for some of these people for so long, I’m theirs, and they’re mine, all mine. I don’t want to sound like an old show business fruit but I never seem to finish a London show entirely dry eyed.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I broke a string right near the end of the set - <i>The Half Of It</i> with it’s almighty freeform instrumental, the interlude between the first two halves and the the third half. It was touch and go with the fifth string broken and the sixth detuned to D. I have to wind the sixth back up to an E note while I’m singing, which is actually easier than you might imagine, as long as I’m singing in tune. I felt that everyone in the place wanted it to end well - we harnessed our combined powers and landed the thing together.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">No encore - </p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>but if you think that what you see is what you get, you haven’t heard the half of it yet</i></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-style: normal;">And gone.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
Except that there was an encore in Hastings - at least I think it was Hastings - I played <i>Reconnez Cherie</i> and <i>Several Shades Of Green</i>. So I’m not a complete curmudgeon. I just spoke to Amy and she said there wasn’t an encore in Hastings, she said I should have done one but I didn’t. I don’t mean to be churlish but it just seems like so much traditional bullshit to me. I’m trying to get to somewhere. When I arrive I land the thing, climb out of the cockpit, wave goodbye, and I’m gone.<br />
<br />
Amy and I stayed in a Premier Inn near Gatwick Airport in Crawley. This one was tucked away in the grounds behind a desperate pub. It was hard to find because there were no lights - apparently Premier Inns don’t own the land and whoever does doesn’t like them. I don’t much like them either some days but I wouldn’t stoop to turning off the lights. The car park was a cross between a disused ornamental lake and a lorry park. This Premier Inn was no </span><i>Shopfitters Paradise</i>, more a <i>Weary Traveller in The Land Of Rolling Suitcases</i>. A large part of the reception was taken up by a flight departures board.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br />
I think we checked out before check out time which always puts me out a bit. Amy had to fly to New York and I had to drive to Cardiff. But first an urgent mission to buy guitar picks. I’d almost run out - I was scrabbling around in the bottom of cases for unused picks. I discovered years ago that the major cause of string breakages is the serated edges of worn out picks, and also, that in order to achieve any measure of accuracy (hard for me at the best of times) it helps if the pick has a point to it rather than something resembling an aerial view of a coastally eroded headland. I use a new pick for every show and sometimes change it halfway through.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Once I'd got the picks and we'd had coffee at a surpisingly good place in Crawley I took Amy to the airport, said goodbye, and felt quite cast adrift as I headed up the M23 to the M25. The drive to Cardiff wasn’t so bad.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The Moon is in the heart of Cardiff Clubland. It’s run by a very capable woman called Liz Hunt. As a venue the place has challenges - the back of the stage is almost the entrance to the place, there’s no backstage or dressing room, a stone lump rises up out of the floor in front of the stage, and the soundcheck sound, through no fault of the engineer, teetered on the edge of catastrophic. Once the people were in it sounded great. I fell in love with the place. I like venues that rise above their shortcomings.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Simon Love opened the show. Simon is also on Tapete Records. He comes from Cardiff. It was all very relaxed after London. I watched Simon play from the shadows and thoroughly enjoyed his set. My own set had a wild roughness about it, probably a reaction after the focus, the <i>eyes of the world</i> effect of Brighton and London. At the end I walked off the back of the stage and didn’t know where to go so I kept on walking, straight out of the venue and onto the street. It was a balmy night and Clubland was just coming to life. It reminded me of Brighton in the late nineties. I walked around for a while taking it all in, then realised I should really head back and try to do some merchandising.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br />
I stayed in a very upmarket Premier Inn. It catered for weddings and conferences. Imagine a Premier Inn themed wedding - all that purple…</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The Bush Inn was as always an experience - I used an acoustic guitar amplifier with a microphone input as a PA. I think it sounded good. It’s a small place, an ancient and draughty country pub just along the cliffs from GCHQ. After the show TV Smith appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. Turns out he lives in Devon. A bit strange because on Friday night I ran into Gaye Advert at my Lexington show.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I drove on to Bristol the following day - a Monday. It was back to <i>Shopfitters Paradise</i> - the Hengrove Premier Inn. A real home away from home. You may not like where you live but at least it’s familiar. No settling in, no nervous pacing, no moving of furniture. There’s a double bed made up like a tight envelope, a blackout curtain, a yellow sign in the bathroom - <i>Caution Very Hot Water</i> - a brown divan on which you can lay out your things. The divan often has a stain or two that would suggest its use as an auxiliary sex bench, but you can’t let these things put you off - it’s nice to see these indications of other peoples happiness. Sort of. (Better than a stain that looks like someone died and lay undiscovered on the floor next to the bed in a haunted boutique hotel that was formerly a lunatic asylum in Staunton, Virginia.) </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">There’s a desk with tea making facilities on it, and two extra pillows in a case on the top shelf of the wardrobe thing. All you have to do is put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, loosen up the bed do you don’t have to sleep with you feet in a ballerina pose, break out the two extra pillows to give an illusion of homeliness, switch the light off and tell yourself it’ll be alright. And hopefully the next thing you know it’ll be eleven in the morning. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Bristol was strange. The audience didn’t like it being seated, and I have to say, neither did I. Some places work seated, others don’t. Bristol is one of my standing up towns. The show went well though, and I loved having a real dressing room for a change.</p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The drive to Poole on Tuesday afternoon was a very wet affair. I broke with tradition and stayed in a Holiday Inn Express. I had to pay to park. They sent me a parking fine for being illegally parked in the time it took me to check in, register the car and pay for the parking. Very efficient.<br /><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
La Boheme in Poole is my friend Sufin’ Dave’s local coffee place. It’s almost entirely unsuitable as a venue but it was great fun. I did two sets so as to give everyone a chance to move around a bit - the proximity was very close - there was almost no division between performer and audience. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">A woman sitting right in front had to keep moving her foot so I could switch my pedals on and off. I asked her in the intermission if she was okay with being so close and everthing, because at the Bush Inn I could sense the discomfort of a woman in the front row who wasn’t there for the second set, but this woman said she was very okay with it. Some people love the up close and personal thing, others can’t handle the intensity. </p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">And Poole was where I did the encore.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVOqHwdL1i33ZwwMWRXtIfFB0uXxXmmBmwKT3ImYw1Rg_STle9-SUefNnlvU3mRB1xJ3Kj0B4J804JDbMV0tO2uHvhyMIDob4w1exrkzZEyx-B0QWZwsklX9ZwdjgAB3Q1O2LyG0BNk7lad5oiMQchMDptfB2FgldlNWh4I1j0RE1lOWa8tWfu9z5b_w/s2048/Eric%20in%20Poole.jpeg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVOqHwdL1i33ZwwMWRXtIfFB0uXxXmmBmwKT3ImYw1Rg_STle9-SUefNnlvU3mRB1xJ3Kj0B4J804JDbMV0tO2uHvhyMIDob4w1exrkzZEyx-B0QWZwsklX9ZwdjgAB3Q1O2LyG0BNk7lad5oiMQchMDptfB2FgldlNWh4I1j0RE1lOWa8tWfu9z5b_w/w400-h300/Eric%20in%20Poole.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A strange and wonderful night in Poole</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>Eric Gouldenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459329733145880773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-352260481595161722.post-48944392275071995102023-12-06T19:14:00.001-05:002023-12-06T19:15:01.444-05:00Leisureland Tour part three - Hastings and beyond<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRTjmJeLJvqtrdhSTmMeJUfGPMfVATHtm1kLHg4E9uUQIq934nFghyphenhyphenkC-gRiExrolxZAD9WGbdLuF47qFoNgYYVDke9mb18mvH8Wpx8cRWCjNnwBZ1CZDL3BvKytIO_NPyr4g3OlP9s90NBdFBj2hyphenhyphent-p-3n6Ns1ApQLdWLvSek7kQGbCnEwuEnApaiw/s1080/hastings.jpeg"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRTjmJeLJvqtrdhSTmMeJUfGPMfVATHtm1kLHg4E9uUQIq934nFghyphenhyphenkC-gRiExrolxZAD9WGbdLuF47qFoNgYYVDke9mb18mvH8Wpx8cRWCjNnwBZ1CZDL3BvKytIO_NPyr4g3OlP9s90NBdFBj2hyphenhyphent-p-3n6Ns1ApQLdWLvSek7kQGbCnEwuEnApaiw/w400-h400/hastings.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Hastings seems like an age ago. It was bright, it was sunny, I felt warm, and even slightly fuzzy. Onstage I didn’t know quite what I was doing - I was still learning the new songs. Amy was with me. It was Autumn, warm on the south coast. We drove down early and checked into </span><i>Shopfitters Paradise </i>which is what I call the eccentric Premier Inn down there next to Sainsbury’s.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Tonight's venue, the Pig, is down on the seafront very near the White Rock Theatre where I did the sound for George Hamilton IV back in 1982. That was the night he put the capo on the wrong fret for </span><i>Mull Of Kintyre</i> and the band came in with the most glorious and disharmonic musical car crash. It took the entire song for the band to agree on a key signature and the drummer fell off his stool laughing. The audience was mostly older women with blue rinses who’d seen George on the telly. They didn’t notice the extreme disonance. As it clattered to a close one blue rinse turned to another - ‘Ooh! That was lovely!’</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">My disonnance was very noticeable at the Pig. Not just the occasional wrong chord - full sonic soundscapes. It’s a great sounding room and the sound engineer did a fine job. I can’t remember his name but I do remember that he came from Blackpool, though he didn’t seem very Blackpool to me.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br />
I have to thank Jude Montague for organising the show. We did well - it was sold out and the vibe was quite wonderful. Jude also played in the opening band, Montague Armstrong. She played the organ, an original Jennings Vox Continental, They were good, mostly instrumental, and quite ethereal</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The following day we met up with my daughter, Luci, and the three wonderful grandchildren for lunch. I love being around the grandkids. For the most part they seem to live in their own separate solar systems. Sometimes planets collide and and a fight ensues, but most of the time the solar systems dance and sing around each other in strange sibling harmony. The youngest explained herself to me recently: ‘They [the other kids] don’t know what’s in my head, you see Grandad, I’m weird.’ Wise words from a seven year old. I think she might be a genius.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">We took Luci with us to Brighton. She used to work at the Prince Albert for the promoter and manager, Will Moore. Will is an old friend. He was very embarrassed at having to sack her. ‘I’m sorry’ he said, ‘I had to let her go - she just stopped turning up for work’. It’s known in our family as <i>The Job That Faded Out</i>. She made good later, worked as a carer - home visits, care homes, hospice care… She went to university and got a degree in psychiatric nursing. Now she’s a senior nurse in a psychiatric unit. I’m immeasurably proud of her.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Luci met up with a friend and then we met up with our old friend Annie Holland who used to play the bass in Elastica. I lost touch with Annie - she somehow fell off the map. I lost my address book, a succession of phones packed up and took my contacts with them. No one I knew had any idea where Annie was. Turned out she was there all the time, working as a gardener and looking after her partner Binky Baker, another dear friend who also fell off my map. I’m afraid Binky really did fall off the map - Annie gave me the sad news that he passed away during the pandemic.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I first met Binky in 1977 when he was married to Annie Nightingale. He described the owner of his local off-licence in such intricate detail, with an impersonation of such accuracy that it could only be the owner of the off-licence round the corner from my parents in Brighton. And that was how I discovered that Annie and Binky lived in the next street to my parents.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">‘I need two bottles of wine’</p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">‘Well, you’ve come to the right place, sir,’ (delivered with ill-concealed sarcasm,) </p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">‘Red? White? Rosé? What are you having for dinner?’</p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">‘Er…probably a tin of sardines on toast, hadn’t really thought about it.’</p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">‘Aah, the fish... yes, in that case I can recommend this very pertinent Sauvignon Blanc…’</p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Binky took a shine to my mum and dad, christened them Wreckless Frank and Wreckless Dorothy. He’d meet my dad in the street, drag him back to their place, ply him with sherry and send him home half cut.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">‘Your dad likes sherry’ he’d say, with a twinkle in his eye.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Apart from being an actor of some repute he worked for The Who. He toured with them as their vibe man, their social secretary, valet and friend. In 1978 he made a record for Stiff - <i>Toe Knee Black Burn</i>, a questionable tribute to the Radio One DJ, Tony Blackburn. Tony Blackburn was anathema to people like us in 1978, the cheerful face (or voice) of mainstream daytime radio. I have to say I think Tony Blackburn is quite cool these days - he plays Philly Soul, he was always into that. <i>Toe Knee Black Burn</i> was a ridiculous and nonsensical mantra - <i>Knee Toe Burn Black Toe Burn Black Knee Tony Knee Black Burn</i>… Tony played it, he embraced, said he was flattered. He showed true class though we couldn’t perhaps see it at the time.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I’m very sad about Binky. I always knew he’d show up somewhere, that there’d be a warm and hilarious interlude in a bar I never knew existed. He gave up drinking - everyone assumed he was and alcoholic - a bottle of vodka a day would seem like a fair confirmation, but when a doctor told him it was going to kill him he stopped overnight with no ill-effects. I remember the softness in his eyes when he told me: ‘If it was going to kill me it wasn’t fun anymore.’ Binky Baker, a true hedonist, a poet and a spiritually generous man.</p><div><br /></div><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/2bMHHKvoMWw?si=bG5ug-IPR7BMpIk3" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>Eric Gouldenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459329733145880773noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-352260481595161722.post-90464833993313534452023-11-03T08:26:00.003-04:002023-11-07T13:46:52.648-05:00Leisureland Tour part two - is this gruelling?<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">As I drive along all kinds of things run through my mind. I often find myself asking is <i>this gruelling?</i> People keep telling me it is - <i>that’s a gruelling tour schedule you have there</i> they’ll say, and I’ll do my best to look wan and heroic, all the time thinking that no, it really isn’t any more gruelling than anyone else’s job.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Everyday life is gruelling - getting up at some hideously early hour, climbing into a cold car; waiting in the rain to get on an overheated and overcrowded bus; going to a job you don’t like day in day out - that’s gruelling.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">When I’m touring I generally get up late - admittedly I go to bed late - but I get up at perhaps eleven in the morning and take my time. In the UK I stay in Premier Inns. I don’t like them, I used to, but more about that later. It’s okay, they all look roughly the same, they’re usually warm enough, the bed’s usually comfortable, and checkout time isn’t until noon. They’re cheap too, as long as you book far enough ahead.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I answer the odd email, look into the coffee and breakfast options, plumb the address of that night’s venue into the GPS and off I go. I listen to the radio - the Archers, World At One, Moneybox Live, Woman’s Hour, local radio, Jeremy Vine (the thinking man’s man in the pub)… And apart from World At One and possibly Jeremy Vine it’s not exactly gruelling.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">At the moment I only have a CD player in the car so the musical listening choices are narrowly dictated. I listen to what I pick up here and there. I was enjoying <i>The Best Of Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers</i> until it got damaged in a falling-between-the-seats incident. Now I can’t get further than halfway through <i>Don’t Come Around Here No More</i> before it turns into a very bad digital remix. I’ve also been enjoying a Dandy Warhols album, the one with <i>Bohemian Like You</i> on it. Before you throw up your hands and start yelling at me please understand that these are not neccesarilly listening <i>choices</i>, they’re what I come by on my travels. You might be pleased to hear that I couldn’t get through 1<i>0 CCs Greatest Hits</i> - I couldn’t get passed the phoney Americanisms of the early stuff - references to <i>the Senior Prom</i>, and the appalling (yes I know it’s ironic) line: <i>I love to hear those convicts squeal / it’s a shame these slugs ain’t real. </i>For me it hasn’t<i> </i>travelled well, though I do have a soft spot for <i>Donna</i>.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">My favourite in-car listening at the moment is an album by my dear friend Robert Rotifer, <i>The Hosting Couple,</i> which I actually engineered and produced. it came out around 2009 on Edwyn Collins’ label and somehow disappeared without trace. Apparently there are enough copies in existence in the back of Edwyn’s wife’s lock-up to potentially turn the album into a bronze, silver, or even triple-asbestos smash. We’re working on a special fourteenth year anniversary reissue and tour.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Robert opened for me in London at the Lexington. He arrived in a very dapper lightweight tweed suit, went onstage with an acoustic guitar and delivered a fantastic thirty five minute set. He told me my audience were wonderful to play for. I’m inclined to agree but my obligation to remain curmudgeonly obviously prevents me.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">There’s very little to complain about. Indeed, anyone who has food, warmth, a roof over their head and loved ones around them, who isn’t being shot at, bombed, bereaved or made to leave their home should think very carefully about what they complain about. The world is being run by evil men for their own benefit. Shares in arms companies are on the up. I’m sure everyone feels like I do, unable to do much of anything about it. We have to carry on doing our best, doing good things, and doing them with love and with pride. Because if we give up, if we stop, then the evil men will have won.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Now, if anyone’s got any <i>Greatest Hits</i> CDs they want to get rid of… It’s a long and arduous drive from Manchester to Hull!</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><a href="https://www.icrc.org/en/donate">https://www.icrc.org/en/donate</a></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><a href="https://www.unicef.org/emergencies/children-gaza-desperate-need-lifesaving-support">https://www.unicef.org/emergencies/children-gaza-desperate-need-lifesaving-support</a></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><a href="https://www.icrc.org/en/donate/ukraine">https://www.icrc.org/en/donate/ukraine</a></p>Eric Gouldenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459329733145880773noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-352260481595161722.post-31835237503740864092023-10-24T08:49:00.004-04:002023-10-24T08:49:58.506-04:00Leisureland Tour part one<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj37bWekjlYcM6DL2Obym-_DhA3iK8pOZmrXJUVn3g-4DGITdH0gHfGEYXJka7_C2t2V3xjwYleS8pwjtAJ1DFSBiMGpC3dAGAyYXM1BAHTE5iVFPFJVHIcIW6hHNXrMUvpvg5U9vYdAxNVSO8tPWWOGRh-K2W_3nF2WusweRQ0SqbFDHzz-4cH7aFz8w/s960/gravesend%202.jpeg" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj37bWekjlYcM6DL2Obym-_DhA3iK8pOZmrXJUVn3g-4DGITdH0gHfGEYXJka7_C2t2V3xjwYleS8pwjtAJ1DFSBiMGpC3dAGAyYXM1BAHTE5iVFPFJVHIcIW6hHNXrMUvpvg5U9vYdAxNVSO8tPWWOGRh-K2W_3nF2WusweRQ0SqbFDHzz-4cH7aFz8w/w400-h300/gravesend%202.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I used to have it down, hardly had to think about it, I knew exactly what time to set off to get to places on time, almost by instinct, but it’s been four years since I toured here in the UK and I’m out of practice. Now I have to think about it. <br />
<br />
Salford - BBC 6 Music - work backwards from the requested arrival time. Look at the GPS journey time, add an hour - no, two hours - traffic delays, fuck-ups, falling asleep in lay-bys… Work out a departure time, bring it forward an hour because I’m sure to be running late…factor in time for a coffee detour… <br />
<br />
So, if I want to be in Salford by 8:30 pm I need to set off at…ten o’clock in the morning. That can’t be right. <br />
<br />
I left some time after eleven. Stopped for coffee at Cross Street Union in Holt. It’s one of the best - I wish it was in Cromer. Two espressos and off I went, half convinced that I was late but feeling good about it. I listened to the news on Radio 4 and felt indescribably sad, and heard political commentators droning on until my head hurt. I drove through heavy rain and traffic jams, misunderstood the GPS and drove through the centre of Manchester in the rush hour. Do they still call it <i>rush hour</i>? It seems more permanent than that. <br />
<br />
I arrived two hours early. <br />
<br />
I’ve always loved doing the Marc Riley Show. Now it’s Marc Riley and Gideon Coe together and it’s called Riley & Coe. They’ve lost an hour a night of cool broadcasting but it’s still the best music show on British radio - that’s as far as I know, so please don’t contradict me, argue the point, or tell me all about your mate on a community radio station in the Outer Hebrides who has the best radio show ever. <br />
<br />
They were so nice together - <i>shall I back end this one or would you like too?…would you like to introduce this one Gid?…no Marc, you go ahead, and I’ll look after the back end</i>…<br />
‘Have I caught you in the honeymoon period?’ I asked. <br />
Marc told me they’re like one of those couples or bands who need other people around to be nice to each other in front of. <br />
‘Oh okay, so I’m your Billy Preston then.’<br />
‘Yes that’s it - but we’ll be slagging you off too when you leave.’ <br />
I’m pleased for Marc to have a running mate again - I sometimes thought he seemed a bit lonely doing the show alone, but I’m sorry about the loss of an hour. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh513aQIbUbb55G8OgsO8F8AZ6Ne54Th0GQ-IRPUu7yC4sFB3U1nqe0w15tVcdd8wVxdoWhTJVWmN6UZ7myFIuevFtNRng-zoj1lTFs6p5Wa5vhj1URoUOSpbmG7l5r7uY6fcZQWVYMcBSc8TgXbCEj7LPU5aINf9wOiOfuv9Q0viPsiXipKkugtA3agQ/s4080/dream%20team.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh513aQIbUbb55G8OgsO8F8AZ6Ne54Th0GQ-IRPUu7yC4sFB3U1nqe0w15tVcdd8wVxdoWhTJVWmN6UZ7myFIuevFtNRng-zoj1lTFs6p5Wa5vhj1URoUOSpbmG7l5r7uY6fcZQWVYMcBSc8TgXbCEj7LPU5aINf9wOiOfuv9Q0viPsiXipKkugtA3agQ/s320/dream%20team.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
The engineer got me a great sound. He understood exactly what I’m going for. There’s a pressure to this, it’s totally live, broadcasting to thousands and thousands of listeners, close on a million right there listening to the show as it goes out. There’s no safety net. <br />
<br />
I played <i>Southern Rock</i> to start the show and came back later to do three more tunes and an interview - <i>Badhat Town</i>, <i>Drag Time</i> and <i>Standing Water</i>. I put an extended instrumental into the middle of <i>Standing Water</i>, detuned the bottom string down to a D and back up later for the end of the instrumental. It was risky but I actually pulled it off. I usually do, but sometimes trying to get the string back up to an E note in the middle of playing can be a bit hit and miss. <br />
<br />
The show in Gravesend was very special because the venue was a decommissioned lightship, the LV21. They told me not to arrive before about four because the tide was going to cause the ship to float rather than sit on the mud as it normally does, and this would apparently make loading the equipment a bit difficult. <br />
<br />
When I got out of the car there was a strong smell of oil. At first I thought something was wrong with the car but it turned out to be the smell of Gravesend - it smells of engine oil.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwoe6brDvrkAUMN6fhAOBr4UzVIbGnR5tVt4U_A5YAhKHm4CpnQD-RhgdF1JHumIlQVeNtJeX2N95hnCY105uvCM75BL2oQ7YTfPNRSibuEbUjgSmd-t5fc1dvEQ5u5aUcgtIxebbJ4KR_9iC04SYsk71TAatJIaXmGD5AaAl97jEg3BzMriGKn3cU1w/s4080/gravesend3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4080" data-original-width="3072" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwoe6brDvrkAUMN6fhAOBr4UzVIbGnR5tVt4U_A5YAhKHm4CpnQD-RhgdF1JHumIlQVeNtJeX2N95hnCY105uvCM75BL2oQ7YTfPNRSibuEbUjgSmd-t5fc1dvEQ5u5aUcgtIxebbJ4KR_9iC04SYsk71TAatJIaXmGD5AaAl97jEg3BzMriGKn3cU1w/w301-h400/gravesend3.jpg" width="301" /></a></div><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I hadn’t been to Gravesend since 1986. There was a pub called the Red Lion. It had a hall attached which was a great place to play - Chas n Dave started there. Unfortunately it was sold and the new owners fucked it up. Close carpeting, wine racks, an ornamental fountain… They still ran it as a music venue - the new landlady explained: ‘This is a musicians pub, not only do we encourage musicians to play here, but also to come and meet one another and socialise.’ </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I’d played there when the place was in it’s old incarnation and it was great. But the Len Bright Combo played there to a very small audience in 1986, between the wine rack and the ornamental fountain.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Afterwards, when we went to settle up, the landlord told us he wasn’t going to pay us. We asked why not. ‘Because you can’t fucking play - that was a load of old toilet and you know it.’<br />
‘We’re a professional group’ Russ the bass player said. First I’d heard of it but never mind. <br />
‘Professional!! Don’t make me fucking laugh - we have a band comes in here on Tuesday nights that play Lynyrd Skynyrd and they sound just like them. Now that’s professional!’<br />
I said that was okay then, but would he mind signing my PRS form.<br />
‘You can fuck right off with that, go on - fuck off before I throw you out.’<br />
