Aftermath

In recent years, when I've returned back from a holiday - whether on these shores or further afield - I've tended to find the transition from holiday mode back to home/work mode an increasingly difficult one to manage, at least within the first couple of days or so of that transition.

Apart from the various - and obvious - benefits and attractions of a holiday, I think it's also about having the space for ideas to flow, ideas which otherwise get submerged by work related concerns and by routine, and so on and so forth.

I mention this because events like the one I played at on Saturday night also give me some of that space, albeit in a very different manner: a space in which I'm forced to engage with what's around me, the stuff of my everyday life and surroundings, rather than a blissful removal to a completely different location.

Thing is, it's just as good, because it reminds me that I can be part of things, feel more connected than I often allow myself to.

Anyway enough of such semi-abstract musings, the main thing to report is that the event was really good, memorable and enjoyable all round (it was a fundraiser for a good cause too). The atmosphere was warm and lively, and a lot of people turned up to see a number of weird and wonderful bands playing.

I played a relatively short set - around 20 minutes - since there was a fairly tight schedule to keep to. I seemed to get a very, very positive reaction too - in terms of immediate audience response, and also in terms of comments afterwards. It's given me a bit of a boost again, I must do more of this stuff.

What I've been left with in the aftermath (apart from ringing ears) is a feeling of increased confidence in such things, more than I've felt for a while. Time to capitalise on it.

Gift/ tension

I was given a gift last night - unexpected, out of the blue (I wonder, if one were to look into the blue beforehand, would it mean there were no surprises?), and very welcome also. A very generous gift.

It was laced with a certain something: the words, it's one less thing that you would need to deal with, should anything happen.

The anything in question being the passing, timely or otherwise, of the giver.

I didn't focus on this too much though: I'm playing tonight, and I'm a little nervous. OCD comes into play - how many times do I need to check I've got all the leads, power cables, plectrums etc that I need - and, what if the laptop crashes, what if the guitar strings all break, what if my fingers fall off and so on and so forth. Yes I'm tempting fate, but I like the tension.

Then I remember, it should actually be fun. Plus, after a couple of beers, and having to deal with the rigours of setting up, soundchecking and so on - the actualities rather than the what ifs - then the OCD should fly out of the window (checking 3 times that it closed the window properly after departing), and the whole thing will be over all too quickly.

Practice

I'm playing again soon, and this time some of it is going to be more guitar-based. I was a bit concerned that my fretwork might be getting a bit too arthritic to hold it together, but I don't seem to be doing too badly.

Humbled

Just got back from a fabulous (I know I've already used that word in the previous post) first evening of the music festival.

I'm just very, very pleased that, in the events programme, my name is there under the section headed "Special Thanks." I hadn't expected that.

Time for bed.

Good things

Thanks to having to take on some extra work of late, I've had little time to think properly. One might argue that when I have all the time in the world, my thinking is somewhat deficient, but that's beside the point.

I don't mind working hard and taking on a bit extra, but it becomes a problem when that work encroaches into my personal time and takes small but significant chunks out of my evenings and also my weekends. It's a bit demoralising too when there's no apparent end to all this extra stuff: no wonder there's been a faint whiff of mutiny in some quarters.

Anyway I was musing on all this mid-morning - it's interesting that recently my main thinking time has been whilst travelling and grabbing a little breathing space between work appointments - and I was feeling faintly resentful that, as a result, I've not been able to do much in recent weeks. No writing time, no making music time.

No *whisper* cycling time. I mean, come on! What's that all about?

It suddenly became apparent, as I decided to take an early lunch rather than head straight back to the office, just how distant I feel from considerations such as making music and the frame of mind which is intrinsically linked to such processes.

Bugger, I thought. Yes, if nothing else, I've retained my powers of articulation.

Oh well, I thought (continuing the already-established trend of cogent wordsmithery), as I finished my lunch and began my reluctant stroll back to the office.

As I walked, I bumped into an acquaintance. Let's call him Dave (name changed from Colin for the purpose of this blog, to protect his identity). We had a chat for a couple of minutes, just catching up, and then he mentioned he's organising a gig, aiming to get a few bands together for an event in the late summer. Would I be up for playing?

Sure, I don't see why not....in fact yes, definitely.