The next day I phoned the PRS. ‘Oh no’ said the man, who in my memory sounds more than a bit like Kenneth Williams. ‘No, no, no, we take a very dim view of our members being spoken to in that manner. Now, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, I’m going to check that he’s up to date with his licence…aah yes, the Red Lion, yes, I’ve got it here - oh dear…he’s two years behind with his payments.’<br />
When I drove past the place a few months later it was boarded up. <br /><br />
Things were on a much better footing for this show. It sold out almost immediately the tickets went on sale, a great start to the tour. I found myself hoping it wouldn’t be all downhill from Gravesend out. It was a relief to see the place packed with the kind of rabble I love playing for. The last show I did was in Moorestown, New Jersey. That show was sold out too and although the audience were a delight to play for they were a bit reverential. Exceedingly reverential in fact. I like a bit of backchat. As long as they shut up while I’m playing.<br />
<br />
My cousin Dave and his wife Michelle were right in front of me. Dave is a London cab driver, the real deal - I’ve often wondered if he was the inspiration for Will Self’s <i>Book Of Dave</i>. A good few people, friends and fans, had come down from London, others had come from the Medway Towns. Afterwards, when everyone had gone home, we watched <i>Later With Jools Holland</i>. It was a relief to finally see it. <br />
<br />
I love the LV21, it’s perhaps the most unique venue I’ve ever played in. <br />
<br />
I had a few days off before the next show, which was in Folkestone. The rain was beginning to come down as I left Norfolk, and as I drove through the Kent countryside it became torrential. There was no let up. <br />
<br />
My friend Andi from the now defunct Lime Bar was there to help set up. There was a stage and he’d lit the place with dramatic uplighters. Holy Trinity Church is a classic town centre church, massive and awe-inspiring even to a none believer. After the soundcheck I sat in the vestry listening to rain pounding on the roof and watched water pouring out of the mouths of gargoyles in black and white on the CCTV. It was almost biblical. <br />
<br />
My friend Wendy who is the verger booked the show. Her husband Tim is the church organist. Wendy isn’t religious, it’s a job. She loves it, she’s been there longer than the vicar, who, if I’m honest, sounds like a bit of a twat. He wasn't in attendance. <br />
<br />
The rain had affected the attendance and the small audience were gripped by what you might call church behaviour. No barracking, no well oiled rabble. Everything was hushed, the applause muted and concise. I spent half the set wondering if I was doing okay, worrying I might be disappointing everyone. When I finished playing it was evident that I hadn’t. It was atmospheric, ethereal, more like a recital than a rock concert. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDlE9MDnEaj5AybjofzA2kJNlVvQVMk0lT_0q5cbCdUjeIKECHkFEIIJrIhjbaQIE1zRKRCFRcNfRg5D6hYNUUd3Qr3CvTzHlUKn6SlWauuKkaTEn21kW0ngianXAD9JztWzuQKYOwWQ5yaDlGhHcIyaAuuwNI1r3xLZ5PYLIGcnPBEufstARgAS_5gw/s1434/thumbnail_IMG_5619.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1262" data-original-width="1434" height="353" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDlE9MDnEaj5AybjofzA2kJNlVvQVMk0lT_0q5cbCdUjeIKECHkFEIIJrIhjbaQIE1zRKRCFRcNfRg5D6hYNUUd3Qr3CvTzHlUKn6SlWauuKkaTEn21kW0ngianXAD9JztWzuQKYOwWQ5yaDlGhHcIyaAuuwNI1r3xLZ5PYLIGcnPBEufstARgAS_5gw/w400-h353/thumbnail_IMG_5619.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
Driving to Birmingham was hard. The rain slacked off as I got further north and into the Midlands but it was slow going. I got to within twelve miles of the venue and the GPS said there was still an hour to go. I had to drive through the city centre to get there. I like Birmingham, it’s wacky, and quite unlike any other British city: red brick, and an accent which, though renowned for its ugliness, sounds poetic and quite beautiful to me, almost like Chaucer. <br />
<br />
The Rock n Roll Brewhouse is the taproom and clubhouse above an independent microbrewery in the Jewellery Quarter. I was worried about the PA - it was more like a sound system - a wall of speaker cabinets across the back wall of the stage driven by a massive Peavey PA amp, it looked like a disaster, but I worked with it, I made a couple of adjustments, flattened all the eq on the PA amp - those things are built to sound good flat, the eq is just there to correct the odd problem. The room sounded great, the PA sounded fabulous. <br />
<br />
The show was sold out in advance. i could get used to this but I don’t want to - I’d prefer to somehow live in a certain amount of trepidation, it keeps you on your toes. <br />
<br />
I have to thank the Birmingham promoter, Adrian Goldberg - not only did he sell out the show, he also sold the merch afterwards - I’d asked him to give me a hand, but prima donna that I am I just stood around gladhanding it and signing records while he did all the work. <br />
<br />
I also want to thank Gary Weston, Rob Flood, Wendy Parsons, Andi Elliot and Cathy Burton. <br />
<br />
Next show is at the Pig in Hastings, or is it St Leonards? Then the Prince Albert in Brighton followed by the London show at the Lexington which is apparently just about sold out. And then I’ll be in the west country and it’s anyone’s guess how that’s going to go.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">If this is going to be a real tour diary I should tell you what the set list was but I'm not going to - if you want to know you'll just have to come to one of the shows. Or ask a friend.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Please be kind. Pick up the litter in your neighbourhood, and support the local food bank.<br /></span><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Eric Gouldenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459329733145880773noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-352260481595161722.post-60824550383455788132023-10-17T19:15:00.014-04:002023-10-24T14:06:19.502-04:00Later With Jools Holland<p style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJJ3lA-7ctvNbAiUI7H2q6MSLGvMkWb_1p0DCzVsmloFTRHQ8GUWeiAYe2GVsLE6YNeSV4d9Ev63Mj0E8HMfvDOizuKQmSYyC5_bSJ8x_F6xO8VimMFZVcJMPrr5qRkJP_lUFSxJ0HGFRUNovdtklQNzyimHLpE3G3alz7l-i_NzFKOCU16rOY0RsrWQ/s7470/DSCF7539.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4980" data-original-width="7470" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJJ3lA-7ctvNbAiUI7H2q6MSLGvMkWb_1p0DCzVsmloFTRHQ8GUWeiAYe2GVsLE6YNeSV4d9Ev63Mj0E8HMfvDOizuKQmSYyC5_bSJ8x_F6xO8VimMFZVcJMPrr5qRkJP_lUFSxJ0HGFRUNovdtklQNzyimHLpE3G3alz7l-i_NzFKOCU16rOY0RsrWQ/w400-h266/DSCF7539.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">I’ve always thought of myself as the kind of artist who would never appear on <i>Later With Jools Holland</i>. Over the years I’ve turned this into a great comfort to myself: imagine the stress of it - the compromises, the trying to not look like complete shit, the crash diet because everyone knows that television adds twenty pounds to your weight, the other bands all sniggering at my incompetence and total lack of cool…</span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">And I’d be sure to be the poor sod that plays alone with an acoustic guitar, </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">sandwiched between the piano and the studio audience. They’d probably make me play <i>Whole Wide World…</i> I’d have to do a short interview with Jools, and he’d probably want to play the piano with me. No, much too much stress, I’m better off at the low level I’ve been operating at for the past forty something years - <i>underground</i>, which is another way of saying <i>almost cool</i>.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><span>As time has slipped by t</span>he possibility has become a thing of dread to me. Occasionally some publicist has said it’d be a good idea - there’s some remote possibility… And this has been enough to turn me into jelly - not that I’m scared or anything - I could take those bastards on…except, of course, that they’d win. It would be a battle, and I’d prefer to stay home thank you very much.</span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">My new album, <i>Leisureland</i>, has been very well received. It took me by surprise. I signed up with a German label, Tapete Records. I was going to put the record out myself but I talked to a publicist, Sean Newsham, who said he’d love to work with me in whatever way I was comfortable, but that he worked with Tapete, and if they were interested that would perhaps be better than trying to do it myself. I didn’t tell him to fuck off, but I pretty much dismissed the idea out of hand. Then I had a think about it and thankfully I came round to the idea.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">The album came out and there was the usual flurry of reviews and mentions And there were interviews - I don’t do many of those, or at least I didn’t. I wasn’t at all used to it. At the end of the first interview I found myself apologising to the interviewer - ‘We’ve been talking for an hour and I haven’t asked anything about you!’ I got more used to it - there’s seemed to be one a day, five days a week for a while. Sean mentioned the possibility of a feature in <i>The Guardian</i>, an interview with Alexis Petrides, and suddenly that was a reality.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /> </span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">
And then he started to mention <i>Later With Jools Holland</i>…</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">
That surely wouldn’t happen! It was a possibility, nice to be considered. Let’s move on.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And then it was happening. I was utterly terrified at the prospect. Amy ran into Michael Lindsay Hogg (<i>Ready Steady Go!, Rolling Stones Rock n Roll Circus, Let It Be</i>…) Michael asked after me and Amy told him I was at home suffering the Later terrors. I saw Michael a couple of days after that and he gave me a talking to: ‘I want you to get on a plane to London, I want you to get in there and show them who you are and what you do. And have a great time, enjoy it, you’ll be fine!’ </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Okay Michael.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">It was a project, the stuff of pop stardom. I played in Cambridge, New York, drove home after the show, packed a bag, had a couple of hours sleep and drove to Newark airport. I probably passed Amy on the way as she drove home from the airport after a trip to Nashville, carrying a yet to be diagnosed dose of Covid. It’s fortunate that I left early and missed her. As it was when I came home after the trip I had to hole up in the guest room with the bass amps until she tested negative.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">The show was being filmed at the Alexandra Palace Theatre so I booked into a nearby Premier Inn for two nights. No, you don’t get hotels, limo rides, champagne, flowers, and all that - pop stardom is a much harder job than it used to be.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">
I landed early on Sunday morning and travelled almost the full length of the Piccadilly Line, Heathrow Airport to Arnos Grove - thirty two stops - clutching my guitar and small rolling suitcase. The train filled up with people heading for art galleries, Sunday employment, assignations and visits to far flung aunties. It emptied and filled up and emptied again, Somewhere around about Holborn the Arsenal supporters got on, large men in triple XL football jerseys. Football fandom evidently doesn’t keep you in shape. They were great fun, i enjoyed their banter. There were Arsenal dads with their Arsenal sons, and they all seemed much nicer than Roger Waters. One Arsenal dad was accompanied by a daughter who must have been about ten. She was togged out in full Arsenal strip and looked radiant. I imagine she’ll play for England one day.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">I finally reached the hotel. I spent a lot of time sleeping and lying around. My friend Marc Valentine drove down from North Norfolk with my amplifier, spare guitar and sundry bits of equipment. We got him checked in and set out on an expedition across the North Circular to a BP petrol station which hosted a Marks & Spencers, or M&S as I believe they prefer to be known - <i>must make an effort, must keep up</i>…</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">
We retired to our rooms with healthy sustenance from the M&S. More lazing around, more sleep… I was determined to not succumb to jetlag and I think it actually worked. Suddenly it was the morning of the show - the day had finally arrived. Sean met us in reception in time to go and get coffee before we had to report to the place of execution.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">I think Sean’s expectation of coffee was more Starbucks oriented than ours. There was no way I was going to Starbucks or Costa on the day I performed on Later. Marc and I are serious caffeine addicts. We’d done some research and decided on a place somewhere between the hotel and the Alexandra Park Theatre where we could get properly caffeined up ready to promote an air of steely calm that would hopefully cover our combined nervousness. We left Marc’s van parked in an <i>Acacia Avenue</i> kind of neighbourhood and followed the aroma of roasting coffee, which actually turned out to be the smell of burning toast.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">The coffee was okay and thankfully not over-roasted, and we arrived at the theatre sporting a thin veneer of quiet but slightly jittery confidence.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">I’d braced myself for a day of being shouted at, being told what to do, being told off and told that what I wanted to do was not possible. A day of being abused, belittled and cowed at every turn. Bear in mind that I haven’t done any mainstream TV since the seventies.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">I was amazed at how kind, how professional, and how downright <i>nice</i> everyone was. They were quiet, calm and very accommodating. We installed ourselves in the allocated dressing room and shut the door. Keep calm, keep quiet, don’t get rattled by anything. Eat, hydrate, breathe… It was really good to have Marc and Sean there.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">They called me for a soundcheck, a run through, a rehearsal for the cameras. It was intimidating in that big space, the Alexandra Palace Theatre with all the seats taken out and four sets of band equipment set up facing each other. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">I was doing one song on my own in the middle of the floor - <i>Badhat Town</i> from the <i>Leisureland</i> album. The sound was instantly great - no one complained about my amplifier or the crappiness of my acoustic guitar pre-amp. The monitor man actually came and asked me how I was getting my sound - he was really into it. I ran throught the song once and then again, and then we were done.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">They explained how it was all going to work and someone took me to meet Jools so we could run through the song we were going to play together. I like Jools - he’s intelligent, warm, maybe a bit shy. He’s very human and he loves music. He made me a cup of tea and we had a chat. Then we got to work on the song.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">When I first heard they wanted me to do <i>Whole Wide World</i> I felt a bit crestfallen - <i>other artists get to do two songs off their new album but I’m not good enough to stand on that alone</i>… But that’s how it works - other artists don’t have a hit - if you have a hit you’re going to have to play it, so it’s really a badge of honour. I didn’t want to play it on my own - <i>look at Billy No Mates trotting out his hit</i> - so in the days leading up to the recording I asked if Jools would play it with me.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">It was fun. He has an upright piano in his dressing room. We ran through the tune and I asked him if it was okay. He looked surprised and asked if it was okay for me. We made some adjustments, I suggested a more celebratory ending going to a G chord and an A chord before landing on the E. He loved the word <i>celebratory</i>. We talked about Igor Stravinsky,<span style="background-color: white;"> <span style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif;">Edgard Varèse</span>,</span> driving through Lincolnshire in the moonlight. I told him how I'll sometimes play a single chord on an electric guitar very loud for minutes at a time, how I can hear so much stuff in it, and I always wonder if other people can. He told me he’ll put his ear to the piano as a chord fades and hear all kinds of things going on.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">We ran through the song on set and then there was time for a rest before make-up time. A knock at the dressing room door, a lady came in and asked what I was going to wear. I told her she was looking at it. I’d come dressed for the job. She said that was fine, I looked good. There was ironing, pressing, steaming available should I need it.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Make-up was a laugh - a nice older lady who understood the hazards that age brings with it. In the old days they used to slap stuff on until you looked like someone’s auntie or an exhibit from Madame Tussauds. They’re much more subtle with it now. <br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Then it was downstairs for the photos.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">You could sense the nervousness. Everybody all together for the first time - The National, Say She She, Jorja Smith, Anthony Szmierek… I found myself standing next to this cool looking older guy - not as old as me, no one’s as old as me, but not a youth - we got talking and he turned out to be Roddy Bogawa, director of the Syd Barrett documentary, <i>Have You Got It Yet?</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">The show went by in a whirl. I don’t think I felt at all nervous - I’d done all that beforehand, which is, I think, how I deal with it. I had a good chat with Jools - most of it was edited out of course. My favourite bit didn’t make the cut: at the end of the interview he leaned over the piano: </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;">‘You know, I couldn’t hear a word of what I was asking you.’</span></span></div>
<p style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">‘That’s okay’ I said, ‘I was miming.’</span></p><p style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCJnsIWuSMNL2y64UAkyZWvDT2DhhHBSCT-1Gg5jQzdcmze5tkPirm5y0yN11iGj0LhXrne-jHKyr-z6QqBPVv_5vN4O_xLqgqZHPUTaJQP32JfEvy-QWqW0yduY2SG1pTK-BcwB9RIOYCfyMwX9MfaRn18P1QsdqGPT58wQPHT-vBo5ZD5gTCTSbAGQ/s5958/Later63_EP1_DSCF0163.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3972" data-original-width="5958" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCJnsIWuSMNL2y64UAkyZWvDT2DhhHBSCT-1Gg5jQzdcmze5tkPirm5y0yN11iGj0LhXrne-jHKyr-z6QqBPVv_5vN4O_xLqgqZHPUTaJQP32JfEvy-QWqW0yduY2SG1pTK-BcwB9RIOYCfyMwX9MfaRn18P1QsdqGPT58wQPHT-vBo5ZD5gTCTSbAGQ/w400-h266/Later63_EP1_DSCF0163.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><p></p><p></p><p style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">We played <i>Whole Wide World</i> and I loved seeing the look of joy on his face. I wish they’d put my guitar up in the mix, the same with <i>Badhat Town</i>, my guitar wasn’t loud enough. I sing a lot louder than anyone expects, I can’t help it, I have a loud and powerful voice, I need something to sing against. I also make spaces for the singing in the way I play. I’ve been doing this a long time, I know what I’m doing. Take the guitar away and the voice is out of context. I should have talked to the sound engineer but I didn’t. It sounded great in the theatre when we were doing it but a little lacking in the broadcast.</span></p><p style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Afterwards I had a good chat with one of the production people. I said I’d been scared of being bowled out, exposed for the charlatan, the imcompetent, that I am, but I’d begun to realise that everyone feels like that. She told me there wasn’t an artist in the room who didn’t suffer from imposter syndrome - 'if you get to this level in your career without it there’s something wrong' she said. I’ll hold on to that.</span></p><p style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Once it was over the other bands were a lot more open, a lot friendlier. Anthony Szmierek came and talked to me - he was such a nice guy, the whole band were. They come from Hyde - <i>us and Harold Shipman</i>… He told me how nervous he’d been, he could barely keep it together. They were set up next to the piano so I was facing him with Jools between us. He said he watched me talking and then playing and it gave him confidence. That was such a nice thing to say. I like them, they’ve only been together for two years. I hope I see them again.</span></p><p style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">It was a strange anti climax. We packed up, said out goodbyes and stumbled out into the darkness in search of Marc’s van. Marc dropped us at the hotel and set off back to Norfolk with the equipment. Sean and I sat in a daze, basking in that weird <i>WE DID IT</i> afterglow, then he set out for the tube station and I went back to bed. Taxi, flight, drive home, gig at the Avalon in Catskill. Still no jetlag!</span></p><p style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">What can I say? It was scary as fuck, but I wouldn't have missed it for the world. The photographer told me to sit on a flight case and imagine I was waiting for a bus. I'm pretty sure I was the only artist with a senior citizen's bus pass but I didn't say anything. I've been waiting for this bus for a long time.</span></p><p style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTmRlulxRpry9dfvp1u-70qvatRwNKdoV-c5wL_lRzfOgEMm-1cGOXtUxiHLElGaJysXcIkvDotZ9xBXgHYm_7GtDy5aTMQURcOkMo4ZShyNoqYcUZ4ZNLcjP-BRvVbE6pOxn6ePuAHXxkxotqoEyrV1gsamj7zeurMFDx3vflbOcTwgzt-hrrUSJL8A/s1080/Wreckless%20Eric%20-%201x1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTmRlulxRpry9dfvp1u-70qvatRwNKdoV-c5wL_lRzfOgEMm-1cGOXtUxiHLElGaJysXcIkvDotZ9xBXgHYm_7GtDy5aTMQURcOkMo4ZShyNoqYcUZ4ZNLcjP-BRvVbE6pOxn6ePuAHXxkxotqoEyrV1gsamj7zeurMFDx3vflbOcTwgzt-hrrUSJL8A/w400-h400/Wreckless%20Eric%20-%201x1.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>Eric Gouldenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459329733145880773noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-352260481595161722.post-61077826319623512652023-04-23T10:00:00.002-04:002023-04-25T10:15:03.642-04:00An Easter Pilgrimage To Cromer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXRIIZKXZPu-qGy1rzTyHNzjp8hC3sOSnX-99aUmK9AUPvZVEYEY7im_sns3JG1XMT-6dNIfmZof99v5hWNTEdTkt0gA2fNjnTHk73DGYgUgzO7jh0ve4Yf5Xsgew5OHl3AtXCVZMHkMK-rIk_x5kq8S6JIyzQ82O1vl23ewCQ42rWQzUBmGn_fHM/s2762/Easter%20in%20Cromer.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1614" data-original-width="2762" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXRIIZKXZPu-qGy1rzTyHNzjp8hC3sOSnX-99aUmK9AUPvZVEYEY7im_sns3JG1XMT-6dNIfmZof99v5hWNTEdTkt0gA2fNjnTHk73DGYgUgzO7jh0ve4Yf5Xsgew5OHl3AtXCVZMHkMK-rIk_x5kq8S6JIyzQ82O1vl23ewCQ42rWQzUBmGn_fHM/s320/Easter%20in%20Cromer.png" width="320" /></a></div><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;">I think we were on a high security alert. It seems highly likely at JFK on the day a former US president gets arrested on criminal charges. It’s the first time this has happened in the history of this - I was going to say <i>Great</i> but my British sarcasm might be lost on a few so I’ll amend that to <i>Mediocre</i> - country of ours. Not that it’s my country, I’m just a Green Card holder. I really don’t even have a right to an opinion.</p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Amy drove me to the airport. The temperature was climbing to an unseasonal seventy something degrees and the temperature in the car was edging closer to the unbearable side of bearable. The air conditioning needs looking at. Air conditioning always packs up when it gets hot, same as it only becomes apparent that the wipers aren’t working when it rains, and brake light bulbs burn out just before a cop gets up behind you and pulls you over. The cop who pulled us over for that said he’d served, or worked, or whatever it is they do, in Catskill but he didn’t seem to recognise the name of our neighbour, the recently retired Catskill police chief. I don’t know why Amy mentioned it - it was hardly likely to work as a get out of jail free card with a Westchester cop. I think she just wanted to see if he was full of shit, which it seems he was.</p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The roads were crowded, probably due to diversions because of the presidential arrest. I cursed America’s stupidity, the haphazard building of roads, the lack of tenable public transport, the stupidity that launches a Crowdfunding campaign to put an armed guard in a school in Nashville following a terrible shooting. I’m thinking that unless they manage to crowd enough funds to hire a government trained agent and keep him in a permanent state of high alert all they’ll get is some lard arse who’ll be vigilant until too many days have merged into too many same old days, and one day when he’s settling down with a cup o’joe and the racing paper a shooter will pop him on the way in. It’s an ugly thought but I had to say it.</p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The trek through airport security started as a random jostle and mutated, almost imperceptibly, into an organised trudge. The line meandered around the airport shoulder to shoulder and nose to rucksack. I felt quite intrepid in my quest to reach a promised land that had almost slipped out of view. Fellow travelers became old friends as time stood still in random bits of the airport building that sometimes smelled of stagnant water and fetid drains. </p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The line somehow turned into a slow motion Virginia Reel as passengers were paired off into couples and ordered to march two abreast down a corridor of cordons. A large security man and a very keen Alsatian dog weaved between the dancers like oversized and unsupervised toddlers at an all-ages Scottish country dancing party.</p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">And then the removal of the coats, shoes, hats, belts and dignity. A few years ago I was patted down and blatantly touched-up by a security man at Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris. He looked me in the eye as he slipped his hand inside my trousers, felt my bare arse and slowly moved around and fondled my wedding tackle. I didn’t say anything because you don’t want to make a fuss at an airport security checkpoint. Part of me couldn’t believe it was happening. Afterwards I wanted to laugh but I was also deeply disturbed by the realisation that I’d just been sexually assaulted. He had no right to do that but I wasn’t going to say anything because I was poor and there was no way I’d be refunded for the transatlantic flight I’d be sure to miss.</p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I rented a car from Hertz. In the wake of the pandemic I was surprised to find a touch-screen check in. It was quarter to seven in the morning and the place was empty so I would have thought I could have gone straight to the desk, but this apparently wasn’t an option. An unoccupied employee waited for me to finish the process of prodding my name and reservation number onto the greasy screen. When I was done a ticket was printed out and instructions given to wait for my number to be called and then present the ticket to the next available agent. The unoccupied employee beckoned me forwarded with a disgruntled wave. The first things he asked for were my name and reservation number. He he screwed up the ticket and dropped it in the bin without looking at it.</p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I was unprepared for Easter, but then how do you prepare for Easter? I hadn’t realised it was going to be Easter when I booked my ticket. I'd put it out of my mind. Easter in the United Kingdom is like four Sundays in a row. By the end of it families hate each other. That’s my experience anyway. And please don’t give me that romantic shit about mods and rockers. I grew up next to Brighton, saw it first hand. It was quite tawdry. Hyped up and orchestrated by the press: “There’s a crisp ten shilling note for each of you yobbos if you’ll just lob a stone or two at those well-dressed boys over there…”</p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"> I had a day to get over the jet lag and then it was Good Friday or <i>Nailing A Man To A Piece Of Wood Day</i> as I prefer to call it. I never did get over my jet lag - I went through most of the elongated holiday weekend in a stupefied fog. It looked warm but it wasn’t - it was bloody freezing. Easter crowds thronged the promenade and narrow streets of Cromer but the mean weather ensured the menfolk kept their shirts on, so it had its upside. I think men over a certain age should keep their shirts on in public. </p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I met my friends Lisa and Bernie on Easter Saturday. We spent a delightful afternoon strolling around Cromer. We stopped for tea and cake in the Gangway cafe, That is Bernie and I had a pot of tea and a slice lemon drizzle cake - an effeminate choice for a couple of old men, finished as it was with silvery icing decorated with edible flower petals. Lisa went for the more masculine date and walnut slice washed down with a pint of beer. She has electric blue hair. Stunning. Bernie had a acquired a Watkins Copicat for me, for which I’m already eternally grateful. There’s a lot a man like me can do with a Watkins Copicat.</p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: left;">I’m back home now, gearing up for a special announcement. Nothing momentous like a sex change or something of that nature - all I’ll say for now is it’s ages since I last put out a new album. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: left;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='367' height='305' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxzZbd_uUK7_Yf4lcTt9zNDvuC--k--o7CiPuOGYnBcvL1jx1OF8yEkWACXdxLPp0odz4vHmMmQzKcEzFKejg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: left;"><br /></p>Eric Gouldenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459329733145880773noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-352260481595161722.post-7782634964733370402022-11-28T21:16:00.001-05:002022-12-01T18:06:52.976-05:00Wilko Johnson<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkkNF5M9RvxGbJRVQ_7davpabwEADANAhTEGCGoU2CsdxxljohgonWQg0Z5fbbbRR9gurUWuPxsQIuOznKtB1L2NSNLQ2DmF4op8ncLajsq_uCsZoHt_kR8UrgFN4HM5bXWtN_v9ZCDH8ywrbpUsEzRX8KKojhnPWB5bldN6d-lSdlF7AKXE4mCMI/s2000/wilko-johnson-photo-1.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1333" data-original-width="2000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkkNF5M9RvxGbJRVQ_7davpabwEADANAhTEGCGoU2CsdxxljohgonWQg0Z5fbbbRR9gurUWuPxsQIuOznKtB1L2NSNLQ2DmF4op8ncLajsq_uCsZoHt_kR8UrgFN4HM5bXWtN_v9ZCDH8ywrbpUsEzRX8KKojhnPWB5bldN6d-lSdlF7AKXE4mCMI/s320/wilko-johnson-photo-1.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I’m very sad for the passing of Wilko Johnson. I flew to England and got the news when I arrived. I’m glad to be in England at the moment, it seems appropriate - Wilko may have been playing American music but he remains an absolutely English phenomenon.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">As soon as I heard Doctor Feelgood I was a fan. I bought their first album as soon as it came out in 1975. <i>Down By The Jetty</i> was not like other albums or LPs of the time. It was in mono and the cover was black and white. It didn’t present the value-for-money facade of the lurid, multi-coloured, Roger Dean gatefold designs and the <i>all-across-the-fireplace </i>stereo spread of other albums, even though it had more tunes on it than seemed possible in the mid-seventies - it contained thirteen tracks, and that was one more than the Rolling Stones first album released only eleven years earlier. I went to the record shop, bought a copy and it changed my life.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">There were no wailing guitar solos, no wall-to-wall carpet of deluxe and luscious harmony vocals, and there appeared to be not a single drum fill. And there were lyrics - direct, poetic and deranged like a gonzo comic strip come to life.</span></div>
<p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">The cars are moving sideways and the traffic lights change to blue<br /></span></i><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">I’m walking twenty yards behind her ‘cause I’m frightened of the damage she’ll do</span></i></p><p></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
Dr Feelgood wore suits and ties. They were photographed by a sea wall with a grimy cargo ship parked casually behind them, or outside an old-fashioned barber’s shop where they’d evidently just had their hair cut. They didn’t look like other bands in band photos. They looked like they didn’t give a fuck. And if they suddenly did give a fuck, and if the singer woke up from the daze he appeared to be in, you’d probably be in trouble.</span></p>
<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div>
<p style="color: #18191b; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">Streets are full of signs, arrows pointing everywhere</span></i></p>
<p style="color: #18191b; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">Parks are full of people trying to get a breath of air</span></i></p>
<p style="color: #18191b; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">Listen to the weatherman praying for a drop of rain</span></i></p>
<p style="color: #18191b; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">Look into the sky, the sky is full of aeroplanes</span></i></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
I imagined I could smell the oil refineries as I stood with Lee Brilleaux, Wilko Johnson, John B Sparks and The Big Figure watching the oil flames burning bright in the full light of day, the sky full of aeroplanes jetting off to some Spanish paradise, their passengers as unaware, as I had been, of Canvey Island, this wonderful and magnificent hell on earth. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I could hardly believe a person could exist with a name like Wilko Johnson. He was a complete original. He looked like a budget version of Keith Richards, pudding basin haircut, black suit, black shirt buttoned to the neck with no tie - the look was out of time, untenable in the mid-seventies. He was Barbie’s Ken gone loco, a guitar slinging Action Man with eyes like blazing headlights. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Wilko’s guitar playing is one of the wonders of this world. Left hand almost completely still or moving very slowly, right hand a blur. He played without a pick. I’d never seen or heard anyone play like that. A hacking of chords with wailing notes bending and bursting out of them, neither lead nor rhythm and unlike any other guitarist. Brittle and violent like glass - HH solid state amplifier, no distortion, clean, angular - modern yet deeply unfashionable. And so right.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I saw Wilko with Doctor Feelgood many times, from the early days to the meltdowns and walk-offs at the Hammersmith Odeon and Palais. I saw his subsequent bands, the Solid Senders, the short-lived Wilko Johnson and Lew Lewis amalgamation, and later on I opened for him a good few times. But I never actually met him until the early 2000s. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The truth is I was terrified of him. He cut such an unreal figure that it was different to see him as</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">a mere mortal, a human being, one of us. He was the epitome of </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">dark and brooding</i><span style="font-family: georgia;"> - he had his demons - he wasn’t always the warm, outgoing and at times hilarious man he was in later life. My perception of him may of course have been coloured by hero worship. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Not that long after Ian Dury died I was opened for the Blockheads in London at the Jazz Cafe. After my set Wilko burst into the backstage. He came straight up to me. “That was a great set” he said - “You played some things on the guitar that I wish I could do.” I manage to stay cool, accept the compliment, but I was astonished. He made my day, my year, my life. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Of course, by this time the unthinkable had happened happened - Wilko had lost his hair. He seemed to carry this off with effortless aplomb</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">- he went from loco black-haired Ken to slack-jawed punch drunk boxer almost overnight. He carried it off because no matter what he did he exuded Wilko-ness. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">A few years ago - about seventeen few years ago in fact - he toured in a package with John Otway and the Hamster who were basically a blues rock cover band with an inexplicably huge UK following. The Hamsters topped the bill, Wilko went on in the middle. At the end of his set he announced: “What follows will be truly bizarre.” And it was. At one point Wilko joined the Hamster onstage for a rendition of </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">Born To Be Wild</i><span style="font-family: georgia;">. He confided in me before the show : “We’ve been studying them - we think they don’t like each other - you’ll never see all three of them at the same time except on stage, and they clearly avoid being in rooms together…” </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Wilko was a poet, a storyteller, highly literate and steeped in the imagery and vernacular of the blues. The most mundane account could turn into an epic tale with wild gesticulations. His big hands would reach up and place the moon in the sky for you - there always seemed to be a stars and a big silver moon in Wilko’s stories - he was a keen astronomer. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I was booked to open for him at two shows in March 2023. I was looking forward to it immensely. I hadn’t seen him in a long time - I’m an expert at losing touch. I somehow assume people I know will be around forever, but this is clearly not so. I’m going to miss Wilko - the world just lost a true original.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid9n8hBA6qEYz88_S7TJNdeg5l2isXdPlI5ENW8Z5plnngRT0fHsoQ0dBLpDsWgM-NMhvmLdWBhQDpoff5yG4rPveEvbqZLdoikT9tu4v_umz7871A-hmH0yN5DEZ00u1TNJCYArAngOpzzT4spdr2XWV7K0k6KYUijIEfLdQ6Bx76nWeOz1jeOYY/s1280/thumbnail_DSC00740-Edit-2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid9n8hBA6qEYz88_S7TJNdeg5l2isXdPlI5ENW8Z5plnngRT0fHsoQ0dBLpDsWgM-NMhvmLdWBhQDpoff5yG4rPveEvbqZLdoikT9tu4v_umz7871A-hmH0yN5DEZ00u1TNJCYArAngOpzzT4spdr2XWV7K0k6KYUijIEfLdQ6Bx76nWeOz1jeOYY/s320/thumbnail_DSC00740-Edit-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">with Wilko at the Jazz Cafe - photo by Karen Hall</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><p></p>Eric Gouldenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459329733145880773noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-352260481595161722.post-78820932290007110862022-11-18T16:11:00.002-05:002022-11-18T16:17:41.774-05:00Battalions Of Better Bass Players<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmlAT_fzPuy_VBMl59tLVzCXp2Js6X2WnijJMwF-15ZJl919T5935zYAJAgct_LG2EVQ-SufCXZHz_d2YSeu56kWbD4ffXkF0hlIscCoHnsK0awNELZjEevZoN4eYDLFgCRJfbZXOKyH5VuOGfasAU4QllJipkA7X9TLqYgGZgBb3ww3tRqspikFM/s2000/spotty+november.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1545" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmlAT_fzPuy_VBMl59tLVzCXp2Js6X2WnijJMwF-15ZJl919T5935zYAJAgct_LG2EVQ-SufCXZHz_d2YSeu56kWbD4ffXkF0hlIscCoHnsK0awNELZjEevZoN4eYDLFgCRJfbZXOKyH5VuOGfasAU4QllJipkA7X9TLqYgGZgBb3ww3tRqspikFM/s320/spotty+november.jpeg" width="247" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span>I have a gig this coming weekend playing with my wife, Amy Rigby. I’m principally the bass player in her band though I also play guitar on a couple of tunes on an electronic instrument called an</span><span> </span><span>Omnichord which has been rechristened by Amy as the </span><i>Omacron</i><span>. I also sing harmony or back-up vocals.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span><br /></span>I was thinking about the difference between preparing for one of Amy’s shows and one of my own. Preparing for my own shows is a quietly fraught affair - I’m filled with fear and self doubt. Getting ready for a show with Amy there’s a marked absence of all this, apart, that is, from my normal low-level insecurity wherein battalions of better bass players agree amongst themselves that they could do a far superior job, muttering about how I only got the job because I’m married to the artist. Normal stuff as I said. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />I can usually keep these fears at bay because I’ve begun to better understand the chemistry between band members, and that the job of being a band member involves so much more than mere mastery of a musical instrument. This isn’t to say I’m a crap bass player because I’m not - I’m actually pretty good. I have other skills too - I can drive, repair equipment, string guitars so they stay in tune, fit more equipment into a vehicle than anyone would have thought possible… Where bands are concerned I’m a pretty good catch.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />I still get twinges of <i>He Only Got The Job Because He’s Married To Her</i>, but never mind, I can push that aside.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />Amy and I worked together as a unit for ten years and three albums. We stopped doing it when we realised we could make more money, something like a living wage, if we worked separately. But for ten years we were a two piece rock and roll group - not a <i>duo</i>, we preferred <i>two piece rock and roll group</i>. During that time we developed some kind of telepathic communication. We hardly ever looked at each other while we were playing - we didn’t want to be giving each other gooey and sentimental looks - there was an element of steel to it. We found a way to harmonise - to begin with my voice was twice as loud as Amy’s but she got stronger and I got my voice under control. She started playing the piano, I started playing the bass - not that we were beginners in that - I started out on the bass and subsequently played tthe instrument on a lot of my own records - Amy had been lucky enough to have had piano lessons as a kid. As soon as I found she could play the piano I insisted she did and was always quite envious that she got to sit down for part of the set. Together we’re confident in ourselves and each other, exacting, but tolerant and non-judgemental - we’re facing in the same direction, looking for the same outcome. You might say we have each other’s backs.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />Amy’s band is a three piece. She doesn’t play the piano onstage, just guitars. She has three of them: a Telecaster, a 12 string Dan Electro, and a Gibson J45 acoustic. She uses a 1972 Fender Deluxe - originally it was mine but it seems to have been co-opted or annexed which is okay because Amy gets a great sound out of it and I actually get a better guitar sound for me out of a reissue Deluxe. I use a big Traynor tube amplifier and a 1x12 cabinet for the bass. Doug Wygal plays the drums and we’re lucky to have him. He lives down the road in Kingston, and before each run of shows we get together to run through the tunes and indulge in a bit of local gossip.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />We’re a tight unit. We know what’s right - what to wear and how to be. We don’t grin. I can’t personally abide bands members that grin. That was an early lesson through the great and sadly late Ian Dury - the audience laughed, the band remained stoic, things would get uneasy... I think he got it from in <i>One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest</i> - you’re laughing at Jack Nicholson’s character when you realise there’s blood seeping under the door because Billy has just slashed his wrists and bled to death, but you can’t stop laughing. I don't know if that makes sense but perhaps you get the idea.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />We have a good time together. When we travel to shows we can rely on Doug for a tale or two - the Soft Machine opening for the Jimi Hendrix Experience, early Bob Seger shows, even the Amboy Dukes (who were great even though it later transpired that their guitar player was an asshole called Ted Nugent). How do you reconcile these things? Is it still okay to thrill to their version of <i>Baby Please Don’t Go</i>? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />Last night at our rehearsal we discussed the Standells and Steppenwolf. We told Doug about seeing Nick Mason’s Saucerful Of Secrets and how great they were, and Doug recalled how his first band bought an album by Chocolate Watch Band in order to learn their songs only to find the record inside had been substituted for the Pink Floyd’s first album. They quickly realised this stuff was way more psychedelic than <i>Sitting Here Standing</i> by the Chocolate Watch Band, so they learned <i>Interstellar Overdrive</i> instead and never looked back.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />Before the show tomorrow evening Amy will probably be a bit tense and nervous, and we’ll try to give her the space she needs to get ready. I’ll probably break out the lens wipes and Doug and I will clean our glasses before we go on. In my mind I’ll be doing my best impersonation of my alter-ego, the great Bryce McCafferty. Bryce is a classic British bass player. He truly doesn’t give a fuck. He shows no interest in the set list which he shrugs off with a tacit <i>You Tell Me What You Want Me To Play And I’ll Play It</i>. The world of Bryce McCafferty is divided into two kinds of people: drinking buddies, and people who don’t interest him. He gets work because his bass playing is, quite surprisingly, effortlessly astounding. I’m actually nothing like Bryce McCafferty.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />Amy Rigby<br />
8pm @ The Spotty Dog<br />Warren Street<br />Hudson NY</span></div>
Eric Gouldenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459329733145880773noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-352260481595161722.post-80557823325703552562022-10-23T12:32:00.004-04:002022-10-23T12:43:12.419-04:00Before<div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-xzsZPKUDU42WRBE6-ehaRMjlOOEClJ1eCZY6qTtN5WfduBdsNz2xtwnzbS7AgIGbrmFHX5zX7_lyYXb5V0rkTx_lVHzonO85Ktf4mtw0PKfZvsU0gZYrA9RtVsp1TfNpNZX2GQPWAgUw6r2Abf7-xk2EUsWmhqExe_s0anx-oouvORHPh4dPDoE/s1080/15D33157-1437-4C09-8D98-A10784E17E70.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-xzsZPKUDU42WRBE6-ehaRMjlOOEClJ1eCZY6qTtN5WfduBdsNz2xtwnzbS7AgIGbrmFHX5zX7_lyYXb5V0rkTx_lVHzonO85Ktf4mtw0PKfZvsU0gZYrA9RtVsp1TfNpNZX2GQPWAgUw6r2Abf7-xk2EUsWmhqExe_s0anx-oouvORHPh4dPDoE/s320/15D33157-1437-4C09-8D98-A10784E17E70.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">I used to take it all in my stride but getting ready to go and do shows was always a quietly fraught business for me. Sporadic shows are the worst because during the time at home the equipment gets disassembled for recording purposes, guitar cases end up in corners of the basement, batteries go flat and I lose track of which lead gets used for what. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br />It’s important to have a system - people might think I’m being fussy or OCD, but I’ve been going out playing shows for a very long time now, most of the time totally unaided, so I know how things can go wrong. I look after whatever is controllable - it’s advance damage limitation, but during the sporadic periods as I might call them the system quietly unravels</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br />And I unravel too. I definitely don’t feel great these days and there seems to be no explanation for it that my GP can find. We think it’s this thing called Long Covid. It’s either that or something sinister. When I toured last year I set off a bit earlier than I normally would every day and spent an hour or two sleeping in the car in rest stops along the way.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br />When I played in London last July my left hand cramped up so badly that I didn’t know how I was going to finish the show. The lights were ridiculously hot and I think I was dehydrating. People were talking loudly at the back - the seven piece support who were so honoured to play on a bill with me, together with their massive entourage (they wanted thirty people on the guest list even though the show was a benefit) yack yack yacking all the way through my set.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br />I forget what keys the songs are in, the instrumental stuff gets sonically magnified in my imagination and falls short of anything I could ever hope to achieve. I feel clumsy and gauche, a cack-handed version of the fabricated me I’ve built up in my mind since the last outing. I had it down back then…</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br />There’s an overwhelming amount of preparation involved in these one-off dates but in the practising and so on I discover new levels of balance and control. I hope it won’t all go out of the window the moment I go onstage - tense, over-amped, digging in too hard and losing the lightness of the quiet bits that give the loud bits at least an illusion of power. If I get anxious the dynamics go to pot.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br />The idea of an outing always seems attractive. I always imagine there’ll be interesting snacks and I’ll need my trusty pocket knife, but somehow I never do. I make elaborate listening plans - <i>I’m going to listen to the entire works of David Bowie</i>…that kind of thing. It doesn’t happen, I end up driving in silence lost in a dream of all the things I could be doing if I wasn’t doing this. Because somehow it doesn’t matter what I’m doing and how much I want to do it, when I’m doing it I often wish I was doing something else. It’s a tendency I try to guard against. Things go so much better when I live in the moment and just enjoy it. There’s even a risk that I might have fun.</span></div>
Eric Gouldenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459329733145880773noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-352260481595161722.post-54805564856451115662022-09-07T16:55:00.002-04:002022-09-08T19:02:15.959-04:00Brake Failure<div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYEHc_f-iJbRypWJkXtMUkCbJBD4A5-4U7SBEg0xhYN0b2mrlu6-5A0CAA9lvp4wUj8N-DKBgj0jcCsSJSgueNkqddxTpEItFDxQb1qNGdtIDWIGYC5rNMSP5S_rZYnDK1zcYiAKXGPCpOC7dtLOWNvyK-9DDvDlmHVdxugpN62-lIyFnuU6iJGto/s760/rubbish%20158.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="760" data-original-width="464" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYEHc_f-iJbRypWJkXtMUkCbJBD4A5-4U7SBEg0xhYN0b2mrlu6-5A0CAA9lvp4wUj8N-DKBgj0jcCsSJSgueNkqddxTpEItFDxQb1qNGdtIDWIGYC5rNMSP5S_rZYnDK1zcYiAKXGPCpOC7dtLOWNvyK-9DDvDlmHVdxugpN62-lIyFnuU6iJGto/w122-h200/rubbish%20158.jpeg" width="122" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">When the brakes failed at seventy miles an hour in rush hour on the M25 I didn’t panic, I calmly said the word '</span><i style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">no</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">' as if in response to an incorrectly answered question. I used the gears to slow the car down and worked my way over to the inside lane, and then to the hard shoulder. I almost made it to a standstill but I ran out of road where the hard shoulder gave way to an exit. I had no choice but to take the exit, and ended up driving into the delightless Surrey town of Caterham.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">I'm sure someone's going to put me right here - tell me how convenient Caterham is - <i>just twenty minutes from all the top West End shows, the galleries, the museums - you're a mere thirty-seven minutes from the O2 Arena and there's a flower basket hanging off every lamp post</i> - we've even got a Waitrose. But there’s a drabness and desperation to the place it’s as though most of the population are fully aware that they wouldn’t live anywhere near this place if it weren’t for its proximity to gainful employment in Central London. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">I pulled up alongside a row of terraced houses on the main road heading in to Caterham. I’d actually done a tour of the town - I found that by pumping the brakes I could bring them back to some semblence of functionality - apart from one heart-stopping moment when my foot hit the floor and the traffic ahead started getting alarmingly close because I’d forgotten to pump, the car seemed to be back to normal. I didn’t mean to do a tour of the town but I figured I needed to find somewhere safe to park for a couple of hours, somewhere accessible to an AA man in a tow truck. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">I saw the sign for Waitrose and naively assumed that a supermarket of that size and noteriety would have a car park (ok, I’ll admit it, I’ve been Americanised). It didn’t, so I followed signs for town centre parking and found myself driving into a multi-storey. A multi-storey car park isn’t much fun when you’re not sure of your braking power. I didn’t want to park in there because it turned out to be attached to a Morrison’s supermarket and it closed when the supermarket closed. I didn’t know how long I was likely to be there, I was facing an uncertain future.<br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I ended up facing the other way on the road I’d come in on, in a line of small parked cars outside a line of small terraced houses. Next to me, just the width of a Fiat Punto door away, traffic hurtled by. I studied the houses. I wondered who lived in them. I was acutely aware that even though I wasn’t in a resident parking space I was probably taking someone’s assumed space, and when they came home from work they’d have to park up the hill in a side street and unpleasantness might ensue. Parking wars. But parking wars assume a sense of community, or community spirit, and I don’t think there is any in this place. People move in, the renters, the buyers, they exist for a while, then they move out and exist somewhere else. If they were ever noticed they’re soon forgotten.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">A very pregnant woman in a business suit walked past my car. She was talking on a phone. She put the key in the door of a house further up and let herself in. The neatly trimmed hedge gave this house an </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">owner-occupied</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"> air. The one next door, the one I was parked outside looked rented - the flowerpot by the door containing a long dead plant, the discarded engine treatment oil container - they give some sort of clue. There’s a pride, or even a sense of duty that goes along with home ownership. The curtains of this one, the rented one, are drawn even though it’s only five thirty in the afternoon. Perhaps the occupant is a shift worker, maybe they’ve gone away on holiday, or left in the morning before it got light. Or the place is empty, waiting to be re-rented, to play host to some fresh misery. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">These places would have been built for workmen and their families in the nineteenth century. Front room or parlour for best, dining room, small kitchen. Upstairs two bedrooms and a box room off the back. Outhouse in the back yard. Front garden for flowers, back garden for vegetables. Humble places, all a workman needed. There have been a few upgrades but has anything really changed?</span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">We generate a lot more rubbish these days. The front gardens once so charming are filled with colour-coded wheelie bins - a brown one for garden waste, blue for recycling, black for rubbish. There was even a small green one for food waste. When I was a kid we had a round galvanised dustbin which was emptied once a week even if it wasn’t full. Newspapers were used to light the fire, bottles were refundable, food scraps were thrown into the stove that heated the house and provided hot water. There was never much cardboard becuse we never bought anything. I’m not saying it was better - our lives were austere, the house was cold, I was forever hungry and I felt guilty for eating. But there was less trash, rubbish, garbage or detritus.