Now that served to immediately cheer me up. We talked through a few details and he promised to send me some information, and then I carried on back to work feeling much lighter in mood. For one thing, it immediately reduced that sense of distance I mentioned above, and I found myself already thinking about what ideas I could develop, what existing ideas I could brush up or alter, and so on.

For another thing (and a far less important one) it means that, as long as it does go ahead, then I will have maintained an unbroken run of only playing when asked. I don't hold this as any kind of principle, it's merely that I came to the realisation that I've never actually requested to play a gig or event of any kind, I've always been asked by others. I just quite like it being that way. Well regardless, it's something new to focus on and look forward to.

When I got back to work, I found that many of the work issues which have been exercising me as mentioned above, have largely been resolved. Which didn't exactly do my mood any harm either. I needed not to extend my work commitments into this evening, for once.

Which therefore meant that I could get a decent bike ride in this evening, making the most of the beautiful weather and enjoying every moment out in the countryside. Perhaps a shame then, that my thought processes extended no further than to think of song titles and to change them to have cycling references in them.

The only one I'll mention though (because most of them are awful) is that old garage-punk classic, 96 Gears.

I know, it's not good is it?

In passing

I've just been to the local pub and spent an evening watching musical acts from the western Sahara and from Syria: it's been unique, fantastic and oddly dislocating: but the main thing is it's been utterly enjoyable and celebratory. Memorably so.

It still confounds me that my local pub - literally 5 minutes walk from where I live - is becoming such an established venue on so many levels: including the more out-there levels that I'm likely to respond to. Not that, as you might imagine, I'm complaining.

I'm away til the end of the weekend, hope you have a good one too.

Undrunk

I stayed in last night, had a quiet evening to myself without a drop to drink.
Here are just some of the beers that didn't pass my lips:











There are, of course, many more drinks that I didn't have last night (including gin and tonic, for example), but it would be a pointless exercise to list or show photographs of them all.

Anyway, I feel good and rested now.

I'd been on a big shopping binge on Wednesday and Thursday - including said bottles of beer - in anticipation of the arrival of my namesake and another guest. I wasn't entirely sure when the former was due to arrive, and I hadn't heard from him Thursday night. Which was fine, though I did have a dream in the early hours of Friday morning. In the dream he rang me up and said how much he was looking forward to us playing another gig on Saturday night, and that he'd be over early Saturday in plenty of time.

I woke up with a shudder and thoughts of no, NO, he's got the days mixed up! Help!!!. I got up, switched on my computer, and there was an email from him - he'd be arriving late Friday morning. I dashed off a quick reply, relaxed and began to enjoy the fact that I'd got the day off work.

Now I didn't post any details up here of the fact that we were playing on Friday night, principally because anonymity is one of the key factors in enabling me to blog: it has its advantages but at times like this it also serves as a mild frustration.

Nevertheless, I'm not about to change that.

I'll talk about the gig itself in a subsequent post I think. When we did this kind of event last year, I was very much on the periphery of it all in terms of organising the whole thing - it was enough for me personally just to get enough material (and sufficient confidence in myself) together to get up and play. So it feels good to record that this year, I forced myself into the uncomfortable (for me) position of doing far more in terms of planning and liaising with the venue, the sound man and everyone else involved.

I hope that means that I'm more empowered to do such things on my own.

I also want to record again just how wonderfully odd it is to have a namesake from the other side of the world who is incredibly talented - and is one of the warmest, most personable individuals I'm lucky enough to be able to count as a friend.

Friday afternoon, as we were catching up with each other and making preparations for the evening's events, it was just delightful to sit and talk ideas and to have such a level of mutual understanding regardless of our different approaches towards creativity. For him to play a recording to me of something he's been working on, a piece which is just astonishing. For me to play him some of the music I was going to perform that night, and to see him shaking his head with a wide grin.

A sure-fire burst of enthusiasm, warmth and inspiration.

Easy to spot

I've been using Spotify lately, for listening to music online. It's not dissimilar on the face of it to iTunes, except that you don't (as yet, at least) download any music, it's just there and accessible to listen to online. So as long as your internet connection is active, you can listen to the music as readily as if it were your own copy.

I enjoy it, I've found it a good way to catch up with stuff I've not heard for years (there's a conspicuous amount of "alternative" stuff from the early-mid 80s on my playlist) and also to listen to new music or to albums which I've never heard but always meant to listen to at some point.