</span></span></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidHBZI5NKDnYiyTkxGU7tdHvuhnkveZvfu8k9RITnfI7I5oeT4Kp4u7YdVeYhu0PlsM3_rWIAnOtJLUXJKTh7123fRNb-KDhv20iq3ME8CMuAMA2DMTEQy_ltfWeHLjNmoj4RpbGceHYEnbdEBm97jfeGSEnn313N8vHNe94xBx2ZEyECXJekA2Jg/s1280/rubbish.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidHBZI5NKDnYiyTkxGU7tdHvuhnkveZvfu8k9RITnfI7I5oeT4Kp4u7YdVeYhu0PlsM3_rWIAnOtJLUXJKTh7123fRNb-KDhv20iq3ME8CMuAMA2DMTEQy_ltfWeHLjNmoj4RpbGceHYEnbdEBm97jfeGSEnn313N8vHNe94xBx2ZEyECXJekA2Jg/s320/rubbish.jpeg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">I wondered what the woman up the street, the pregnant woman, was doing. I imagined she’d put her feet up - have to take it easy at that stage in a pregnancy. Perhaps they’d knocked the front room and the dining room through into one airy living space and extended the kitchen. There’s a lot you can do with a long galley kitchen ending in French doors opening onto a small patio, and a small patio would be all that remains of the back garden since the extension. She’s sitting on a white bar stool at the breakfast counter drinking herbal tea, dealing with a few emails. She’s divorced. She’s going it alone. She’s happily married to another solicitor - they’re both solicitors, and when the baby arrives there’ll be changes. By the time the time the child goes to school they’ll have relocated to Lewes.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">Will the AA ever arrive?</span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">There’s an app, an AA app, but it doesn’t work on my phone because I’m old so my phone is four years old which means it’s obsolete </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">even though it’s a perfectly good phone and I see no reason to replace it</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">. The AA was keeping me abreast of developments with regard to my breakdown case via regular texts which let me know every twenty minutes or so that due to the high volume of breakdowns in my area - </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">hey, I’m your man on the ground here, I can very well understand how there could be a high volume of breakdowns around here -</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"> my recovery is going to be delayed by another ten or fifteen minutes (sad face emoticon).</span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">The ten or fifteen minute delays were adding up, I had time to kill which is why I’d been making a detailed study of the houses and speculating on the occupants. I walked down the road to Waitrose in search of food and drink. As I was paying two young women popped their heads around the corner of the perspex screen meant to protect the cashier from the general public:</span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">‘Do you sell party balloons?’ </span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">The woman was inches from my face. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">‘Back the fuck off’ said the nice if slightly odd older gentleman. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">I should become a psychopath. Perhaps I already am one.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">I went in Nero’s. I think I went in there because it was open and everything else seemed to be closing. I ordered a cup of tea which came in a large mug and tasted vaguely of paprika. A long, skinny, suntanned man in a polo shirt was explaining the (apparently much misunderstood) Russian position in Ukraine to a short, rotund older man who was hanging on his every word and bemoaning the passing of Margaret Thatcher. I didn’t want to get involved, I didn’t feel anger or indignation, just mild irritation. I wished they’d shut the fuck up.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">On my way back up the hill, I looked through the windows of a a ground floor flat in a brand new block. </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">Great Opportunity! Hurry! Hurry! Last Few Remaining!</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"> The kitchen / living room / dining area looked out onto an eye-level flower bed strewn with weeds and litter, and beyond it the road, filled with angry, hurtling traffic. They’ll struggle to sell this one, but then again there’s always someone who’s desperate.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">The AA van pulled up and a cheerful young man jumped out.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">I couldn't help it: ‘You’ve got to get me out of this dump’ I said.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">He laughed and told me he came from round here. I started to apologise but he said there was no need, he completely understood. I told him what had happened and he gave the car a thorough inspection. He couldn’t find anything wrong with it - he even asked me if I was sure I hadn’t mistakenly put my foot on the clutch instead of the brake. I tried not to be insulted - perhaps it was payback for calling his hometown a dump.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">I got him to drive the car. We took it for a spin around deserted residential streets. He performed several violent emergency stops, wrangling and wrestling the steering wheel in an attempt to trick the brakes into another malfunction, but to no avail, the car behaved perfectly. In the end he told me he didn’t think it was going to happen again and advised me to either wait three hours for a tow truck or, if I was comfortable with it, to drive slowly home testing the brakes at regular intervals.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">‘So what you’re saying is there’s a choice - I can either die of boredom here in Caterham or I can go out in a blaze of glory somewhere on the M25 - which will of course be your fault almost entirely.’</span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">For a moment he looked quite shocked. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">’That’s a bit harsh’ he said and we both laughed. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">I</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"> drove home. The brakes were absolutely fine. I took it to the local garage, they couldn’t find anything wrong either.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">I had a strange and spooky idea about this: I'd been down in Shoreham-by-Sea adressing the problem of a storage space which has been full of my late mother’s effects since before the pandemic and has been costing me a fortune. She had a lot of Ercol and G-Plan furniture of which she was very proud. When I was emptying the house I couldn’t quite bring myself to donate it all, so it went into a large and costly storage unit while we look around for buyers. The sale of the furniture would easily offset the cost of the storage unit, of course it would… And then the pandemic came along. The other day I drove down to Shoreham, called a man and van number, and in a mere forty minutes the furniture was being lovingly dusted down ready for sale at the local Emmaus and I was heading back to Norfolk. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica;">I sort of wondered if the brake failure was my mother expressing her displeasure at the disposal of her furniture. She was never mechanically minded so it’d be like her to go too far and nearly kill me on the M25. It’s a fanciful idea, I know. She’s probably off in some ever-blossoming orchard out in the celestial heavens, dancing eternity away with my dad, and never a cross word. She doesn’t need the furniture, she’d be pleased to see it helping people who need a fresh start.</span><br /></span></div>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #181817; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>Eric Gouldenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459329733145880773noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-352260481595161722.post-32502291409530805372022-06-01T18:13:00.002-04:002022-06-01T18:13:51.970-04:00Up The Bunting<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT_MK_CCMTwS14fl1pftJOgAlPLvA8kD0T2NMoTLMnyN0ASlrGe4u1yC6-oOKAD9uSic6k_03i41fJbo5AS0hwGR0hbWCm8aRJ6Po7qNUWivEkQVVw2phXCAVxQqdXSlhANI9MhnbCD7m_Lo1ij914iXiekfczUQB32tnqDLMcZNs_oreQ079GWP4/s2392/cromer%20pier.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2028" data-original-width="2392" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT_MK_CCMTwS14fl1pftJOgAlPLvA8kD0T2NMoTLMnyN0ASlrGe4u1yC6-oOKAD9uSic6k_03i41fJbo5AS0hwGR0hbWCm8aRJ6Po7qNUWivEkQVVw2phXCAVxQqdXSlhANI9MhnbCD7m_Lo1ij914iXiekfczUQB32tnqDLMcZNs_oreQ079GWP4/w320-h271/cromer%20pier.jpeg" title="Cromer Pier" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">I had a run-in with a gun person who attempted to explain to me how it all works:</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>Someone points a gun at you, he’s the bad guy, I’m pointing a gun at him, I’m the good guy - see how it works?</i></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I didn’t see how it worked then and I still don’t. I offended him deeply when I suggested that if he shot someone in a scenario such as this, then far from being the big hero he’d probably shit his pants. He was very upset, I think I touched a nerve.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">That was five or more years ago. Things have only got worse.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">After every school shooting some moron always says that this just wouldn’t have happened if everyone was armed, and sure enough after this latest atrocity they said exactly that. I find the idea of a teacher of young children packing a gun deeply disturbing, and at the least, highly inappropriate. To me the inference here is that it would be okay for a child to see their teacher gunning someone down in their defence.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I don’t think any of this is at all okay.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Twitter and Instagram were suddenly beset with photos of bloated, blow-waved, beefcake couples reclining on trashy kingsize beds, surrounded by their obscenely impressive collections of firearms. Apparently they need automatic weapons to ward off feral hogs who can, and will, invade your home any minute now. I’ve never encountered a feral hog myself, but I’ve seen plenty of people around the neighborhood giving what I imagine is a more than passable imitation of one.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Guns, guns, guns - <i>who woulda thunk it?</i> - seems they’re America’s national obsession.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I’m pleased to spend time in Britain where the national obsession is football. I have no interest in football myself - it’s just not my thing - but I love the passion it invokes. And if I’m honest I’d love to attend a football match in a big stadium. My football prejudice stems from being ordered to go outside and play it in the rain and cold when I didn’t even know what it was. I was eight years old and I’d never heard of football so it came as a shock.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">A gentle shock compared with the realisation that so many Americans have been quietly spending their hard earned pay on building a home arsenal.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">We’re heading home for Catskill, New York tomorrow. I’m sorry to be leaving but happy to miss the Queen’s platinum jubilee. Seventy years on the throne - my my - <i>are you going to be much longer in there Ma’am?</i></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I don’t understand <i>seventy</i> - it seems to me they’ve got marriage and sovereignty rather conveniently confused. Seventy years of marriage would be a platinum jubilee but jubilees of the Queen’s reign have been celebrated so far in twenty five year increments. We - that is <i>they</i> - celebrated twenty five years, the silver jubilee, in 1977, then the golden jubilee twenty five years later in 2002, so shouldn’t the next one be twenty five years on from that in 2027?</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I would have thought seventy five years would be a more celebration-worthy length of time, but let’s face it, she’s not likely to last another five years, and we need something to celebrate after all this pandemic nonsense etc etc…</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">My daughter put it very well the other day: <i>why do we have to celebrate her? Couldn’t she celebrate us for a change?</i> And who’s going to pay for it all. It’s more than the cost of a bit of bunting, and I’m pretty sure it’s not coming out of the royal coffers.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I had an idea that would be bound to win popular support and increase the waning popularity of the British monarchy - how about if the Queen donated an amount equivalent to the income tax she would have paid if the Royal Family had paid income tax from the beginning of her reign? </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">She could donate it to a fund to help people who are suffering hardship due to the current economic crisis.</p>Eric Gouldenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459329733145880773noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-352260481595161722.post-9256274528641207222022-05-02T00:51:00.006-04:002022-05-02T10:42:43.753-04:00Quincy, Recording, A Wedding Anniversary & A Run In With The Law<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I keep writing stuff and not posting any of it - the world lurches from crisis to crisis and what I write quickly becomes irrelevant, inappropriate at at the very least just plain glib. I won’t write stuff about what’s wrong with the human race, and tell everyone how to put the planet to rights because it’s really not my place to do so, and most of the people who read what I occasionally write would probably agree with me on everything I’d have to say, so there’s really very little point.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And there are the others, the ones who disagree. I get so jangled by internet confrontations. I used to be stronger than I am now, but since having Covid and a heart attack in quick succession, and dealing with this thing called Long Covid, I’m not tough enough to take up the fight. Though I handled it coolly, a Facebook dust up with the daughter of a friend who told me my post was a fucking disgrace and I shouldn’t be in a creative industry left me depleted for the better part of a week. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It was a joke concerning Eric Clapton in the wake of his anti-vaccine proclamations. I said that after careful consideration I was banning him from attending any of the shows on my US tour last October. It gave rise to a lot of anti-Clapton vitriol. I didn’t join in but as far as this person was concerned I was to blame and had relinquished any right to be in a creative industry.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Whatever the word <i>in</i> means in this context, and whatever industry it is that I’m supposed to be in that might be at all creative. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The tremors, the palpitations, the extreme anxiety and upset that this sort of thing incurs just aren’t worth it. So from that point of view I’ve decided to be a human cabbage. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I’ve been recording , and I’ve been recording, and I’ve been recording. I just finished mixing a song I recorded together with Amy for a forthcoming compilation album, a tribute to Badfinger. I’m never sure about these kinds of projects but I can never resist an invitation to participate. I had to work hard at it because I wasn’t sure the song had much going for it.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We started out with a random bass synthesiser loop, Amy played the Wurlitzer electric piano while I played an electric guitar with a load of delay and reverb on it. We strummed a couple of acoustic guitars together around one mic and then overdubbed a couple more. We recorded a track of brushed cymbals and started on the vocals.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
We sang in harmony - I sang it, then Amy sang with my vocal, then I replaced my vocal. The lyrics meant nothing to either of us. The track sounded great but the vocals were prosaic and lacklustre. At various points I wanted to give up on it but we kept going. I sent my vocal out through a Boss vocoder pedal and into my wonderful Moog Opus which Amy played. The result was other worldly and decidedly creepy. We put some oscillator noises on it and a casual bass guitar here and there and it suddenly came together. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='324' height='269' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwvfonwZJsrbqDZQf0pU8oJOC_SktfqLLyq2o_gmcw_aojS7-NL1F1Bi4JCOpR-6e1MVZTcn4Sg1oAtehgrDA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><p></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I wish I could do that with some of my own tracks. I spent bits of yesterday wrangling a track into shape in between celebrating out fourteenth wedding anniversary. It was a great day. In the morning we somehow got onto the subject of Quincy, played by Jack Klugman. I can’t imagine how we got there but Amy asked me if I’d ever watched the show. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I was a huge fan, possibly for a lot of the wrong reasons, but I’ll readily admit to it. I watched it for the outfits - you never knew what he was going to be wearing next: loud checkered sports jackets with huge lapels; chunky V necked pullovers; windcheaters with elaborate collars and complicated arrangements of buttons or press studs. Every scene was a fashion shocker. Re-runs of Quincy were required late night viewing through the nineteen eighties.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We watched most of an episode involving the illegal dumping of toxic waste, featuring Quincy in a succession of golfing jackets and a big suede affair with sheepskin collar and cuffs, and patch pockets. Amy said she can see where I get my fashion sense. I hadn’t realised how much Quincy had rubbed off on me. I’d like to think that if he really existed we could be friends, maybe go thrift store shopping together.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLHkoI3W-s6xO9CotRkipOLvmVUIajwijJOJcEh2ZBfZojHxBVZuReiQxIxyvvuAreyAISORYcZt90LOdRSKg4qN3YxEChI4zVMRAzzsitGeVX_DC9ri_O9-A3tCR54cR2SlztZdOt4yyq3J36EyPfEto0f39q9A3bkrRimZSa8dnH7P1iqnGEWvs/s763/QuincyME.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="571" data-original-width="763" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLHkoI3W-s6xO9CotRkipOLvmVUIajwijJOJcEh2ZBfZojHxBVZuReiQxIxyvvuAreyAISORYcZt90LOdRSKg4qN3YxEChI4zVMRAzzsitGeVX_DC9ri_O9-A3tCR54cR2SlztZdOt4yyq3J36EyPfEto0f39q9A3bkrRimZSa8dnH7P1iqnGEWvs/s320/QuincyME.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It felt very decadent to be watching Quincy at ten o’clock in the morning, but it was our wedding anniversary after all.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Later on we decided to go for dinner and chose a restaurant down in Rhinebeck that looked suitably upscale and disgustingly expensive. We set off in my old Mercury Cougar talking enthusiastically about the writing of books, the making of records, and, of course, our rediscovered hero, Quincy. Amy usually keeps a check on my speed but she was having a night off. It was a country road that I’ve driven on many times. The speed limit changes every couple of miles. The Cougar was running perfectly and we were bowling along when I saw red and blue lights in the rearview mirror. I slowed down and prepared to pull in so he could pass me. Only he didn’t, he pulled in behind.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Have you any idea why I stopped you sir?’</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">‘I think it might be because I was going a little too fast…’</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">‘You were doing seventy-seven miles an hour in a thirty-five mile an hour zone.’</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Oh wow! The car really is running well tonight…’</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He asked where we were going and we told him. Amy took the opportunity to mention that it was our wedding anniversary. He asked how long we’d been married. I stuttered a bit over the answer to that, as you do, but I think it gave me a bit of <i>guys together</i> credibility</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">All this time we’d been trying to find the registration but for some reason it wasn’t in the car. I was having visions of celebrating our anniversary alone in a jail cell. He took my licence and headed off for his patrol car. He came back a couple of minutes later, handed back the licence with a smile, wished us a happy wedding anniversary, and told me to watch my speed.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I thought how different this encounter might have been had we been young and black instead of old, white, and heading for the stodgy town of Rhinebeck.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I don't usually drive so fast in thirty-five mile an hour zones but this one wasn’t exactly populated and I didn't see the sign. I’m usually more mindful. I don’t drive through neighbourhoods at breakneck speed.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dinner was no great shakes but we enjoyed it anyway. There were an inordinate amount of waiting staff including a young man who kept coming around with a bottle of tap water. He topped us up and said <i>Enjoy</i>. He did this three times. The main or most prevalent waitress put me in mind of a shark with a ponytail. Vicious in her determination to do the absolute minimum.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It made us happy to be up here in Catskill. We’re lucky.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We came home and watched the last episode of the Warhol Diaries. Amy promised she wouldn’t cry but I think she did anyway. It was a happy sad ending.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I lay exhausted on the sofa. Amy googled Jack Klugman and we listened to him talking about the beginnings of Quincy. No one thought it would last more than four episodes, least of all Jack Klugman. But his cynicism turned to belief and it endured for eight seasons between 1977 and 1983.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Amy wondered why Quincy was such a success. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The answer came to me in a flash from somewhere in the mists between awake and sleeping: those moist and soulful eyes, almost unable to bear the latest injustice, this week’s wrong which must be put right. Quincy is a good guy, the kindest, most tenacious, and fair-minded man that never existed. He lives on a boat with a vast collection of sports jackets and windcheaters. He’s a latter day male version of a fairy godmother. The world needs someone like Quincy. How could he not prevail?</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXz-rZpYbux-X_bi4WOewik9qdNum81MVKC5TFvLb11I4pemsCGVOrN_pwDK1bwlfdV4_t6ohmZ0MGwyTu_LGTtnRoNzAlYy6SWCVQxk9QzBcKg17gu24eDzN5Xte_9SARKjhqeGDVIzK4EwENIhKABdNtiEaQrb3bfahK81HISO-YFvBxiWOvgGU/s2880/quincy%202.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2880" data-original-width="2160" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXz-rZpYbux-X_bi4WOewik9qdNum81MVKC5TFvLb11I4pemsCGVOrN_pwDK1bwlfdV4_t6ohmZ0MGwyTu_LGTtnRoNzAlYy6SWCVQxk9QzBcKg17gu24eDzN5Xte_9SARKjhqeGDVIzK4EwENIhKABdNtiEaQrb3bfahK81HISO-YFvBxiWOvgGU/s320/quincy%202.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /></div><p></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div><br /></div>Eric Gouldenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459329733145880773noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-352260481595161722.post-5681244910702543012021-11-03T14:15:00.003-04:002021-11-05T13:01:47.100-04:00Hey Hey They're The Monkees!<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPEEyaPbkOd8LKeHo8Vq9BYXmHNUbbobg1-Bf2T6g_KujthEv7d2mSfSDbrcMl_AZSZgrhX8ofR39E1jnFBLsthMM8FbQTV1vbWKME6NqLO_97Joz6Og8mmt90S8NOIPEfeS5NBM2jkxw/s2048/the-monkees.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1635" data-original-width="2048" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPEEyaPbkOd8LKeHo8Vq9BYXmHNUbbobg1-Bf2T6g_KujthEv7d2mSfSDbrcMl_AZSZgrhX8ofR39E1jnFBLsthMM8FbQTV1vbWKME6NqLO_97Joz6Og8mmt90S8NOIPEfeS5NBM2jkxw/s320/the-monkees.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The Monkees TV show was first shown in England in September 1966. I was twelve at the time so it was ok to like it. I was instantly a fan. I liked the clothes they wore, I liked how Peter Tork held a bass guitar, loved the big tambourine wielded by Davy, the English Monkee who came from Manchester like my family did, and had the added attraction of not being very tall just like me. They were a perfect pop group for a twelve year old - they got involved in all sorts of mad capers and looked good with guitars. And one of them wore a woolly bobble hat just like the kid down the road. That kid’s hat went from being a thing of ridicule to being decidedly cool almost overnight - suddenly I wanted one and got my grandmother to start knitting.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I watched the show every Saturday. I looked forward to it. Debate raged all around, mostly amongst older people - who did they think they were these Monkees? Were they as good as the Beatles? I didn’t care, I just sang along - <i>take the last train to Clarksville and I’ll meet you at the station</i> - I had no idea where Clarksville was but I’d be there if only I could. <i>Hey hey We’re The Monkees, I’m A Believer</i>… </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>I guess I should have stayed in bed my pillow wrapped around my head</i>… </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I could relate to that - my life was a living teenage hell - I had a bad time at school and things weren’t much better at home. I wished I could live in the Monkees’ wild western world of pop, and wear clothes with fringes or double rows of buttons.<br />
<br />
By the time the series ended in 1968 I was into the Jimi Hendrix Experience and early Pink Floyd. I started listening to John Peel’s radio show, <i>Top Gear</i>, and though I could never rebel completely against the top thirty singles chart, I was beginning to understand that some groups just weren’t cool, and that included the Monkees. The Monkees were a <i>teenybopper</i> group, as in not heavy, or even unlistenable. If the British gutter press was to be believed, <i>they didn’t play on their own records</i>, and word had it that <i>they couldn’t even play their instruments</i>. Definitely not cool.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Fortunately my pursuit of lofty and difficult listening didn’t last long, I learned to differentiate between great pop music and middle-of-the-road schlock and expanded my musical horizons to encompass anything from bubblegum to free jazz. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I became an art student, first in Bristol and then in Hull where I was enrolled on the fine art (painting and sculpture) diploma or degree course. That was a wild time. There were parties where the only records that were played were by Bo Diddley, the Velvet Underground and the Monkees. We loved the Monkees. We formed a group, Addis & The Flip Tops, named after the Addis Flip Top kitchen rubbish bin that was the drum kit at our first rehearsal. To begin with we were called Johnny Part Time & The Ready-Mades, but that was changed to the Home Mades because we’d concocted (I won’t say <i>composed</i>) a Monkees pastiche - <i>Hey Hey We’re The Home Mades</i>. That was as close as we ever got to playing a Monkees song, not that it was ever actually played - I don’t think it went further than being a scrawl on the back of a beermat. Which was probably just as well. We played Bo Diddley in the style of the Velvet Underground at art school dances. We would have liked to have been the Monkees complete with harmonies, outfits and madcap capers, but we were dirty, dissolute and unlistenable, and songs like theirs were musically beyond us.</span></p><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A few years later, sometime in 1979 or 80, I was in the Stiff Records office when a tall, lean and vaguely familiar looking man walked in. He approached the receptionist and said he had an appointment. ‘My name’s Micky Dolenz,’ he said in that slightly high but unassuming voice. So he really existed! I didn’t get up and say hello or anything, that would have been too weird, and fraught with potential embarrassment. I just tried to act cool like it was the most normal thing ever for a childhood hero to suddenly materialise as a slightly older real human being. But I was shocked, shocked and stunned. Very stunned in fact.<br />
<br />
A few years further on than that it was 1987, My life was impossibly dark and I had decided that for the good of all concerned I must never play music again because me playing music had brought nothing but misery to myself and anyone who had ever come in contact with it. I was having a nervous breakdown at the time but hadn’t quite realised it yet. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">At some point in the darkness I had a phone conversation with John Tobler who was a journalist at Music Week, the British music industry magazine. He said he’d been thinking about me because he’d just received a review copy of the Monkees comeback album and it had one of my songs on it. It seemed the Monkees had recorded a version of my song <i>Whole Wide World</i>. John gave me a number for the record label in Los Angeles, California, and instructed me to call and speak to Harold Bronsen, the director of Rhino Records. Harold was very pleased to hear from me and confirmed that the Monkees had indeed recorded <i>Whole Wide World</i> - Micky had sung it. Everybody loved the song. Me, I’d almost forgotten the song even existed.<br />
<br />
They promised to send me a copy of the album. I was walking on air - making lists in my head: <i>Last Train To Clarksville, I’m A Believer, Whole Wide World</i>… They always had the best songwriters working for them: <i>Goffin & King, Neil Diamond, Boyce & Hart, Me</i>…</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A week later an LP sized package arrived in the post. I tore it open with great excitement. My excitement was tempered by the front cover. The album was called Pool It! and there was a photo of three - not four - guys in a swimming pool. Everything seemed to be shades of bright blue and bright yellow - eighties garishness at its most er… <i>eighties</i>.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There was a track listing - yes, and there was my track <i>(I’d Go The) Whole Wide World</i> with my name in brackets next to it - track number two on the first side, so that was good. And there was an inner sleeve with a list of musicians credits. Michael Nesmith wasn’t on it and that was a minor disappointment because I was a fan of the First National Band - and wasn’t he the one of the four who could really play? But the producer was Roger Bechirian and I really liked him - he did The Jesus Of Cool and Nick The Knife with Nick Lowe, and Jumpin’ In The Night by the Flamin’ Groovies, and got that big drum sound - so this was very good sign indeed. I noticed that one of the songs was written by the songwriting team Fairweather Page with whom I had briefly come into collision when Stiff Records decided that as I had no talent or ability for writing tunes they were putting that chore in the hands of industry professionals. It hadn’t gone well. So that wobbled me a bit.<br />
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I put the record on and it was ok. It was great in fact, hearing the unmistakeable voice of Micky Dolenz singing my words, my tune, with that great big beat behind it. I was almost lifted out of the swampy waters of depression in which I was slowly drowning. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The album wasn’t particularly well received - it wasn’t one of their best - but I seem to remember they came over and played at Wembley Stadium. I didn’t go, I cracked up instead and spent some time in a psychiatric hospital.<br />
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People told me that it was really good for my career that the Monkees had covered one of my songs but I never capitalised on it. By the time I was out of hospital and in what you might call circulation again, any heat that may have been generated had died down. I wouldn’t have known how to <i>capitalise</i> anyway, but I’ve always been immensely proud that the Monkees have recorded one of my songs. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p></div><div><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We saw that the surviving Monkees, Micky Dolenz and Michael Nesmith, were doing a farewell tour. We’d been alerted to it by a Facebook post from their manager, Andrew Sandoval (who Amy knows), refuting some garbage claims that Michael Nesmith was a rock n roll slave, beset with dementia and being used to promote a tour of which he had no understanding or wish to participate in. We were quietly incensed by the idiocy of these claims and decided to see the tour for ourselves, so we got tickets for a show at the Tarrytown Music Hall.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Amy and I have always liked the Tarrytown Music Hall. We first went there to see Ian Hunter. I thought the place was called Terry Town and was quietly charmed by this, but disappointed when we got there to find it was just plain old Tarrytown. Tarrytown, New York. that was where we first met Ian Hunter, and subsequently saw Kris Kristofferson and later Steve Earle. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Tarrytown Music Hall was my introduction to the crampiness of ageing American audiences - the barked order from behind when the act comes back on for an encore following a standing ovation - <i>Sit Back Down!</i> The dads who bring disinterested ten year old sons to concerts in order to expose them to <i>good</i> music, and to instruct them in the ways of rock: ‘Now, that guy carrying the guitar, he’s a <i>roadie</i>…’</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Steve Earle launched into a speech concerning abortion rights. It went on for some considerable time and the atmosphere was…a little less than comfortable. You could hear the buzz and hum of amplifiers. Dissenting groans echoed around the hall, a commanding and flatly measured voice came from the back: 'JUST PLAY THE MUSIC' </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But much to my admiration he carried on...</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">An old guy in a mint green polo shirt, beige chinos with turn-ups, and large white trainers waddled down the aisle. In my imagination he looks more and more like an aged Homer Simpson. He waggled a finger at the stage, yelled ‘You’re dead to me!’ and waddled out into the night.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The audience for the Monkees were a lot less uptight. I don’t think there was anyone in there under the age of fifty and everyone was wearing a mask.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The stage set up looked very promising - everything packed in close and businesslike - no giant video screens and no room for choreographed dancing, unicycles, giant balloons…</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The lights went down and an announcement cam over the PA: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the Monkees present the Mike and Micky Show’. Musician’s in silhouette clambered into position and two figures appeared in a spotlight to the side of the stage. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It was them! Micky Dolenz in a long western coat, black hat, white shirt, Michael Nesmith looking almost scruffy by comparison in a brown velvet jacket with t shirt and black jeans, grey hair slicked back - a little frail but obviously pleased to be there.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">They kicked off with Good Clean Fun and were soon into Last Train To Clarksville. The band were noticeably cool and very groovy. A relief because there’s so often an element of <i>wrong</i> in these things:</span></p></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Steve Miller with a rhythm section who sounded like they’d never actually heard him before they got job, and possibly only got the job because for some reason nobody else wanted it.</span></i></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Ricki Lee Jones with a technical metal guitar player.</span></i></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Ari Up with a man on the bass who looked like he’d come round to put up a shelf and been co-opted into the band - 'Well. I can turn my hand to most things…’</span></i></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Tommy James with a random collection of Shondells including a drummer who sounded as though he was building a shed, and a faux hawk sporting guitar player who looked as though he would have preferred to be home in his garage working on a custom car, and punctuated each song with a blistering and entirely inappropriate guitar solo.</span></i></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The Mike & Micky Show didn’t have one of these. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Two guitar players, one of whom always seem to be playing a twelve string, an understatedly brilliant bassist, a pedal steel player doubling on acoustic guitar, a keyboard player, drummer, and a magnificent woman who played percussion and sang vocal harmonies along with one of the guitarists and the keyboardist.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I was immediately struck by Micky’s casual tambourine playing. It seemed to me that the tambourine is the key to the man - he is effortlessly rhythmic in everything he does - in his singing, even in the way he moves across the stage there’s grace and rhythm. With a maraca in each hand I felt that he made them sing. When the band was introduced the fabulous percussionist and harmony vocalist turned out to be his sister, Coco Dolenz. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It must be a family thing.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">They performed hit after hit - songs I knew so well, others I’d forgotten but which were so familiar - and just as I thought they surely must have run out of hits they busted out another one. I had forgotten all about the Peter Tork song <i>For Pete’s Sake</i> and maybe never knew it by that title - <i>in this generation, in this loving time we will make this world shine</i>… it was the play-out music on the second series of the Monkees TV show. <i>We were born to love one another and that’s something we all need</i>…it wasn’t a hit single, but somehow it’s always there, in the ether.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">At some point during the show Mike Nesmith made the point that the songwriters they were using , who were some of the very best America had to offer, were saying things in songs that were important and quite profound. He talked about how they were invited by their producers to participate, to share their ideas, but when Nesmith bought in songs he’d written they told him they didn’t need them - they’d already got that covered. One of these songs was Different Drum - he gave that one to Linda Ronstadt’s band, the Stone Poneys who had a huge hit with it. Suddenly they wanted his songs.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Micky talked about Nesmith encouraging the others to write songs because <i>that’s where the money is</i>. A timpani was bought on stage and Micky recalled being in London, England, and meeting the royal family.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> <br />
Nesmith began to list them - ‘Arthur, Janice, Pat…’</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">‘No,’ said Micky, ‘the other royal family - the Beatles.’</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The Beatles threw a party for the Monkees where Micky enjoyed himself a little too much and behaved badly. He went back to his hotel and wrote <i>Randy Scouse Git / Alternate Title</i>. He sang, played the timpani part, Mike did a wacky dance - perfect.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I could go on and on about the show but I feel I’m beginning to sound like a review in a regional newspaper, so I think I’ll stop. You get the idea anyway, and maybe you should go see them yourself if you can.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The Monkees are still often criticised or sidelined for not always playing the instruments on their records. As I understand it they had very little input on their first album and practically none on the second, but on their third album, Headquarters, from 1967, they played on all the tracks and had substantial songwriting credits. From then onwards they had artistic control. The Headquarters liner note begins with a statement: <i>We aren’t the only musicians on this album, but the occasional extra bass or horn player played under our direction, so that this is all ours</i>.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The Beach Boys never had to do this.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The Monkees crime against pop was that of being a manufactured group, and having a TV show. These things stygmatised them. But aren’t all groups manufactured in some way and to some extent? Double standards have prevailed - the Beatles have never had to seek forgiveness for that technicolour turd of a movie <i>Help!</i> - the Beach Boys have never had to justify the use of session men even though their main guy stayed at home and made the records while the band went on tour.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The Monkees quietly married pop to country with an unassuming psychedelic edge. They're a huge part of the fabric of popular music. And yet they haven’t even been inducted into the Rock n Roll Hall Of Fame - arguably a dubious honour, but one which should be theirs. The Beatles are in it in spite of <i>Help! </i>and so are the Beach Boys even though they didn’t play on their own records to a much greater degree than the Monkees. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p></div><div><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">While we were having dinner in a restaurant over the road before the show Amy was busy texting with her friend the manager/tour manager about the possibilities of meeting after the show. I was doubtful that this would happen given the circumstances and especially since the backstage at Tarrytown Music Hall is cramped at the best of times. I was utterly thrilled to bits when a text came through with a message from Micky about Whole Wide World: <i>Tell Eric it’s a great, great song</i></span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">After the show we met Micky Dolenz in the parking lot by the tour buses and had a masked conversation. He couldn’t have been more charming - he asked where we lived and where I came from, and waxed lyrical about Brighton where, he told us, he had directed his first documentary. He told me again how great Whole Wide World was and I thanked him for recording it and told him it means a lot to me that they did. He asked me what I thought of the show: ‘I absolutely loved it, I said, and then found myself saying ‘I was particularly struck by your tambourine playing.’ He looked crestfallen for a moment but he laughed and said he just taps the thing and tries to keep up. I said there was a whole lot more to it than that. I hope he understood the sincerity of the compliment. He fist bumped me three times.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I met Micky Dolenz. The twelve year old me is very impressed. The sixty-seven year old me is also quietly thrilled. I’m so happy that the two remaining Monkees are making such a good showing but I’m sad that it’s their farewell tour - I want to see them again. And again.</span></p></div></div><div><br /></div>Eric Gouldenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459329733145880773noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-352260481595161722.post-11339161759087811712021-09-08T13:15:00.005-04:002021-09-08T13:47:58.113-04:00Live Free And/Or Die<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNfr9VYroBsd5TpDFR04Nf8qnnqmpFQOu3hNaOGKM__oGDfW8qZeNhvLt6DCigOGC8O6jY4Kvk2ysDcDRxOhpEIXBeirP7Twrx1QQlhcIaPCkaow_JjGTQYTzvCJ78-cxAnOKOv0Yi2sU/s666/new+hampshire.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="666" height="139" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNfr9VYroBsd5TpDFR04Nf8qnnqmpFQOu3hNaOGKM__oGDfW8qZeNhvLt6DCigOGC8O6jY4Kvk2ysDcDRxOhpEIXBeirP7Twrx1QQlhcIaPCkaow_JjGTQYTzvCJ78-cxAnOKOv0Yi2sU/w203-h139/new+hampshire.jpg" width="203" /></a></div><p></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">We went to New Hampshire for a couple of days. I’ve never been to New Hampshire before and going there explained a lot about why that is. I usually get to go to places because someone wants me to play there but I can’t imagine there’s much of an audience for someone like me in New Hampshire, and so far no one’s invited me and given me the opportunity to find out. I imagine folk singers would do well here, and lounge music might be as far as it goes in a jazz direction. I don’t think I heard music being played in any form in the whole time we were there.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">We drove past a sign - <i>Welcome to New Hampshire</i> - with the New Hampshire strap line, slogan or motto <i>Live Free Or Die </i>underneath, and as if to underline the point an un-helmeted motorcyclist hurtled by, long hair blowing in the wind.<br />
<br />
No one wore a mask. It seems they don’t consider it necessary because the incidence of Covid-19 has been very low in New Hampshire. i wonder if this is because New Hampshire is a very un-garrulous sort of place - people don’t bray at each other in New Hampshire so they aren’t spraying each other with spit-born droplets of deadly virus. I don’t think they even go out. There was nothing much to do in our little corner of New Hampshire except walk by the ocean and try to figure out a way to get to the beach by clambering across a thousand mossy rocks.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I quickly gave up on the quest for a decent cup of coffee on the first morning. We went to the nearest big town, Portsmouth, New Hampshire. I didn’t hold out much hope and the coffee place I had pegged as the good one was closed for the day due to, according to the sign on the door, <i>exceptional circumstances</i>. We went to a cafe that was pretending to be German where I settled for a cup of sour black liquid and a catalogue danish pastry from the freezer to table range. The breakfast of depressives.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">It was strange spending a night away from home after all this time. Neither of us could sleep, even though New Hampshire was considerably cooler than the unbearably overheated upstate New York. It was nice to be in a room without a window-mounted air conditioner thrumming through the night. Instead there was an energy efficient heating and cooling unit high up on the wall, but although it was practically silent it had a huge illuminated temperature display that lit up the room with an eerie green glow and informed us that the temperature was still seventy-two degrees. After half an hour of trying to switch off the display we unplugged the unit and opened a window instead. Similarly the wall mounted TV had a red light that might have warned passing ships of the dangers of bedroom furniture. And in the kitchenette area a microwave with a digital clock display flashed on and off until I thought i might have an epileptic fit and got up to unplug the thing. It was a busy night.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">It’s all good practice for going on tour. In the past few years I’ve wondered if each tour I was about to embark on might be my last. And suddenly there was no touring. I did one final show, in an ex-freight depot in Cambridge, New York. Two days later I felt - if not unwell - decidedly not myself. I called the covid helpline where they told me I didn’t have Covid because my symptoms didn’t fall into line with the official Covid symptoms as they were then. They told me I’d probably got a cold but I didn’t believe them so I quarantined anyway. <br />
<br />
I felt better, and then I felt bad again, and this time I was able to go for a test. Two days later I was an official Covid victim. I felt exactly the same as I had the first time around, only this time the official symptoms had been brought into line with how I was feeling. I quarantined again. I felt better again, and then i felt worse - worse in fact than I’ve ever felt in my life - and one day after a few days of feeling utterly weird, and not being able to walk round the block without collapsing, my arms. legs and head were suddenly detached from whatever was left of me and making their own peculiar and fuzzy nonsense. I was riding along with Amy in her car at the time. She took me to the emergency room where they confirmed what Amy thought and I refused to believe - I was having a heart attack.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">So now the lung damage that caused the deoxygenated blood to clog up and damage my heart (40% blocked on one side, 100% on the other) is all repaired - I’ve made a full recovery. My cholesterol level is exactly where it should be, my blood pressure and heart rate are perfect and I’m fit and healthy and ready to tour my ass off. I still feel breathless, I still get unreasonably tired, I have a loose and intermittent cough, and need eight hours sleep where five used to be plenty, and all this has been attributed to Long Haul Covid which I’m not going to argue with as it seems there’s no other explanation, especially as I’m now off most of the post heart attack medication.<br />
<br />
Yes, I’m ready to tour my ass off - but that’s just bravado. The truth is I’ve never felt less ready or able, and the Delta Variant threat is adding an extra twist of hilarity. I’ve been trying to get in training for it. but as the weather has either been either excruciatingly hot or impossibly wet, walking or cycling hasn’t been an option so I’ve been going to the gym and clocking up miles on the treadmills. The gym really isn’t too bad - there never seem to be many people there. Older woman saunter on treadmills as they catch up with gossip, men of my age (and probably younger) put in time on the cross trainers wearing expressions of fearful determination because they’ve either been told they’ll have a heart attack if they don’t do something about it or they’ve already had one. And then there are the body builders and the body-beautiful people doing clever and esoteric stuff with the aid of benches and dumb bells. I wear headphones and zone out. I switch the TVs off, not just the one pertaining to my treadmill but the ones either side because I don’t want a home improvement show or Fox News flickering away in my peripheral vision. Sometimes, depending on what I’m listening to, I feel like I might be dancing on the treadmill but not when it’s Soft Machine Third.<br />
<br />
For the rest of it I’ve been trying to figure out how my songs go. It’s amazing what an eighteen month lay off will do. Amy told me muscle memory would kick in but it hardly ever does. I get the first line and hit a void. I don’t think this is an effect of Long Covid, I think it’s just a standard feature of being me. I’ve had to re-learn everything. A strange process, elating and depressing by turns. One day I’ll be thinking that some of this stuff is pretty good, and other days I’ll be thoroughly dismayed and downhearted at how lame it all is. The other day it occurred to me that these songs are my life’s work, and then I started to think about all the great things other people have done during the pandemic. To be honest I’ve found some of them quite annoying in their relentless pursuit of creativity - writing a song or a sonnet every day, posting a track a week on Bandcamp - you know the kind of thing - it’s very laudable but it’s all in the shop window. There’s sometimes a depth to a certain amount of privacy. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">On a bad day it seems to me that all I’ve achieved during the pandemic is to forget my life’s work. That and figure out how, with a couple of deft snips, a Sweetwater sticker can be turned into one that says <i>twat</i>.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmKNMEktH2U934YToKoJzF6biWYDWROnDTAtJjWnfdKAUIJx3rgljlB8bHggcv4ZevRUBd4fQq7uE8vX-SKPABMFOz3o2NgYv61BYzWDERrVdGs2fltyRBLn1qLOvGp6-dyBGxL8TyIwc/s1920/Untitled+design.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="452" data-original-width="1920" height="75" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmKNMEktH2U934YToKoJzF6biWYDWROnDTAtJjWnfdKAUIJx3rgljlB8bHggcv4ZevRUBd4fQq7uE8vX-SKPABMFOz3o2NgYv61BYzWDERrVdGs2fltyRBLn1qLOvGp6-dyBGxL8TyIwc/s320/Untitled+design.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I easily forget that I've recorded countless tracks - songs, instrumentals, weird electronic doodles and so on - some of which might even see the light of day <span style="font-family: helvetica;">on a new album; and that </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I’ve recorded an album with our friend the poet, Karen Schoemer; and even recorded enough basic tracks with Amy to make up half an album. Apart from that I’ve been slacking off, daydreaming and forgetting stuff. I spent an inordinate amount of time packing up posters and sending them out to promoters though that of appears to have been a waste of time because half of them are undelivered, lost in the wreckage of the post-Trump US Mail Service.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I've also been </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">called out for daring to suggest in one way or another that a certain aniti-vaxxing rock icon of the sixties and seventies would be a worthy recipient of the truncated Sweetwater sticker. I was told that I shouldn’t be in a creative industry.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I </span>think it’s time I got on with some work.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/2ER-2vRicH4" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>Eric Gouldenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459329733145880773noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-352260481595161722.post-63724709703910486902021-08-27T12:02:00.004-04:002021-08-27T12:07:09.746-04:00Charlie Watts 1941-2021<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXjr56id6PsDgQnQ5-I2qtvOziUlvR8CKeXSGlMT5pZDfBh_BNQn_YSXrzBOcK_FADsy3jdjg1Sx3FrwyZjUSSktLsk0_7eI-HAqb_2Zf0eJvXHqz1yPMNygvgHi3pKN0yVXzAvopn1Nw/s1200/charlie+watts.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXjr56id6PsDgQnQ5-I2qtvOziUlvR8CKeXSGlMT5pZDfBh_BNQn_YSXrzBOcK_FADsy3jdjg1Sx3FrwyZjUSSktLsk0_7eI-HAqb_2Zf0eJvXHqz1yPMNygvgHi3pKN0yVXzAvopn1Nw/s320/charlie+watts.webp" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">To begin with I took him for granted. The Rolling Stones made great records - that is their records got better and better - from <i>Come On</i> to <i>I Wanna Be Your Man</i> to <i>Not Fade Away</i> to <i>It's All Over Now</i> - better and better. I knew they had a drummer, you couldn’t miss him, the one sitting down at the back, sulky expression, hair not quite so <i>à la mode</i> as the others - but it took time to realise just how good he was. I was just getting started with music, I was nine years old when their first record came out.</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Pop groups were a new thing. There wasn’t anything much to measure anything against. They always had a drummer - The Beatles had Ringo Starr, The Kinks had Mick Avory, the Who had Keith Moon, The Small Faces had Kenny Jones, The Yardbirds had Jim McCarty… they were all good but I didn’t know that yet.</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Get Off My Cloud, Paint It Black, Have You Seen Your Mother?, Satisfaction</i>…</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">As the sixties progressed I was enamoured along with hundreds of others with the hyperactivity and dazzling dexterity of countless busy drummers. The Who and The Jimi Hendrix Experience exploded, Cream simultaneously impressed and bored the shit out of me, Bands skittered and skidded around, and frequently flew off the track, but through it all the Rolling Stones sat four square on the road, a big and powerful motor car rolling steadily through the night.</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I’m really not sure that i should continue with the car metaphor, but if i did then Charlie Watts would have to be the engine. Or possibly the driver. <br />