For instance, last night and today I've been listening to a couple of albums by Bong Ra, which has inspired me to order a copy of his most recent disc. I'd still rather physically own such things rather than as a download or just having streaming access to it online, and I've never had a problem with paying for it.

So it's all good stuff, an ideal and free (the "cost," unless you pay a monthly subscription, is to put up with hearing a couple of adverts every 30 mins or so) way of listening.

When I first signed up, I found myself searching for all sorts of tracks I'd not heard, in some cases, for 20-25 years or longer, and it was fantastic. Ok, how about The Bushes Scream While My Daddy Prunes by The Very Things? Yep, that's there - and straight onto my playlist. Truck Train Tractor by The Pastels? Check. White Punks On Dope? Check. Bananarama's version of Nathan Jones? No I'm not being ironic, I genuinely love their version.

Song From The Bottom Of A Well by Kevin Ayers? Oh yes.

And so on and so forth.

But then I had to stop listening to them. It had been all too easy, there's something which feels a little vulgar about the lack of effort in tracking down the above, along with a whole heap of others: some obscure, some not so obscure. There remains a wealth of music which is still not available on there and perhaps never will be, but still there's been a sense of the kind of instant gratification which is increasingly prevalent.

I could start waxing nostalgic about record shops, the best ones being veritable Aladdin's Caves, but I've already done that. But reading an interview with Keith Richards the other day, in particular the part where he describes searching for hard-to-get blues records - swapping and borrowing, building a record collection and all the rest - it seemed to underline why the ease of access I'm describing seems to carry with it a sense of disappointment or dissatisfaction for me.

It may be just the sense of placing more value in something that one has invested a lot of time and effort (and money) in searching after. The feeling of having a prized artefact. Maybe I'm a little too precious about it, but after the initial delight of rediscovering so many long-lost tunes, I'm left with a sense of - well, I've done that, what do I do now?

A certain level of wanton derangement

Days before Christmas, I was stood in a friend's recently-acquired studio, in apprehension of a large painting he was working on.

He was rightly proud and pleased to have a studio, finally, to be able to invite me to see. I was pleased for the same reasons, and also because I was full of my own pride and sense of fulfillment at having played a central part in the creation of a huge mural for a project with the art group at work. I had my laptop with me, and was able to show him the photographs of the various stages of the project, and of its successful completion.

We were both, in many senses, in a good place.

Yet there was something that was daunting me a little: I wondered, since it had been far too long since I had been in such a situation, whether I would be able to gain anything of any worth or meaning from standing in front of this painting and its associated works? Could I, furthermore, impart any comments, criticisms or insights into the same?

The painter in question is, after all, one of my closest friends. That (for me) rare breed, the sort of person with whom I can fiercely disagree, be angry with, express frustration at, lock horns with: because we have for 20 years had sufficient mutual respect and understanding - both tacitly and overtly acknowledged - to be able to do those things, because we know it's ok to be able to. Of course that leaves so many omissions, in terms of the kind of values we share and the strength, support and unconditional acceptance we can give each other, which hasn't been without its most severe tests.

Anyway. I stood there feeling a little daunted, as mentioned, as my friend departed the room for a few minutes and left me alone in that space. I looked at the work. I moved up close to scrutinise the detail, I stepped back to view (quite literally) the bigger picture. I wondered whether the painting was matching the intentions he had expressed on preliminary works and related studies...I considered whether he might need to modulate this area given that it threatened to unbalance various other aspects of the composition.

I began to consider the implications of certain elements of what he was doing, and began to piece together a sense both of process and of meaning.

Then he walked back into the room and I debated his work with him for a good hour, leaving no stone unturned as we both relished some rather intense discourse. We gesticulated, pontificated, and even said some big and clever words and stuff.

It was exhilarating, not least because suddenly I was in the throes of something which used to be like bread and butter to me, that of being actively exercised within a critical and creative context. It also felt - and my friend agreed - like a missing jigsaw piece of one's mood and mental processes fitting back into place: an exaggeration, surely, but we both wondered as to how we'd managed to retain a sufficient level of sanity over the years with such restricted access to the kind of thing we always found to be not only fulfilling, but of fundamental necessity.

There is a converse, as I've remembered this week with all the hours that I've worked on my music. To be able to undertake such creative ventures in the first place, it feels as though one needs to be able to tap into a certain level of derangement within oneself. It also feels that it's healthy and necessary to be able to tap into such things, to channel them and to facilitate expression of them.