<br />
Let’s lose the car metaphor.</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Records by the Rolling Stones were fundamentally more propulsive than records by other groups. Perhaps Creedence Clearwater Revival came close, and later Canvey island’s very own Dr Feelgood, but no other band possessed a drummer of such elegance, grace, sophistication and outright drive.<br />
<br />
“Charlie’s good tonight,” Mick famously remarked on <i>Get Yer Ya-Ya’s Out!</i>. The Stones were not always good but I don’t think they were ever let down by the drummer. I don’t know, but I can imagine that Charlie was good every night.<br />
</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">In his wonderful book, <i>Life</i>, Keith Richards recalled following the cables and locating Charlie ensconced behind his kit in a far-flung cellar under the chateau where they were recording <i>Exile On Main Street</i>. Charlie Watts, suit and tie, the day’s newspaper spread across the kit, kettle coming to the boil on a Primus stove by his side. On time and ready to keep time. No need for a conversation, Charlie would, I imagine, know exactly what to do and what not to do.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">When the Rolling Stones celebrated an unprecedented twenty-five years Charlie summed it up as twenty years of waiting and five years of playing.</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE0_o-a0T7eHP86mdMb5iYGVDo_Uw_GT-58x68_cPTbb2OaFziyIY6OYHtcBGJclgqhpdHI6ORFoMZRW0QrOftwl-2T6IfxOXtfg7kYZ9gJ6ShwpY2hAuqhScVV1JmJVgGN1lrJ6GloH0/s890/charlie+2.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="534" data-original-width="890" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE0_o-a0T7eHP86mdMb5iYGVDo_Uw_GT-58x68_cPTbb2OaFziyIY6OYHtcBGJclgqhpdHI6ORFoMZRW0QrOftwl-2T6IfxOXtfg7kYZ9gJ6ShwpY2hAuqhScVV1JmJVgGN1lrJ6GloH0/s320/charlie+2.webp" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I often think of Charlie Watts making a drawing of the bed in his hotel room before he got into it to go to sleep.</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">In 1966 or ’67 he moved to Lewes in East Sussex, where I was currently suffering through school. Mick and Keith had been incarcerated in jail in Lewes pending sentencing following the 1967 drug bust. From the school playing fields you could just see the jail up there on the hill. I remember looking up at the prison in awe and disbelief. They were only there for two days but I think the local youth felt a special connection to the Stones, especially with the drummer living amongst us.</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Charlie Watts house was a charming cottage on the end of Southover High Street. The cottage fronted the road and the front door opened directly onto the pavement. There was a bus stop just along the road. As a teenager I caught the bus a couple of stops along from his house and took a seat on the top deck with the express intention of looking down into the windows of his house. <br />
<br />
Years later I became friends with Ian Dury. Ian was friends with Charlie’s wife, Shirley. They’d attended the Royal College Of Art together. Ian told me he used to visit them in Lewes. He talked about the bus stop, and how the bus would slow down outside the living room window and all these teenage boys would be looking down at them from the top deck. I shamefully admitted to having once been one of them, which Ian found highly amusing.<br />
</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I wasn’t going to put that bit in but I was…you know, a fan. I still am, I love them. Occasionally I loathe them, I get exasperated by them, and then I fall in love with them all over again… because although they don’t know it, and it probably wouldn’t make a drop of difference to them if they did, they’re family - they’ve been in my life since I was a nine year old and they’re family. <br />
<br />
I don’t know how you grieve for someone you’ve never met, and if it’s even appropriate. Charlie’s gone. The Stones will probably carry on until there are no Stones left. And then it’ll be the end of an era. I’m glad to have been around for it. Thank you Charlie - sorry about the bus stop thing. </span><br /></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/_q0EQk2Bt74" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>Eric Gouldenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459329733145880773noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-352260481595161722.post-6448979232758230732021-08-04T19:40:00.006-04:002022-03-15T17:52:40.533-04:00NYS Inspection - Good To Go<div class="separator"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDjeR1HZG_ug6QOnoc7Tpj_AhRP2-LaM5tz3AptXEDF8sFoTSJk3B5ZRJ3LKZWi6gI4iOxDm6-ysEfgqaZD9BdOYXpml7W-dIWUAgf75y4H734fdt9RoF5XAV5xAlIzsanFEKI3M4DY-E/s800/truck+1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDjeR1HZG_ug6QOnoc7Tpj_AhRP2-LaM5tz3AptXEDF8sFoTSJk3B5ZRJ3LKZWi6gI4iOxDm6-ysEfgqaZD9BdOYXpml7W-dIWUAgf75y4H734fdt9RoF5XAV5xAlIzsanFEKI3M4DY-E/s320/truck+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The truck needed an inspection. I took it along to the usual place where they were nice and a Hispanic American man used to take care of things. He isn’t there anymore. The whole cast of characters appears to have slowly changed along with the vibe. They have a reception now where once they had a grubby corner of the workshop. The reception is manned by a vicious-looking woman who has spent the pandemic wearing a mask under her bulbous nose. I think her sister, another bulbous under the nose mask women, works as the reception desk manner at the Family Health Clinic in Catskill where she has a <i>Make America Great Again</i> sticker cleverly concealed where you almost just can’t see it on the side of her filing cabinet.<br />There was a line of cars waiting to drive in for oil changes and to have tyres or bits of exhaust systems replaced. For New York State Inspections you used to have to leave the vehicle with them and come back later to get the good or bad news. I couldn’t get around them so I joined the line of cars and as the line wasn’t moving I got out of the truck and headed for the office where I told the the vicious woman I’d come for an inspection. She told me I had to join the line and there would be a three quarter hour wait. I asked if I could leave the truck with them. She looked at me as though I was crazy and said no.<br /> When I got back to the truck a bossy young man with a clipboard was yelling at Amy (who had come in her car to give me a ride home). He was telling her I couldn’t leave a vehicle unattended. Nothing had moved while I was away so I don’t know what he was getting upset about. I told him I’d come for the inspection and that I usually just left it with them.<br /> ’Not anymore buddy. We can’t risk having people park their vehicles here. You’ll just have to wait. It’ll be about an hour.’<br /> We left.<br /> I looked for another inspection place. There was Mavis where they’re very nice, very professional, and when you come in for an oil change there’s always something they need to show you, and you leave three hours later in a daze having paid seven hundred dollars for something that it later transpires didn’t need doing after all. There was one other place, tucked away between a gas station and the freight line. I gave them a call.<br /> The voice that answered didn’t seem to know what was what but somehow we established that they did New York State Inspections and the voice told me to come in at eight o’clock on Monday morning and tell them I’d called on Friday afternoon. No details were requested.<br /> Monday morning rolled around and I rolled out of bed into my clothes and into the truck and drove it around to the garage. It was an old freight depot. It looked like a bit of a dump, but unless they’re part of a corporate chain with enough melamine and plastic to disguise the crappiness, these places often do. I walked into a large entrance hall - greasy wood, pegboard, grimy linoleum, with a counter to one side. There was no one there. I waited. A man burst through a door clutching some papers, walked purposefully across the entrance hall and disappeared through another door completely ignoring me. I waited a while longer and another man appeared from some gloomy recess. He busied himself behind the counter stapling papers together and consulting a screen. Gnarly, unshaven, thick lenses in silver aviator frames. A sign pinned to the tongue and groove behind him said <i>Blessed Be The Name Of Our Lord Jesus Christ</i>.<br /> ‘Wadda you want?’<br /> I told him I’d come to get my truck inspected.<br /> ‘Keys?’<br /> He walked outside with an angry ape-like walk and scampered around the truck, looking at it. I asked permission to come back later. When I returned after an hour or so the truck was parked in exactly the same place as before sporting a new inspection certificate - good for a whole year.<br /> It took a while to pay because the card reader was on the same line as the phone and calls kept coming in.<br /> He sighed, almost apologetic - ‘I have to get this.’<br /> I’m good at joining in in these situations - ‘I bet it never stops’ I said.<br /> He laughed a frothy, unmasked laugh as though I’d said something hilarious.<br /> ‘You got that right boy!’Eric Gouldenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459329733145880773noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-352260481595161722.post-44112423000034554682021-07-09T16:10:00.002-04:002021-07-09T16:51:57.268-04:00Yesterday Has Gone<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXv7qkJ9BbXmf5atYe-RMzxdzAMrL7TQwzYHZJMUC6IXvKaf8f89VaH6_iqVtj6zEoBDD_6sWtHsM6YJuyCdojGnlJgPogKPMs4OtbhW8vEN7OVd_KUjTWjIV9ZMXeN59DkxnEkvb0j0E/s500/cupids-inspiration-yesterday-has-gone-dream-Cover-Art.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXv7qkJ9BbXmf5atYe-RMzxdzAMrL7TQwzYHZJMUC6IXvKaf8f89VaH6_iqVtj6zEoBDD_6sWtHsM6YJuyCdojGnlJgPogKPMs4OtbhW8vEN7OVd_KUjTWjIV9ZMXeN59DkxnEkvb0j0E/w217-h217/cupids-inspiration-yesterday-has-gone-dream-Cover-Art.webp" width="217" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Sixty-seven came as a shock. I used to be able to ignore my age, act like I was forty or possibly only thirty-seven, but since my heart attack I have to take medication morning and night - a twice daily reminder of the tenuous nature of my continuing existence. I wonder if I’m being had - am I a Big Pharma puppet? Three or four years ago, back when I was young, I didn’t even know what <i>Big Pharma</i> was. I’d quite possibly not even heard of it. I’m still not sure I know what it is, but it makes me think I sound as though I know what I’m talking about and that’s what us old folks do: we throw in the occasional word like <i>Google</i> or <i>Interweb</i> in the hope that we’ll delude ourselves into sounding like we haven’t completely lost touch.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">And we’re hip to some pretty far out sounds too, like Radiohead and <i>Dark Side Of The Moon</i>. And sometimes we get a lucky break, a chance to impress a young hipster with our knowledge of <i>The Yes Album</i> or some other such nonsense.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I should be clear at this point - I was never much into Radiohead - some bands wear their cleverness like a badge of honour and I don’t like that. I prefer something more rabid, more visceral. I prefer the Troggs to Talking Heads. And I don’t go for too many words -<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’m more Donald Judd than I am Willem de Kooning. I’ll take a five minute opus and turn it into a one minute and twenty seven second perfect pop experience, but I’ll make one chord last for seven minutes.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">And while I’m on the subject: the Pink Floyd left me behind with the album with the cow on the front cover - <i>Atom Heart Mother</i> - though I do like <i>Fat Old Sun</i>. The first thing the Floyd did that really disappointed me was <i>The Nile Song</i>. I’d loved them for sounding completely unlike anyone else, but suddenly they sounded utterly normal. This was around the time a friend of mine reported seeing them in the bar at the Brighton Dome where they were hanging out before a show drinking beer and talking about football. At the impressionable age of sixteen I found this deeply disconcerting - I wanted them to be above such things.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I feel I’m finally allowed to say these things, not that I didn’t say them before - I was a willful and contrary young man. I’ve skipped over adult maturity and gone straight from adolescence to <i>elderhood</i> and now I can say what the fuck I like. As I said before, the onset of old or older age has come as a shock, but I’m determined to make the most of it. I’ve been studying the bastards and I think I’ve got it down:<br /><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">They say <i>OOH</i> when they get out of a chair and <i>AAH</i> when they sit back down again. They indicate the seat as they exit a vehicle, casually remarking: <i>don’t worry about that, it’ll soon dry off</i>. And on entering a vehicle they place a newspaper on the seat with the observation: <i>I see you’ve had Mr Braithwaite in the car again</i>.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">They call it gallows humour but I’m not going to call it that, possibly for the same reason that I sometimes feel like kicking someone in the nuts for saying the word <i>Tetris</i> when I’m loading my car after a gig. It’s a cliche, a laziness - it’s not some mind boggling feat of utter genius to fit everything into the trunk or boot of a car when you’ve just done it for twenty-seven consecutive nights, anymore than I’m about to march up the steps to the gallows. I’m actually staring down a long shady road and at a distant destination. So that should be <i>final destination humour</i> and <i>common sense</i>. Though we could also lose the word <i>humour</i> here because the fun drops out of any situation once that word gets used.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I don’t know where I’m going with this but I think I’m done with the business of getting old - I’ve done it to death, so perhaps it’s time to move on.<br /><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I’m left thinking about <i>The Long & Winding Road</i> by the Beatles - one of those records that puts me in mind of wet Monday mornings. Before anyone accuses me of dissing the Beatles I should say it's mostly the fault of the schmaltzy Spectorian production. There’s nothing like an early morning orchestra to induce queasiness. The Long & Winding Road came out in 1970 and Tony Blackburn played it to death on his early morning show on Wonderful Radio One. I was sixteen at the time and the only reasons I could think of for going to school on those mornings was that there’d be girls there. And it might be better than spending a day at home in Peacehaven.<br /><br />Because I’m all for rethinking my position these days I decided to watch Let It Be again. The accepted shorthand is that it’s a depressing end to a glittering career, a gloomy and largely unnecessary document of a bitter break up. I watched it while Amy was away. It was almost a guilty pleasure. Amy’s daughter, Hazel, who was staying with us at the time opted for staying in her room and watching <i>The Rocky Horror Picture Show.</i> So for an evening the house was full of grim and tacit disapproval tempered with gudging tolerence and a spirit of live and let live.<br /><br />I really, really enjoyed Let It Be. I recognised the tedium of long recording sessions, the boredom, the waiting while someone thrashes out some musical technicality, the anxieties over direction and content, the edginess that creeps in before someone suggests taking a break and getting something to eat. And I saw four young men who knew each other well enough to not always treat each other gently. And the rooftop gig, a sonic harbinger of or precursor to shabby chic, was glorious and made me feel quite emotional.<br /><br />I’m going to do some shows. I’ve been practising and preparing and I’m quite alarmed at how much I appear to have forgotten in the last year and a half. Not because of creeping dementia or something sinister of that nature - the truth is the only information I’ve ever been able to retain in my head is useless stuff about obscure bands and pop records of the sixties and seventies. I could tell you all about <i>Yesterday Has Gone</i> by Cupid’s Inspiration on the NEMS label with featured vocalist Terry Rice-Milton, or that the b side of <i>Baby Come Back</i> by the Equals is <i>Hold Me Closer</i> and how there was a newspaper article about them back in the day where they said that <i>Baby Come Back</i> was done in one take and they didn’t even know the tape was rolling….I can’t remember what newspaper that was in but you get the idea. It could be my specialist subject if ever I was stupid enough to go on Mastermind. But for anything more up to date and topical like <i>what did I do last week?</i> or <i>what the fuck did I just walk into this room for?</i> my mind is a blank. I could read the same book or watch the same film over and over and it would still only invoke a frisson of some book or film that I can’t quite bring to mind.<br /><br />So where was I? You thought I’d lost the thread didn’t you? But I haven’t, I’ve just forgotten how the songs go. I’m spending hours trying to work out lost chords and second guessing myself, and being alternately amazed by my utter brilliance and dumbfounded and downcast by my complete lack of any obvious talent or ability.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">It’s a rollercoaster, it really is. I’ve taken to writing the songs down in a large notebook with the chords pencilled in on top. Just in case, because I can’t keep going through this every time there’s a pandemic. Or a hiatus. I could type and tap them out on the computer but that wouldn’t help me to learn them the way that drawing each word with an implement does.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The first lesson on my first day at an Art College was called <i>Making Marks</i>. That’s all there was to it, making marks - we’ve been doing that since the first human creature scratched a line on the wall of a cave. You can make a mark with a rock or a pencil, a stick or an aerosol can - you can maybe even make your mark with a computer, but I don’t think it’ll be memorable in the way it is when you scribble and scrawl and etch it out with an implement.<br /><br />Computerising the lyrics to my songs would be a step along the way to printing them all out and putting them all in a ring file binder and placing them on a music stand…I can’t allow that to happen. Don’t get me started on the music stand brigade.<br /><br /></span></p><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/q7yqrnVyJec" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>Eric Gouldenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459329733145880773noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-352260481595161722.post-26717493497504265202021-05-03T18:32:00.008-04:002021-05-07T22:35:37.621-04:00Lew Lewis 1953 - 2021<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGp0JnjRopYIdPGD6dznOj35cX4tc7_lW-sINpwp0sJ-DVjAntak-ovcrGRwLXyd4EMhnA7dhYTwY5aUGzqc0Ghq7ECHOlSHu6sxFTr3uw8mWw36LnZi23yvHyngi5ofRsvjur1ppvyOU/s600/lew+front.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGp0JnjRopYIdPGD6dznOj35cX4tc7_lW-sINpwp0sJ-DVjAntak-ovcrGRwLXyd4EMhnA7dhYTwY5aUGzqc0Ghq7ECHOlSHu6sxFTr3uw8mWw36LnZi23yvHyngi5ofRsvjur1ppvyOU/s320/lew+front.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />The following piece isn't meant as an obituary or a tribute, it’s a piece about Lew Lewis, about my intersection with Lew, and about the times in general.</span></span></div><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />I first met Lew Lewis in 1976. I knew about him - he played the harmonica with Eddie & The Hot Rods, except when I saw them in Hull in February 1976 there were only four of them and none of them was Lew.<br /><br />I met Lew in the bar of the Victoria Theatre in London at a Graham Parker & The Rumour show. I’d just recorded <i>Whole Wide World</i> for Stiff Records. I'd just met Lee Brilleaux of Dr Feelgood and that was a big deal - Lee had funded Stiff Records start-up with £400 and a camera so he was obviously interested in what what was going on. He walked up to me, said: ‘Hello Eric, my name’s Lee Brilleaux, I’ve heard a lot of good things about you and I’m very pleased to meet you.’ He was forthright and gentlemanly. I nearly fell through the floor because I’d been a fan since the day their first album came out - Dr Feelgood were gods to me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Lew was Lee’s designated driver for the evening. He’d made a record for Stiff too - <i>Boogie On The Street / Caravan Man</i>. It was already out and I’d been playing it to death for weeks. It was apparently recorded straight to two track on a Revox tape machine in the Feelgoods headquarters and rehearsal place. <i>Boogie On The Street</i> sounded like Canned Heat reinvented as a garage band. I’ve always been puzzled as to why it was the A side because the B side, <i>Caravan Man</i> is utterly groovy and there’s enough of it for <i>Caravan Man Parts 1 & 2</i>. It’s a crazy record - frenetic and vaguely formless, r n b meets uptown dub in a downtown Canvey Island setting with one ranted verse that I’ve never even begun to decipher in forty four years.<br /><br /></span><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/QTKTIOSEE-4" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Lew was scary (at least to me he was, but I was scared of everyone back then). He was wiry, tense and twitchy and spoke in frenetic and violent bursts that echoed his harmonica playing. He vibrated with an unseen electrical energy, looking this way and that in all directions at once. There was a suggestion of flick knives, knuckle dusters, the seemy side of the race track, and dodgy deals done late at night at all-night card games. A dark and frightening but tantalizing world that I was not privy too. And yet he was an absolute gentleman and we somehow hit it off.<br /><br /></span></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I asked him why he was no longer a member of Eddie & The Hot Rods. He stopped vibrating for a moment, snarled, said: ‘Barrie Masters can’t do this’ and proceeded to backflip his way down the length of the bar and back.</span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I didn’t see Lew again for a while - things got busy and he didn’t last long on Stiff Records. When Jake Riviera left Stiff Records it ceased to be the renegade label of old even though it traded on that reputation for quite a while. But the truth is the new semi-corporate Stiff didn’t like artists that were a problem, and Lew was definitely one of those.<br /><br />At some point I heard he was back at his old job working as a roofer.</span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Then there was the Lew Lewis Reformer. They made an album and were back on Stiff: <i>Save The Wail</i> - raw and exciting, everything that most Stiff Records weren’t by that time. Lew used the advance money to buy a long wheel base Transit van which he fitted out for touring. It had luxury seats and a special bracket above the windscreen to hold the biggest boombox I’d ever seen. They’d come by the Stiff office sometimes - zip in and out in Harrington jackets, Sta-Prest trousers and monkey boots, on their way to a gig in Harlow or Exeter or somewhere, always on the move, Caravan Man. The Lew Lewis Reformer appeared to have complete autonomy and I envied them that, but the sad truth is I don’t think anyone at the label really cared.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Early in 1980 I did a show in France with the Lew Lewis Reformer, a TV special filmed at Olympia in Paris. It was a strange bill - Don Cherry was the headliner, I was in the middle and the Reformer opened the show. We flew in and our flight was delayed. Lew and his gang got there before us and hijacked my limousine - I was at the flashpoint of my brief pop star career at the time but I had to get a taxi from the airport. The Reformer had apparently flown from Southend in a privately owned plane. I was already completely outclassed.<br /><br />Later we were in the backstage getting ready while Lew was on. There was a TV monitor and I was keeping one eye on the show. Lew stood at the microphone between songs: ‘This one’s called <i>Do Just What You Want</i>.’ He disappeared and his feet sailed across the screen. He arrived back in the shot blowing up a storm on the harmonica and I knew we lost the night before we’d even started. They were on that night and we weren’t - we’d had a week off so we were out of practice. Lew’s set was astonishing as it so often was. After the show he disappeared into the night. He arrived<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>back at the hotel at breakfast time, bedraggled, having slept under the Eiffel Tower after a night of unimaginable capers in the City Of Lights. <br /><br /></span><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/hEgBDoHDkQk" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />We played another time in Paris with Lew, at a big festival somewhere in the suburbs - ZZ Top, Madness, Lene Lovich... I took a lower billing rather than follow him, and it seemed for a moment that I’d shot myself in the foot - they seemed tired and road weary. It just didn’t seem to be happening until Lee Brilleaux joined them for a monumental dual harmonica breakdown. That gave them the kick they needed - they were unbeatable and I knew I’d made the right decision.</span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />Lew dropped out of sight and I heard he was back in the roofing game. His guitar player, Rick Taylor, asked me if I needed a band. If I’m honest I needed a band like I needed a hole in the head at the time - I had no record deal and the prospects weren’t looking good. But it was fun hanging out with Rick and then Lew's drummer, Buzz Barwell, came around and I had a bass player, and suddenly we were a band and we rehearsed and then we were out playing every night on a seemingly endless round of scuzzy gigs for diminishing returns - on the road to absolutely nowhere with no record deal and a suited idiot for a manager.<br /><br />We were unstoppable of course but I couldn’t help sometimes thinking they’d be better with Lew at the front rather than me. We all had horrific and hilarious tales of life on the road. I loved hearing Rick and Buzz talking about life with Lew. It sounded like a waking nightmare but they only ever spoke of him with deep and abiding affection.<br /><br />And then we dropped out of sight, and I dropped out of sight and the bottom dropped out of it all and I became a sound engineer and then I decided to give up the music business for good as we all do from time to time (that lasted for five minutes). And sometime in the middle of all that Lew had joined forces with Wilko Johnson. I saw them at Maidstone Technical College and it was like watching a pop-up lunatic asylum. When they started the audience - a collection of post-adolescent moustache growers - took a step back and stood transfixed. They were one of the most menacing outfits I’ve ever seen.<br /><br />Time went on and Lew wasn’t playing with Wilko anymore which didn’t surprise me - backstage at Maidstone Technical College had been almost as entertaining as the show itself. The dressing room was a large empty classroom with chairs and benches lining the walls, and a vast expanse of parquet floor. The bass player lay sleeping on a bench in one corner, the drummer in the opposite corner. I sat with Lew in the third corner, with Wilko diagonally opposite. Wilko was at his most scary - it’s hard to align the funny, charming and garrulous Game Of Thrones Wilko of today with the Wilko from back then, imperious, unpredictable, eyes blazing… I was terrified of him.