I know I'm not saying anything new or original by any means here (or that such a notion hasn't been viewed with cynicism), it's just that everytime I do engage afresh with such processes, it seems ever more apparent that this is the case.

It takes me back to the years in which I would wake in the middle of the night and realise that I'd neither switched off my mind (which would still be fitting melody lines into odd time signatures running concurrently) nor my computer, which would still be quietly playing cycles of music I'd worked on in a neverending loop. Or when I had to rearrange all the furniture in my flat while I was working on something: I can't even remember why now, but it had to be done, and until then I couldn't progress.

I also remember the occasions when a musical collaborator (the same friend above) and I would get hideously drunk and spend the night hours working on music...then there'd be a click of the tape machine as it got to the end. The sound would wake us up with a shock. Disorientated, we'd rewind the tape, listen back and look at each other with an expression which said, did we really just record that?

Not that such occasions are any real reflection of the sense of derangement of which I speak. They're purely surface, and even sound a little juvenile to me now: I would hope that any real glimpses are to be gained within the music itself.

Such derangement feels like a friend to be ignored at my peril, and I sometimes wonder about that.

Light and shade

I've been working consistently on the music this week. As well as the benefits of immersing myself in that and getting back in touch with all the good things about it (as well as giving my poor ears a bit of a battering), I think it's also lessened the blow of going back to work after a couple of weeks off.

As in, I feel ok, as opposed to feeling really pissed off and like I've got the weight of the world on my shoulders and everything's wrong and so on.

No, at least at the moment, I'm alright.

I really should take heed of such things.

Here are a couple of photos I took at the end of last weekend (and a fabulous weekend it was), they capture some of the mood and - if I may say so - I think they turned out rather well.









Oh, and somehow I've managed 250 blog posts on these here pages.

Leaps

Although I've had plenty of time off work recently - firstly through illness and then through taking annual leave for my birthday week - I haven't allowed myself much time to work on music.

Which has been fine, since I've had plenty of other things to be doing: most enjoyable they have been too.

But which hasn't been fine, since I've another performance-related deadline looming ever closer, which has been nagging away at me, and giving rise to thoughts and feelings such as the following:

I don't have enough time.
I'm not happy with what I've done so far.
It's going to be disappointing.
I'm not confident: with my work so far, with my abilities.
Maybe I'm just not that into it any more.
Maybe I haven't got that spark.
I'm letting myself down.
It feels like a chore.

Then I spend an evening like this evening - spending plenty of time, as much as anything, getting myself into a suitable frame of mind: not least doing what I can so as to try putting the above kind of thoughts to one side. One thing which seems to help, is to repeat to myself the following phrase:

I don't give a fuck.

The less pressure I put on myself to produce anything which sounds good, or which sounds like something someone else would like or even give a fuck about, the better. It's a mixture of a defensive posture and also a liberating one.

And yet, even as I loaded up the computer software and gathered my haphazard array of instruments and devices, it seemed like it wasn't going to be fun. Again, a chore, a reflection on what I wouldn't be able to achieve.

Time to tell myself something yet again: it doesn't matter if I spend an hour producing something terrible, embarrassing or appalling. Just spend the time doing it all the same.

And so to work.




Hours later, I've re-emerged, having had a whale of a time, and having made great strides in one particular piece I'm working on, seemingly effortlessly. With confidence, with playfulness and with an eye on how to take it further and make it even better.

I feel energised, I feel it's part of my language again, I feel a great sense of possibility.

I feel none of the things highlighted above in red.

At times like this (even after my first day back at work today), I love it, and I feel in touch with something utterly, joyously nourishing.

I'm going out for a walk for a short while, then maybe I'll calm down and be able to get some sleep later. It's still a lovely evening out there.

40 is no age...

Yes this is another R.I.P. post, even though the 40-year old hasn't passed away yet: not until the end of March.

The 40-year old in question being my favourite record shop, Selectadisc in Nottingham. I was passing through yesterday and was saddened to see a poster on the window displaying the news of its imminent demise.

I've been acquainted with the place for 25 years - and particularly during the 80s, it was an immensely exciting place to go to, a different world...a world in which I could lose myself for hours. Browsing through rack after rack of vinyl: sometimes in pursuit of something obscure but sought-after, sometimes just to see what odd, weird and different bands and artists there were. Other times, browsing would be a secondary activity, my main focus being on what was blasting out over the speakers.