<br /><br />That night in Maidstone could have served as a masterclass in why being in a band is not always a good idea, and what sometimes makes bands so great: Four people who can barely tolerate being in each other’s presence, some with fairly substantial personal issues and habits, forced to share the confines of a fast moving Transit van for hours at a stretch, shovelled into mundane and often squalid backstage rooms and overnight accommodations, and then, for an hour or so every night let loose onstage to do the business. The results are often spectacular but the cost can be very high indeed.</span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Lew fell off the map - or at least he fell off the map that I was busy falling off myself. I heard tales that may have been embellished as these things so often are: Lew burning the furniture to keep his family warm…answering the door to his piano player to find he was visiting in his official capacity as a VAT inspector…<br /><br />The slope is slippery and once you’re on it there’s no telling how far you’re going fall or where you’re going to land. In my own case I was lucky enough to land on a ledge, and once rescue arrived the recovery was slow but fairly successful. I don’t really want to go into what happened to Lew because it’s not the way he should be remembered. He was driven to a most desperate edge and I think the system failed him. He needed help, he needed compassion. The system didn’t give him either.<br /><br />To his enduring credit he came back from it. The last time I met Lew he was quieter - not subdued - but older and wiser with a gentleness that had never been immediately apparent. He got himself together - he even went and played in Japan (which is something I’ve never managed). I’m sad to see him gone but I’m glad that he made it through. I hope he found some inner peace.<br /><br /></span></span></p><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/-phHN0VM46w" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>Eric Gouldenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459329733145880773noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-352260481595161722.post-11100812997849399972021-04-12T16:49:00.010-04:002021-04-13T11:31:15.133-04:00A Right Royal Occasion<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I imagine that my mother, wherever she is, will be very pleased. In the last year or so of her life, in the grip of dementia, she and Prince Philip became great friends. It started with a phone call from an aide at Buckingham Palace - he asked how she was and after an exchange of pleasantries he said the Queen would like to speak to her and would that be alright. My mother said ‘yes, that’d be fine, put her on’. The aide passed the phone to the Queen, she and my mother had a chat, and the Queen promised to keep in touch.<br /></span><br /><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The Queen proved to be a bit flaky in that regard but Prince Philip, the Duke Of Edinburgh, was, in my mother’s words, <i>an absolute brick</i> - he called her regularly and they had great chats.</span><br /><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">‘He’s not at all like you’d imagine’ she explained, ‘he calls me <i>love…</i>’<br /></span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I never met the Duke of Edinburgh myself, but he did once visit my school. I think he was coming to present a Duke Of Edinburgh Award or some such nonsense. I was sixteen at the time and full of a newly discovered and seething hatred for the establishment.<br /></span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The Duke would be arriving by helicoptor and touching down on the rugby pitch. It was May and the weather had been intermittently sunny and wet so the grass on the rugby pitch was thick and luxurient. The groundsman, a simple and justifiably belligerant man who we called Happy Harry, was detailed off to mow the grass and paint a large H in a circle in the middle of of the pitch so the helicoptor pilot would know where to land.<br /></span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">There was huge excitement amongst the staff at the newly formed Priory Comprehensive School. The school was an amalgamation of the County Grammar School for Boys, the County Grammar School for Girls, and the Secondary Modern School, where the girls and boys who were not considered bright enough to merit an academic education had enjoyed being girls and boys together, along with woodwork classes, cookery classes, and plenty of evenings with no homework in which to watch <i>Top Of The Pops</i>.<br /></span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The grammar school residue among the staff were particularly excited - they’d always tried to run things on the lines of a public school (as in Eton or Harrow), so a visit from a major league royal was something of a feather in the cap. The headmaster, the deputy head, heads of departments and the entire teaching staff along with a host of local dignitaries, the Lord and Lady Mayor, the local member of Parliament (<i>the Right Honorable Tufton Beamish, Conservative</i>) lined up along the edge of the rugby ready to greet the Prince as he walked from the helicoptor.<br /></span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The helicoptor circled around high in the sky, positioned itself over the rugby field and swooped into its final descent. It landed fair and square on the temporary H in the circle. The rotor blades whipped up the wet grass clippings and sent them splattering into the faces of all and sundry.<br /></span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">It was one of the best days of my entire school life.</span></div><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px; text-align: left;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px; text-align: left;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span></p>Eric Gouldenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459329733145880773noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-352260481595161722.post-17345912122905747612021-04-02T15:37:00.011-04:002021-04-02T20:43:00.965-04:00When I Was A Young Boy...<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/1d6iRjYy7mI" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe><p></p><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px;">I just realised, as I do at this time every year, that today (well yesterday technically) is the anniversary of my first ever record release. April 1st 1977 - it’s forty-four years today since </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px;">Whole Wide World</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px;"> came out on the </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px;">Bunch Of Stiffs</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px;"> compilation. Happy anniversary April Fool…<br /><br /></span><span class="s1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-kerning: none;">I sometimes wonder if my debut on such a day blighted my career. It’s a thought that I quickly put out of my mind because it’s not going to do much good - you can’t change the past. I'd prefer focus on the more positive aspects and learn to enjoy them. <i>Whole Wide World</i> or <i>Go The Whole Wide World </i>as it was originally titled was incredibly well received - it took everyone by surprise. It was John Peel’s favourite track on the album, it was singled out in all the reviews and plastered all over the airwaves. I went from being some div cluttering up the Stiff office in the hope of being noticed to being an overnight sensation. <br /><br />They actually took time to talk to me:<p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">‘We need to put this out as a forty-five - have you got a B side?’</span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">‘Yes’ I said, suddenly inspired with confidence. ‘It’s called <i>Semaphore Signals</i>’. <br /><br /></span></p>Arrangements were made and two days after my birthday on May 20th 1977 we went into Alvic, a four track studio in Wimbledon, and recorded <i>Semaphore Signals</i>. Denise Roudette on the bass, Ian Dury on the drums and me on my Top Twenty guitar through the Hohner Orgaphon amp with its jukebox speakers. Ian was the producer because he was the oldest and he’d been in a few recording studios before with his now defunct group, <i>Kilburn & The High Roads</i>. He also knew his way around Alvic because for the past year he’d been recording demos there for what would become the huge selling <i>New Boots & Panties</i>. <br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Ian was very focused, not lost, but riding an edge of desperation.The record companies weren’t interested - a typical reaction came from Dick James - ‘Ian Drury [sic] - talented boy - spastic isn’t he?’ </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">He wound up being my drummer and later producer because Nick Lowe introduced us and Ian thought I was as weird as he was so we quickly became friends and started hanging out together. He took me under his wing - he was probably hedging his bets in case he had to make a sideways move into artist management and production. He was my mentor. He could be a complete pain in the arse - a difficult man born of a difficult past, a polio victim since the age of seven, twisted, bitter and occasionally downright evil. He was also one of the kindest, caring and most loving people I’d ever met, and great fun to be with. Even though it seemed at times that everything was some sort of test designed to make you fall over so he’d have the perverse pleasure of watching you struggle to get up again. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Because that’s what he’d learned at Chailey Heritage. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Chailey Heritage was in East Sussex close to where I grew up and went to school. It was renowned locally as a dumping place for the mentally and physically unfortunate. We had no idea what went on there, who the inmates were, or what had caused them to be incarcerated there. We were totally ignorant of all that but Chailey Heritage was woven into our folklore and vernacular: </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times;">Lewes County Grammar School For Boys. </span><br /><span style="font-family: times;">The place was fucking ludicrous. They didn’t play football, they played rugby. I say <i>they</i> because I didn’t – not if I could help it anyway. It was always mid-November. Standing around on a field of torn-up turf and mud, with a big white H at either end. H for Hellbound, He-man, Homo, Hypocritical, unHappy, Hard-Hearted, Hurtful and Humiliating… <br />The wind whipped across the field. It was getting dark and the lights were on in the classrooms. The silly oval ball came lolloping over and I got out of the way so that some other, keener boy could dive on it, face first in the mud. <br />‘You’re useless. Why don’t you go and play tiddlywinks with the spastics at Chailey Heritage.’ <br />I started to walk away. I felt like crying. Not because I was useless – but because I just wanted to be somewhere else – anywhere but here. The games master sprinted across the pitch in his tracksuit. (Oh yes, he got to wear a tracksuit while we froze our bollocks off in silly black shorts and blue and black striped Bukta rugby shirts.) He came to a halt in a flurry of shrill whistles:<br />‘GOULDEN! WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?’ <br />‘I’m off to play tiddlywinks with the spastics at Chailey Heritage. Sir.’ <br />Ten laps of the rugby pitch while everyone else had a shower, but at least I missed the wanking. The games master used to stand at the entrance to the shower making sure that every naked boy went through. He didn’t mind how long you stayed in there, in amongst the steam and naked pubescent flesh. He must have seen the wanking. He was probably quite pleased about it, because that’s what we were aspiring to – Public School Traditions. And if boys couldn’t warm up toilet seats for older boys, the least they could do was wank each other off. </span><br /><i><span style="font-family: times;">extract from A Dysfunctional Success, Eric Goulden 2002 <br /></span></i><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br />At some point towards the end of my time at school I met a jazz fan, a man called Stan. Stan was short, burly, walked with the aid of two forearm crutches, and was incredibly jolly. He travelled all over South East England in a blue invalid carriage (which he reckoned he could get forty-five miles an hour out of with luck and a following wind) in search of live jazz and good times. Stan had been in Chailey Heritage. I never knew why - it wasn’t the sort of thing you could ask about. We’d been well brought up - you didn’t stare at a metal and brown leather leg brace or ask searching questions. I still tend not to ask searching questions but I’d be much more likely to stare at a leg brace, principally because you just don’t see them anymore - the metal and brown leather leg brace has gone the way of white dog shit and that clipped British accent peculiar to BBC radio announcers of yore. <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />Ian didn’t wait to not be asked, he talked quite openly about deformity, disability and the horrors of Chailey Heritage. If someone fell over the house rule was that you didn’t help them get back up again, they had to do it for themselves, even if it took them all day, which it often did. They had fighting too, just like at our school, but there the kids fought each other sitting side by side though they were no less brutal for that. He told me that some of his Chailey Heritage peers were so badly afflicted that they couldn’t pleasure themselves so you sometimes had to give them a helping hand. I’d never in my life heard anyone talk of these things. Chailey Heritage made Ian tough and maybe a little cruel. Stan the jazz fan was tough in a different way but they were both resiliant. <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />Ian died twenty-one years ago - March 27th 2000. It was the anniversary of his death just the other day. I didn’t do anything to mark it other than quietly think about him in my own head. I’d prefer to remember him alive and driving us all slightly fucking mad. Scary and lovely, with the best advice anyone ever gave me: </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">look after your talent and your talent will look after you</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">. I’m trying Ian, I’m trying, though sometimes I think the talent’s run off and found a better billet elsewhere. <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />I don’t know whatever happened to Stan but those blue invalid carriages have gone the way of the metal and brown leather leg brace, white dog shit, and the clipped BBC accent. <br /><br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAA62mFF2VW3hMdAm-ScLcXplMtdbLImK2qRhD8H8k5a5du4cshDMAYfm2U9xzOLi1ppgU-vjR32B1Av77A0R7IU4UO91SiuHSJofIoIdOUbkw-QZzBwBKJzbCq-Kj6OEs_OLHv2zGsxo/s976/invacar.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="549" data-original-width="976" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAA62mFF2VW3hMdAm-ScLcXplMtdbLImK2qRhD8H8k5a5du4cshDMAYfm2U9xzOLi1ppgU-vjR32B1Av77A0R7IU4UO91SiuHSJofIoIdOUbkw-QZzBwBKJzbCq-Kj6OEs_OLHv2zGsxo/s320/invacar.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />I wish I could have got beyond my ingrained tendancy to not ask searching questions in everyday life - I worry that people might think I’m not interested in who they are - it’s not the case, I am but I don’t want to be rude. Professionally it would have helped me immeasurably if I’d learned over the years to ask </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">Mr Nice</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"> and </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">Mr Smiley-Goodvibe</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"> just what they did before they started </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">Shyster Records</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">: </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">We were fraud </i><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">specialists </i><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">working for an organised crime syndicate</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">. I mean, they were bound to have owned up to that, weren’t they? But I at least wish I'd been forward enough to ask the question.<br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />I feel proud and happy to still be making records all these years later but these feelings are tempered by ever present self-doubt - </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">perhaps my detractors were right, I’m an also-ran, a desperate and deluded no-talent who should have long since given up</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">. I don’t know how the fuck I’ve got away with this for all these years </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">but somehow I've kept going. I'm glad I did. <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />It's Casual Friday over at Bandcamp today (Friday April 2nd). They don't take any commission for an entire day which means people like me get all the proceeds from the mega-tons of product that are bound to shift on such a day. I'm trying my best here - you won't, to paraphrase an A&R man, <i>find another Whole Wide World in there,</i> but you could augment or enhance your collection and help me make some room in the basement for the next unsung and unsold album, the one I'm working on right now. The postage and packing for everywhere that isn't the United States is obscenely, prohibitively expensive so if you don't live in the USA please accept my apology and ignore this entire paragraph and sales pitch. Unless of course you're made of money, in which case flop out yer wallet. Here's the linkage: <a href="https://wrecklesseric.bandcamp.com/merch">https://wrecklesseric.bandcamp.com/merch</a> <br /><br />Also <i>The Good Lyre</i>, a compilation of songs by Wes Stace / Jon Wesley Harding and featuring The Minus 5, Graham Parker, Josh Ritter and a host of other luminaries. I do a version of Sick Organism. All proceeds to Sweet Relief, a fund that helps cover musicians medical bills. <a href="https://johnwesleyharding.bandcamp.com/track/wreckless-eric-sick-organism">https://johnwesleyharding.bandcamp.com/track/wreckless-eric-sick-organism</a></span></div><p><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px;"><br /><br /></span></p>Eric Gouldenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459329733145880773noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-352260481595161722.post-8836518028488697082021-03-27T00:09:00.024-04:002021-03-29T13:09:15.367-04:00Acceptance<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUPM-oT567yNX_UyzVvyhVxhjLyX5HL3nIGxvhKancIxNfdBqKBn-o4VP2kIUxt8M1HdKHwOzf9xkuFkOW_WRftwpGmu_rCTGv_FwRJMWQZ3j1Bs5DrwatzaWAExopEN-tIKMPItSt_pQ/s2048/C86BDF6D-7343-498C-98D4-9EA253CB645E.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUPM-oT567yNX_UyzVvyhVxhjLyX5HL3nIGxvhKancIxNfdBqKBn-o4VP2kIUxt8M1HdKHwOzf9xkuFkOW_WRftwpGmu_rCTGv_FwRJMWQZ3j1Bs5DrwatzaWAExopEN-tIKMPItSt_pQ/w249-h249/C86BDF6D-7343-498C-98D4-9EA253CB645E.jpg" width="249" /></span></a></div></div><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: arial; font-kerning: none;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">It occurs to me that this is the longest time I’ve spent in one place as in </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">woken up in the same bed, in the same room, in the same house, in the same town</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> since sometime in my childhood, and even then there were breaks - nights with grandparents, summer holidays in caravans, even nights sleeping in a tent in the back garden. But since I came back from England at the end of February 2020 the only break in the continuity has been two nights in a hospital in Albany in the wake of my oft touted heart attack.<br /></span><br />I don’t mind. At least I don’t think I mind. I’ve always adapted to the circumstances in which I find myself with some kind of vague acceptance of the situation - <i>I’m travelling in a van reclined on a pile of amplifiers and speaker cabinets…I’m fully-clothed and splayed out on a hotel bed that’s little more than springs covered by a poly-cotton sheet, I can’t sleep and I’m hoping the morning comes around pretty soon so I can get up and face a day of weary abstractedness…I came home from a tour in the middle of a night and put my bag down in a doorway and I’ve been stepping over it to get from room to room for three full days and now and I'm quite used</i>…<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: arial; font-kerning: none;">It's the same with the pandemic - for the most part it feels like a vague inconvenience. I sometimes forget my mask and have to turn around, go home and get it. I have to drink my espresso outside in the bitter cold, I haven’t seen my grandchildren for close on eighteen months and it’s quietly breaking my three-stented heart.<br /><br />I think I’d like to go on tour - I like driving a fast car fast, being in one place and arriving in another, the tawdry thrill of the soon to be discovered glumness behind the door of a hotel room, the promise of a venue I’ve been told I’m going to love - I arrive to find there’s no stage, the PA is a glorified hi fi and I’m sharing the bill with four bands and a fire eater… I think I miss all this crap but I don’t think about it much.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: arial; font-kerning: none;">I’m happy enough staying home, just me and Amy most of the time. She’s upstairs writing a book or putting the finishing touches to another song or a podcast, I’m downstairs cooking up some infernal din with the naysaying detractors whispering in my head: <i>you know, this would go better if you actually had a song</i>…<i>you should really get a bass player and a drummer instead of messing about with that drum machine and playing the bass yourself</i>…</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: arial; font-kerning: none;">I miss being able to get a drummer in but I suppose all that’s about to change because most of the drummers I know are old age pensioners like myself and we’re all busy getting ourselves vaccinated. And there’s a good laugh for you - the first shot of vaccine made me very ill. I’m quietly dreading the second one and desperately trying to finish up an album’s worth of recordings before I get it in case it kills me. At least there’ll be something release-able. And what with me being dead it might even sell.<br /><br />I don’t know why I’m driven to make records because none of them sell that much, especially without tour dates and a nightly merch stall where I can guilt trip audience members into walking away with an album or CD which they may or may not listen to and might love, hate or feel completely indifferent to. Somebody posted the cover of my first ever album on Instagram the other day. One of the comments read:<br /><i>His songs are dumb and I love them.</i><br />Of course part of me wanted to berate this person though I also loved their observation. I contained myself with a snappy repost:<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: arial; font-kerning: none;"><i>They were. I kept going - I wonder if you’d find a place for the stuff I’ve done in the past forty years!</i><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: arial; font-kerning: none;">He replied:<br /><i>Mr Eric, thanks for responding. I actually saw you live a few years ago so the prognosis is good.<br /><br /></i></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: arial; font-kerning: none;">In olden times a person like myself - a slightly famous faded pop singer - might be unlucky enough to overhear someone talking about them, and that might be quite upsetting. Now, if I put my mind to it, I can read what members of the general public think about me all over the internet. A selection from the past year: <br /><br />I’ve been called a moron by someone who got it into their head that I’d been<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>going out in public in the full knowledge of a positive Covid diagnosis (I certainly wasn’t and I’d dearly love to pin that person to the wall and share with them every tedious moment of two weeks under house arrest), a Facebook exchange concerning me that went something like: <i>He was a one hit wonder wasn’t he? I wonder whatever happened to him</i>… the inevitable: <i>I liked that Gordon is a moron song - that was him wasn’t it?</i> And the absolute worst, a recent exchange that went something like:<br /><br />• <i>Stiff Records? Yeah, brilliant!<br />• You should hear his latest stuff - his last three albums are fantastic<br />• No thanks, I think I’ll stick with my copy of Whole Wide World<br /><br /></i></span></p><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: arial; font-kerning: none;">I can see the smug expression and resolute jaw and I want to break the guy open and bury him under the boxes of unsold copies of my fantastic later works that clutter up our basement. But really I just want to give him a copy of one of my fantastic later records and lead him by the hand to the nearest record player and coax and cajole him into opening his ears and mind, and listening. I’m thinking if I could do this perhaps a hundred thousand times I might have a bit of a hit on my hands. And I’m thinking that this would be entirely inconvenient because there’d be hundreds more idiots saying things like: <i>I like that All Around The World I’ve Been Looking For You You You - that’s him innit?</i> And I’d have to put them right, and I’m already feeling tired…</span></div><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: arial; font-kerning: none;">One lunchtime in 1980 I was sitting in a pub in Goodge Street, London. The seating was high-backed church pew affairs. Two blokes on the other side of the pew where I was sat were discussing concerts they’d been to - I couldn't see them but I could hear them - and I was vaguely listening in because I didn’t have much choice. They were coming in and out of focus and I heard: <i>…yeah, Squeeze at the Hammersmith Odeon supported by Wreckless Eric - he made them look fucking stupid, they shouldn’t have bothered going on.</i><br /><br />So that was good, but another time at a gig in London when Amy and I had just started playing together as <i>Wreckless Eric & Amy Rigby</i> I overheard:<br /><i>I don’t know ‘oo she is - just some bird ee’s seein’</i><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><br />And that wasn’t so good, but afterwards a person who sounded very much like the person who said that said to me:<br /><i>Fuckin’ ‘ell Eric - where did you find her? She’s really good!</i><br />So that turned out alright in the end.<br /><br />It's Casual Friday over at Bandcamp next week. They don't take any commission for an entire day which means people like me get all the proceeds from the mega-tons of product that are bound to shift on such a day. I'm trying my best here - you can stick with your copy of Whole Wide World or you can augment or enhance your collection and help me make some room in the basement for the next unsung and unsold album, the one I'm working on right now. The postage and packing for everywhere that isn't the United States is obscenely, prohibitively expensive so if you don't live in the USA please accept my apology and ignore this entire paragraph and sales pitch. Unless of course you're made of money, in which case <i>flop out yer wallet</i>. Here's the linkage: <a href="https://wrecklesseric.bandcamp.com/merch">https://wrecklesseric.bandcamp.com/merch</a></span></p>Eric Gouldenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459329733145880773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-352260481595161722.post-37339987304045322642021-03-12T16:34:00.011-05:002021-03-12T23:26:09.265-05:00Bits Of A Year<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><br /></div><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">It’s been over a year since I flew from London to New York. February 28th. I was only going to be here for three and a half weeks. I’d been fixing up a small apartment in Cromer, on the North Norfolk coast. My mother left us some money. We figured if we brought it into the United States the odious Trump administration would somehow get their hands on a chunk of it so we bought a flat in England instead. We were hedging our bets thinking that the worst might come to the worst we’d be landed with another four years of Donald Trump. Back in those naive times, just over a year ago.