To choose an obvious example - for me, anyway - I'd already heard of The Fall, and heard a few tracks. But it was one Saturday morning in Selectadisc that their music effectively grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, demanded my attention: harsh, raw, clattering music at high volume with all sorts of splenetic invective being spat/shouted out in every direction by way of vocal delivery. Attack both in the sense of aggression and dynamics.

There are too many other such examples to mention. The place was simultaneously a haven, and somewhere thrillingly unsafe.

I had a browse through the remaining stocks of cd and vinyl yesterday, but left empty-handed. I wasn't going to buy something purely because it's the last opportunity I'll have to do so, as sad as it is. I also noted to myself, rather pointedly, that I've spent money on a couple of albums this week anyway....ones I've ordered on the internet.

Time for Justice

Here.

Enjoy.

Erik

I was really very pleased that one of the bloggers who has landed here in recent days found my post about a piece by Stars of the Lid, checked out the link to the piece mentioned and was, (and I quote) completely blown away.

That's just marvellous, and makes me smile. I did my best in that post in question to give a description of the music and the feelings it evoked, whilst aware that I don't exactly have an adequate grasp of vocabulary, at least as far as certain musical/technical terms are concerned. Not that I would let such things stop me.

Meanwhile, I've just been listening to Erik Satie: Danses de Travers, and Petite Ouverture a Danser (scuse the lack of little dots above the letter a and so on, I can't be bothered) amongst some choice others.

This is one such occasion where no amount of description would do justice to the music in question. But in terms of the impact - they've just stopped me in my tracks, once again. It's the kind of music which forces stillness and silence, and I'm left shaking my head in wonder.

I'm glad these things still serve to have such an impact upon me.

Update: here's a link to an interpretation of Petite Ouverture a Danser, which is along similar enough lines in pace and stuff (my descriptive powers really aren't with me today) to the one I have, which is on a cd entitled Piano Works by Reinbert de Leeuw.

Interval (the musical kind)

I'm a wreck, thanks to a piece of music:

Requiem For Dying Mothers, Pt 2, by Stars of the Lid.

Since I got back from Edinburgh, I've listened to it often - whether through the pc speakers, or on what might be termed my internal walkman, when I've been out and about.

It's a lush, majestic piece: I'll surely do it an injustice by trying to describe it in terms of form (you'll note also that I don't read music, otherwise I'd do a far better job technically in the following description) but, broadly speaking, it comprises of drones, loops, ambient washes of sound, reverb, and a gorgeous string section.

It also makes use of repetition.

But what really gets to me are the chord changes. It starts in C, centred around a simple but beautiful tonal phrase, which then liquidly changes to a G chord. This repeats a few times at a slow and stately pace over a rich palette of sonic layering and texture.

After perhaps the fourth repetition it morphs from C to B flat, with a slight change also in the tonal phrase: this too repeats for maybe four times. It's all held together delicately but beautifully by the various drones bleeding into one another as the whole piece unfolds.

And how it unfolds after this point.

Because after this last particular B flat, it does something simple and astonishing. It goes up to E flat - at the same stately pace - and then through a progression to B flat, F, and back to C. It then repeats this progression over and over, weaving textures in and out, before the string section comes in and takes the same progression through to the end of the piece, totalling 7 and a half minutes.

But the effect of that change from B flat to E flat the first time round: real lump-in-the-throat stuff. I still cannot get over how a sequence of chords and notes in a certain order can just cut right through to something in oneself that brings out such feeling.

In terms of how to describe the overall effect, I'm struck by the kind of bipolarity it leaves me conjuring with:

It's delicate and subtle, yet heavy and monolithic;

It's beautiful and bright, yet bleak and intense;

It's wordless, and speaks volumes to me.

But more than anything, there's that one, devastating moment.





*Update: as found by nmj, here's a link to the piece in question. There's some extra stuff at the end, but the actual track ends around the 7 mins 30 mark.

Always sat in the same corner

I was back in Derbyshire this weekend, and went for a couple of drinks in one of the local pubs. In this particular drinking establishment, there used to be an elderly lady who always sat at the same table in a corner. A tiny, frail thing she was, and - I guessed - in her late seventies.

She would sit there, sipping slowly from a glass, and smoking the occasional cigarette. In lighting up another, her ever-present tremor - which served to heighten her sense of frailty - would become more apparent. Her whole body would seem to shake during the action of putting the cigarette in her mouth and lighting it up. The shaking would then subside, to a significant degree.

I knew nothing about her, nor did I have any real curiosity: for the most part, she was just the elderly lady who was always sat in the same corner. I never spoke to her - the bar staff would exchange a few words with her when collecting empties, and on the couple of occasions when I heard her voice, I couldn't tell what she was saying. She reminded me of my paternal grandmother, in that her voice too was at the mercy of her tremor, meaning that conversation took much effort and concentration.

I do recall her eyes though, which - again, like my grandmother's - radiated character and an independence of spirit which belied her physical frailty.

One evening, I'd ventured into the pub having made arrangements to meet up with a friend for a drink. I'd arrived slightly late but, as I scanned the room, I couldn't see him anywhere. It did come to my notice that the old lady was sat in her usual corner though, and I also felt a little annoyed when I saw that the pub was going to have the first of a regular karoake night, and were just about to get started.

I sat down with my pint, idly people-watching and wondering where my mate was. The karoake was, I had to begrudgingly admit, grimly entertaining: a note-perfect version of "Return to Sender," though sung in the broadest of Derbyshire accents, and consistently half a bar out of step with the backing music, was the most memorable. A Robbie Williams wannabe sang a couple of Oasis songs. Someone did a passable "Disco 2000." Still no sign of my mate.

I was getting ready to finish my drink and leave, and then I noticed something which sat me right back down again. The guy operating the karoake was encouraging people not to be shy, and to get up on stage and sing: the old lady had got out of her seat (something I'd never witnessed previously) and was making her way shakily across the room.

Surely she's not heading for the stage, I thought (or rather, hoped). Maybe she's going to ask to have the volume turned down. But no, she stepped awkwardly onto the stage. This, I was telling myself, is going to be horrible: a real car-crash moment. I realised I was clenching my teeth and frowning a little with tense anticipation of what I imagined I was about to sit through.

As the lady spoke with the karoake man, I noticed that the general hubbub in the room had gradually subsided and all eyes were on the stage. The man was pointing at the selection of songs but she was shaking her head: she was going to sing something unaccompanied. Oh, shit, I thought. This is going to be as compelling as it is painful. I'd still been holding onto some faint hope that she might pull a stunt like a septagenarian man in a bar in Nottingham who had spiked his grey hair up with soap and then got on stage and sang "Firestarter," reducing everyone to stitches.

I was actually feeling quite nervous.

She looked - if such a thing were possible - even tinier and more frail, stood centre stage with all the lights on her. The man had placed the microphone back on its stand and lowered it down for her, and now she stepped forward a little.

She started to sing. Thanks to her shaking, the first few words sounded choked. I was biting my lip, hoping this would be over quickly.

Then something remarkable happened.

She took a deep breath, paused for an instant as if to gather all her strength - her very essence - and then continued. What followed was a song about losing her sweetheart to someone else: heartbreak, sweet sorrow, and jealousy. The words were clearer now, and she was finding her voice: clear in tone, delicate and feminine, and seemingly much younger than she.

Her tremor would noticeably alter the pitch of her voice from slightly sharp to slightly flat, but this just seemed to heighten the emotions that she was conveying. Now, as she got into her stride, she was transformed - she was the young woman experiencing a broken heart for the first time, simultaneously innocent and world-weary, betrayed and lovelorn. No longer was it just her eyes which seemed to transcend her years, it was her whole being.

And when she sang the word "jealousy," it was devastating. Her voice was breaking free from the tremor, finding its pitch, and the combination of notes and those three syllables was one of the most moving things I've ever seen.

She reached the last verse, pausing slightly again for a moment as if to gather her remaining reserves. That lilting voice, those sorrowful words were almost too much to bear, and when she sang the final note she was off-key: which, somehow, made it perfect.

There was a moment of stunned silence, and in that moment she visibly wilted as though transformed back again from the young woman of the song. But the applause quickly came, cheers and whistles too, loud and enthusiastic. She stood for a moment, old and frail again, but with those bright, determined eyes looking round at everyone and taking the whole thing in: and then, having been helped down from the stage, she made her way back to her usual seat, the cheers not dying down until she was back in her place.