<br /><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I’ve been here ever since. The flat in Cromer has been sitting there quietly waiting, a dishwasher sitting in the middle of the living room waiting to be installed in the unfinished kitchen. We spent so much time in England. Hotels, sofa beds, the charity of friends. It made sense to have a place in England. I could say it doesn’t anymore. I used to be a touring musician, a performing artist. I’d make a record and go on tour, make another record and go on tour again, and in between I’d go on tour and make another record. I was wondering how I was getting away with it and occasionally I felt burned out and took a few months off. I wondered how long I could keep going, driving hundreds of miles all alone and between shows, staying in dowdy hotels full of businessmen, wannabe businessmen, the desperate and the dispossessed. Sometimes I wondered what kind of life it was for a man of my age but I was proud of the fact that I was doing it and that was how I was earning a living.<br /><br />Now I’m left wondering what I am - I keep recording stuff but it’s not easy to find the motivation to assemble it into a coherent record, an album. And I’m not a fan of putting tracks up on Bandcamp or whatever as and when. I admire other people for doing it but it’s not my thing. I love albums - LPs - collections of material designed to sit together and be listened to in a particular order Something to be considered, not cherrypicked and discarded. I know it’s an old fashioned view but it’s where I come from and if I wrote a novel with chapters I’d expect my readers to buy the book, not just a chapter here and there, and I’d quite reasonably expect them to read them in the intended order so they’d understand where I was going and hopefully get something from the experience. My albums are my novels but please don’t take that too literally.<br /><br />It’s been an awful time and a bloody nuisance and helped along and not helped at all by displays of utter stupidity, gross ineptitude, selfishness and self-seeking subterfuge. I can’t see it coming to end but life goes on. Except when it doesn’t. <br /><br /><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">My own life nearly came to an end last May outside the Emergency Room at Columbia Memorial Hospital in Hudson, New York. I'd quarantined twice - the first time they said I hadn’t got it because my symptoms didn’t match the official symptoms. The second time I managed to get tested and the official symptoms had re-aligned themselves to fit with my own diagnostic, I also tested positive when they stuck the Q tip up my nose so this time I had it officially, I’m pretty sure I had it the first time around and that’s not just me trying to make the first quarantine not a complete soul-sucking waste of time. <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />After the quarantine the lung damage, the shortness of breath, the inability to walk to the end of the street and back, the heart attack - three stents and the long road to recovery. Everything’s fine now - X-rays, EKGs - but I still get nausea, shortness of breath and crippling tiredness and it seems like I’m not the only one. <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />The last doctor I saw, an older woman who had come up from New York City to help out, told me ‘there’s a lot out there that we don’t know’ the tacit message being </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">there’s a lot they don’t know and a lot they aren’t telling us</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">. Whoever </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">THEY</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"> are. I liked her a lot but she had no answers. She referred me for yet another Covid test which yet again came back negative. It’s as well to be sure about these things. Not that I’m a hypochondriac - I’d prefer to be hale, hearty and fully functional.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"> <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />I don’t want to be a harbinger of doom, gloom or consternation either. <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />I’m not very good at sticking to the subject - the word </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">ABOUT</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"> is a real problem for me. People say </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">you could write a song about that</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"> and I try not to get pissed off. Perhaps it’s because of the way my brain works that the word </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">about</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"> reduces three, four, or even five big beautiful dimensions to one tiny, flat dimension. <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />I think it’s the way my brain works. Or doesn’t work - it’s my own fault. <br /><br /><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/i1OdeAy35aQ" width="560"></iframe><br /><br /><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">I was asked to write a piece about a lost album of the 1960s or 70s. I decided on <i>Moonshine</i>, the third and final album by Mickey Jupp’s band Legend. It proved to be a monumental task. I have no trouble writing - I just write what comes out of my head about whatever’s going on around me and in my life, and there it is. But writing about something in particular - it turns into something bigger than I am and almost reduces me to tears of impotent rage at my inability to express what I feel in a string of coherent sentences.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"> <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />I wrote sentences. The sentences said what I genuinely thought but the sentences seemed to have nothing much to do with each other. To me the whole thing lacked cohesion. And all the time that question in the back of my mind: <br /></span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br />Is this making any sense?</i><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"> <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />And here I am writing this stuff and it doesn’t actually matter to me whether it makes sense to you or not - I don’t think sense has got much to do with it. But writing about someone else’s work, something that matters to me, almost brought me to screaming point. <br /></span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br />Who the fuck cares what I think? What the fuck difference does it make that I think this album is great? I’m not an an arbiter of taste... <br /></i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />I was transported back to 1962 - I was eight years old and I’d been sent to a Catholic prep school where the main thrust of the education, which they took very seriously, appeared to be reading, writing and violence. At the end of the first week of punch-ups punctuated by spelling tests and thwackings on the hand with the stick that held the roller towel the weekend came along and I was charged with writing an essay or composition that had to cover at least two and a half pages of my exercise book. The exercise book was large and the lines were close together and by Sunday afternoon I was in tears, unable to complete the task, worn down by the shouting, lecturing and cajoling of two parents, and fearful of the wrath of an entire order of Catholic brothers and the prospect of another week of bullying and whackings. <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />But right now I could go on and on. <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />Don’t worry, I’m not going to, I’m just going to pretend to get to the point. <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />The point possibly being that I’m amazed that I’ve ever managed to get anything done ever in my life. <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />I got the Moonshine piece finished. Amy read it and loved it. Karen Schoemer came round to record another track for the album we’ve been making together and I got her to read it. She immediately wanted to hear the Moonshine album so I think that means the piece does what it should. <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />We got the track recorded, the basics - electric guitar and a vocal, a few overdubbed vocal harmonies and a second electric guitar. I used my big old Japanese Yamaha, a seventies knock-off of the Gibson George Benson model - large, clunky and nothing like a Gibson. It was all quite easy - we had it on the second take. We’ve managed to get most of the tracks in one or two takes and never got to the point where we’ve had to abort the session and come back another day because it just wasn’t happening.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"> <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />There often isn’t time for meticulous overseeing of recordings around here, it’s a matter of getting it done and not getting bogged down. So inevitably there are glitches, crackles, clunks and vocal mic pops. I clean up as much of that stuff as I can without compromising the overall sound or performance.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"> <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />I used to mix things in the computer but I got tired of it. The endless choice of echoes, reverbs, compressors and so on, that slightly flat quality in the sound as though you were looking at a photo of a cityscape rather than at the city itself. <br /></span></span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGoByvMImw2l3BidL1mTnBzWhwxHnAG7hFQBzkuw4ol0YQvkqwNfDFQKLNWrVWbo9j6PVtuUq3uv1cGkiwvuoVFpyc4URf4j6VlFcGQ_fb0N9IU730frciwg9-f5cdiiOEqgS0lcrbtNo/s2048/59D999E9-C94F-463F-A8A7-8244FA665662.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2043" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGoByvMImw2l3BidL1mTnBzWhwxHnAG7hFQBzkuw4ol0YQvkqwNfDFQKLNWrVWbo9j6PVtuUq3uv1cGkiwvuoVFpyc4URf4j6VlFcGQ_fb0N9IU730frciwg9-f5cdiiOEqgS0lcrbtNo/s320/59D999E9-C94F-463F-A8A7-8244FA665662.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Soundcraft 200B</td></tr></tbody></table><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">I had a sixteen channel Ramsa console that I started using for a while. I'd bought it in some sort of bancrupt stock clearence sale years ago. I didn’t immediately take to it and it had been very cheap so I put it in storage and basically forgot about it. I rediscovered it last year when I needed sixteen channels and it superceded an eight channel Soundcraft 200B which followed in the wake of a twelve channel Soundcraft K1 that I used to record the <i>Transience</i> album in conjunction with an eight channel Teac Series 5 which I’d previously used to record <i>Construction Time & Demolition</i>. <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />That sounds very complicated and perhaps it’s really boring for most people, but it’s what’s in my head so it’s what I’m writing about. I’m hoping that my enthusiasm for the subject might help to captivate the odd reader in the same way that I sometimes find myself fascinated by someone talking with enthusiasm about golf, or stamp collecting, or some such thing that I have no interest in and know nothing about. <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />Anyway… the Teac Series 5 is a magnificent piece but somewhat limited having only eight channels and a couple of fixed eqs (that’s </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">tone controls</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"> in layman’s terms) about which some of my engineering friends have been quite snippy. I don’t use a lot of eq myself, or if I do it’s more as an effect rather than as a correction - if something doesn’t sound right I’m much more inclined to change or move a microphone than reach for the controls. I’ve watched engineers wrestle with the board, equalising the hell out of something, only to watch them re-wrestle the hell out of the same thing a couple of weeks later when they come to mixing it and quietly realised they fucked-up. Perversely I learned a lot of what I know about recording from watching bad engineers and producers at work. <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />I got took the Ramsa out of commission because I got a chance of a Tangent 3216 which proved to be something of a white elephant for me. The Tangent is big and beautiful with a fat, creamy sound. Magnificent. But also problematic - it needs a thorough clean up - pots and switches crackle and cut out and two of the channels don’t work. It could be great but it’s a project. I reluctantly came to the conclusion that there aren’t enough hours in the day or days left in my life. I want to make records, not enter into the world of restoration and refurbishment. So it’s dismantled and in storage waiting on a buyer. i have it for sale on Reverb if anyone’s interested. <br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiejzpqCu2H4MrmSXH94cgGPSIfGqcuWaIhDmnaJCtWR9tazsawNxY-YqCKXMXUNk4E3vXAOrFE_QOCGCv_HGn_y13hnhFgwObnYxbQMDx2dU0Yy69hQ8tPNZ0_hkvP943kJvQ5cYc4Ua0/s2048/IMG_0514.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiejzpqCu2H4MrmSXH94cgGPSIfGqcuWaIhDmnaJCtWR9tazsawNxY-YqCKXMXUNk4E3vXAOrFE_QOCGCv_HGn_y13hnhFgwObnYxbQMDx2dU0Yy69hQ8tPNZ0_hkvP943kJvQ5cYc4Ua0/w320-h240/IMG_0514.jpg" title="Tangent 3216, gorgeous, infuriating..." width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tangent 3216 - gorgeous, infuriating...</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">I replaced the Tangent with a sixteen channel Soundcraft 200B, the upgraded model with sweeping eqs. I got it from a Harley Fine who runs </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Super 70 Studio</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"> in Newburgh, New York. He got hold of an Allen & Heath Mod 2 console from the late sixties so the Soundcraft, which he’s used to mix countless records, became available. <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />I’ve mixed a load of tracks that I’ve recorded for this album I’m doing with Karen Schoemer on the Soundcraft and I have to say I absolutely love it. I’ve learned that no mixing console is perfect - the Soundcraft 200B has no direct channel outputs and only four busses - it could be an issue if I was recording a band but I could work around that, and it’s not likely to be happening soon given the current state of affairs. My studio certainly isn’t large enough to accommodate a social distanced recording session with a lot of musicians. <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />I organized a couple of socially distanced recording sessions in the backyard during the summer. Someone had put a large white gazebo Folded up in a special wheeled carrying case) on the wrong shelf in Walmart and somehow, by using a mixture of charm and tenacity I managed to get it for half its real price which made it an affordable bargain. We erected the thing outside the back door to keep the sun off us and then put up screens made from plastic tarpaulins to hide us from the gaze of inquisitive neighbours. </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br /><br />I have a theory concerning noise, neighbours and musical instruments: if they can’t actually see them they don’t present a threat and therefore aren’t as loud. And even though a person playing a guitar is a fairly mundane sight these days it’s best not to risk a crowd forming. <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />Brian Dewan came round with his electrified autoharp which I plugged into a Fender Princeton sitting amid the junk out on the breezeway. Amy played a Telecaster through my old Fender Vibro Champ and I sang and played a Framus acoustic guitar.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">I miked everything into three channels of a Tascam 424 portastudio and got two tunes out of it. The results were intimate, sparkling and quite casual. I sat on the swing chair with the portastudio on a low patio table next to me, An insect chirped along in time and the neighbour’s kid bounced a ball and threw hoops while someone mowed a lawn in the distance. <br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7SMGFY19RZ9tUAtpI33Z9yFqGT-bARJLKcIENPDshDN0rNUKCgcgThJLBS9YPUi2NpRKGM-WqqnoHpkLupSeGq-MwgqER5CGnFHZIMcv-jDddz6vUDIdRdSOeioaA-Y1Ko6Xu_kSHWD4/s2048/IMG_0534.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1806" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7SMGFY19RZ9tUAtpI33Z9yFqGT-bARJLKcIENPDshDN0rNUKCgcgThJLBS9YPUi2NpRKGM-WqqnoHpkLupSeGq-MwgqER5CGnFHZIMcv-jDddz6vUDIdRdSOeioaA-Y1Ko6Xu_kSHWD4/s320/IMG_0534.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tascam Portastudio 424 MkII</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">I got obsessed with portastudios after I transferred, mixed and mastered a collection of Amy’s portastudio casette demos.the year before last. I love the Portastudio - it makes you want to go away for a few days with a load of notebooks and cassette tapes, a collection of wacky musical instuments, and record a classic lo-fi album. Easier said than done though - we can’t all be The Cleaners From Venus.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"> <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />I could go on about this forever but perhaps I’d better wrap it up and shut up. I’m working on a new Amy Rigby album at the moment. Or in reality I’m reclining on the sofa getting over a bad reaction to the Covid vaccine while Amy finishes up a piece she’s been asked to write about Bob Dylan. We were both vaccinated the other day in Woodstock. It was a charming and humane experience - old hippies and aging groovers lining up outside the village hall and being screened, processed and even reassured by delightful healthcare workers at tables inside the door. As it was Woodstock I was almost surprised to not be asked for my star sign. The injections happened at injection stations lined up across the middle of the hall, and afterwards we were invited to sit on the edge of the stage and wait for ten minute in case one of us had a fit. We didn’t so we left and Amy took a photo of us in the parking lot to commemorate the event. <br /><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEnTecRuh2HOEb_JeTKYdGxP2IxBkuRr_CU_vlQ2GXOjy-Gr151fTdkjO8grUKw_4orn0zoVa_dH8rdn7b9Wg-88UjJTVdegfYqu2HN1X1ELGfEp-M1w5noHz3cUgOIRR0I-G6kh1hykg/s510/Screen+Shot+2021-03-12+at+2.57.23+PM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="510" data-original-width="509" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEnTecRuh2HOEb_JeTKYdGxP2IxBkuRr_CU_vlQ2GXOjy-Gr151fTdkjO8grUKw_4orn0zoVa_dH8rdn7b9Wg-88UjJTVdegfYqu2HN1X1ELGfEp-M1w5noHz3cUgOIRR0I-G6kh1hykg/s320/Screen+Shot+2021-03-12+at+2.57.23+PM.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">post vaccination, Woodstock NY</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></span><p></p></span><p></p>Eric Gouldenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459329733145880773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-352260481595161722.post-19909078772459345302020-11-01T15:14:00.001-05:002020-11-02T08:54:09.903-05:00Just To Be Clear...<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjuZW7gBd8KpUmOK_mazKzYddpItJ-zVSAWhqfdAeiCzImHzosr1l7MMFEQr9iATyMwWrt_8ar8QvhGtNE1Dzd2wWCgR68g5KidjofrhyphenhyphenzyfTG0UMVui532v8ggwN-2i8iy9hSgj2-NcU/s2048/pledge+of+allegiance.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1064" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjuZW7gBd8KpUmOK_mazKzYddpItJ-zVSAWhqfdAeiCzImHzosr1l7MMFEQr9iATyMwWrt_8ar8QvhGtNE1Dzd2wWCgR68g5KidjofrhyphenhyphenzyfTG0UMVui532v8ggwN-2i8iy9hSgj2-NcU/w208-h400/pledge+of+allegiance.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">I don’t have a vote here in the USA. I live here, own a house here, pay property taxes and make a tax declaration every year, but I don’t have a vote. I have a green card entitling me to long-term residence but with no voting rights. Some might argue that it’s taxation without representation which is unconstitutional, but considering the current president has clearly never read and understood the American Constitution that argument isn’t going to take you very far. <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />People have asked me why I haven’t applied for citizenship. I was going to, I really was, until just under four years ago. A friend of mine got citizenship and I saw a photo of him standing next to the Stars & Stripes holding his right hand up in a salute of allegiance with a framed photo of President Obama behind him. I would have been ok with that but things changed, and now the only way I could give that salute of allegiance would be to have three fingers on my right hand amputated leaving just the middle finger. I need those fingers to play the guitar and other instruments, so I remain a green card holder. <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />This doesn’t stop me from having an opinion and taking a political stance. I’m really heartened to see that so many people have already voted. I hope that most of these votes are for Joe Biden. I know Biden might not be the ideal candidate or many people’s preferred preference but he’s what we’ve got at this point. A non-vote or a vote for another candidate who has no chance of winning is effectively a vote for Donald Trump. As we sang in Vote That Fucker Out: </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">it’s the devil you can work with or the devil you hate</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">… <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />I should have become an American citizen but I’ve spent the past three and a half years wondering if I actually want to be a citizen of a country with such an abhorrent administration. And then I had Covid and an attendant heart attack, and then it was too late. So I’m still just a green card holder and I still don’t have a vote. <br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><br />Maybe you’re reading this and you haven’t voted and you’re thinking you’ll just stay home and not bother. Maybe you think there’s no point because </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">whatever will be will be</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">, or you think it makes no difference anyway - you’re wrong about that, it does make a difference, but only if you actually do it. So if you’re one of those you could do me a favour - on Tuesday take a walk to the voting station and vote for me.<br /></span><br /><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/JC8RhqO7YOs" width="560"></iframe>Eric Gouldenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459329733145880773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-352260481595161722.post-63106556126392144842020-08-26T20:37:00.006-04:002021-03-17T04:14:17.052-04:00Evinrude...which yacht is yours?<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiusv2B0n4ErGkNcw8VWgQ5abihOdNUt6EZVeYZPp8rzS0o_uUvWjlKZ47RqPJQVitUMheflC4xAIKcHCq3Etls2pAnriAzVmWMHSRnMukqKxR1gxFQAGYQX24cJB1ocg2uUR00Zz9XLbQ/s1612/IMG_20200826_200124_783.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1612" data-original-width="1612" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiusv2B0n4ErGkNcw8VWgQ5abihOdNUt6EZVeYZPp8rzS0o_uUvWjlKZ47RqPJQVitUMheflC4xAIKcHCq3Etls2pAnriAzVmWMHSRnMukqKxR1gxFQAGYQX24cJB1ocg2uUR00Zz9XLbQ/w512-h512/IMG_20200826_200124_783.jpg" width="512" /></a></div><br /><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br />All boat mechanics are called Mike. In fact anyone who has to do with the running of things in the boating community is called Mike. They have to be: there’s Mike who runs the Bliss Marina in Catskill where we <i>park/moor/dock</i> the boat (never sure of the correct term), there’s Mike the boat mechanic at the Hop O’Nose marina, and there’s Mike across the creek at the other marina.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <br /></span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Then there’s Larry - he’s obviously the exception that proves the rule. But he’s down near Poughkeepsie where the rules are probably different. One day, when his time isn’t taken up with delivering the posh <i>Closer-To-New-York-City</i> boating crowd from disasters like having their floating gin palaces sink due to the batteries that drive their bilge pumps going flat in the wake of torrential rain storms, Larry is going to sell me a reconditioned Johnson Seahorse outboard. He just needs to find the time to recondition it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> <br /></span></span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">In the meantime Mike the mechanic twiddled with the motor last Friday resulting in a weekend of boat trips up and down the creek and out onto the utterly terrifying Hudson river. It was all quite wonderful but Monday evening came around and it became evident after thirty or so pulls on the starting cord that the Evinrude is settling in for a week off.<br /></span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I think the two stroke ratio is off. Everyone says 50:1 - that’s fifty parts gasoline to one part two stroke oil. If I was ploughing up the creek at a forty-five degree angle</span></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">with the motor on full throttle,</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> terrifying myself and everyone else, the ratio would probably be fine, but I hardly ever push it above a steady five mile an hour chug so the plugs keep oiling up.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The guy I bought the motor from told me 100:1 is the correct ratio and there’s a sticker next to the fuel intake that says <i>100:1</i>, but I bowed to the superior knowledge of men called Mike because the guy I bought it from was called Scott, so what would he know?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> <br /></span></span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I’m thinking Scott might be right.<br /></span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I took a can of gas down to the boat and diluted the mixture. The damned thing almost started up but it gave up and so did I. So it’s back to Mike the mechanic. He’s promised to drop by and have a look at it. I think he’s impressed by my tenacity.<br /></span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Amy and I went down and took a sedate row across the creek. As we paddled slowly alongside a large moored up yacht a man looked down at us:<br /></span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Outboard not working eh? Which boat is yours?”<br /></span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I didn’t immediately understand what he meant but Amy caught his drift straight away.<br /></span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“This is it” she said, “we don’t have a real boat, just this.”<br /></span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">He thought we were using it to row out to our own massive yacht. He looked slightly taken aback and went back to what he was doing, which was attending to a barbecue.<br /></span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Amy asked him what he was having for dinner.<br /></span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Hamburgers, he was grilling hamburgers.<br /></span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Imagine,” I said, ‘having a boat large enough to grill hamburgers on.”<br /></span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">We sloshed away in our tin tub with its defunct outboard hanging off the back.<br /></span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The dismal sound of the same four chords being played over and over on a ukelele wafted across the creek. It appeared to be coming from the house that until yesterday had a large banner hung off its balcony that said <i>Get Aboard The Trump Train 2020</i>. Today the banner is gone. Perhaps they watched the Republican Convention. Or heard our latest track:<span class="Apple-converted-space"> <br /><br /></span></span></span></div>
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/JC8RhqO7YOs" width="560"></iframe>Eric Gouldenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459329733145880773noreply@blogger.com0