I bought myself another drink and went and sat outside for a few minutes, a little glassy-eyed. What I'd just seen left me pretty much speechless for the rest of the evening: I was glad my friend never showed up after all.

Play (2)

A week or two ago I'd emailed some friends suggesting that they join me on my birthday weekend by going out to watch these gentlemen play a gig. Thanks to a slightly curious turn of events I was informed that there was room for me to play on the same bill: after the customary stab of anxiety, I agreed to do so.

I was a little bit wired on Saturday once I arrived at the venue - no doubt informed by a certain amount of nerves, but mainly due to having drank a lot the previous day. The kind of drinking which happens over the space of several hours, which means you don't get drunk or have a hangover, but it has a definite effect on your sense of being all the same.

So I was a little bit fidgety, not quite able to fully relax, tripping over my words a little. I was also slightly flabbergasted to be at the venue - a place I've known for years and years - and find that the area backstage is Tardis-like and labyrinthine. It felt like it took a good few minutes walk to get to the kitchen area where me, the promoters and the other performers sat and ate and had the odd beer. Also, the gig was originally going to happen in a garagey, basement area, which greatly appealed to me. In the event, due to all sorts of health and safety-based panics, it had been relocated to the main part of the venue upstairs. Which, considering I would be on my own in the middle of the stage, felt pretty bloody huge to me. Gulp.

I knew also to not to have the same expectations as the last gig, which was quite a unique thing and with its very own atmosphere. But having said all the above, I was looking forward to it.

I was due on stage at 8.30, though I was wandering round the main bar downstairs periodically before that, looking for some familiar faces as well as someone I hoped to recognise at least by his distinctive height. As is customary, I allowed a few doubts to creep in, and pictured myself playing to a near-empty venue. When I got back upstairs though I was instantly reassured by what felt to me to be a respectable amount of people (which was to increase further as time wore on).

I was also pleased to find Szwagier (he being of the distinctive height) and Nell there - though it was more the case that they found me - they had contacted me previously and managed to wrestle details of the gig from me, and I was flattered that they had turned up with a couple of other friends also. I sat with them and we chatted before I went on stage, and it helped to take the edge off any nerves I was feeling: it was good to finally meet more people I've been in touch with for quite some time now via the internet and blogging, and they were very good company too.

The stage was higher up and far more cluttered with leads and equipment than at the last gig, and my main fear was that of tripping over something and causing chaos and injury as I made my way to where my laptop was parked. Nothing of the sort occurred thankfully, so all felt well and good as I safely reached my station in the middle of the stage.

Normally I like to be somewhere near the side of the stage so that I don't feel like a rabbit caught in the headlights: it felt ok though, the spotlights shining down meant that I couldn't see the audience, and that didn't exactly do me any harm. I could just focus on the laptop and other equipment, and my beer.

Again once I got things going, it all felt reassuringly loud. It was a similar set to last time, albeit with a few adjustments and with one different track at the end. It went pretty smoothly and seemed to get a favourable enough response, I was happy with the reaction and with what I'd done. It was more reserved (the reaction) than the last gig, but I'd been prepared for that since most of the audience were there, of course, to see the headlining act. I did have a number of people come up and tell me what they thought afterwards, and the comments were positive.

It was a thoroughly enjoyable evening, the main act were mesmerising and very intense (and loud), if you do follow the link near the top you'll get a flavour of what it was like. Thanks again to Szwag and Nell and their friends coming along, it was really good to meet them: we sat and had a further couple of beers and they met a couple of my friends too. After they headed their own way, I toddled over to a friend's house nearby for wine, pizza, and yet more music: feeling tired, rather tipsy, and very content.

I hadn't felt the need for any great plans for the following day - my actual birthday - but come the afternoon a bunch of us were out walking in the Clent Hills, followed by a rather fabulous pub lunch. All in all, a fantastic weekend: I don't think I've ever done quite so much on and around my birthday, and I'm really very happy at the way it all worked out.

Having listened back to a recording of my performance on Saturday night though, it's left me feeling like I need to push it in different directions, make it sound more fucked up, stretch it beyond recognition compared to where it's at currently. Which is par for the course, and so it damn well should be.

Many Happy Returns to me

It's my birthday this weekend - that's right, all weekend. I'm off out tonight - indeed I'm playing another gig, and I'll write about it I'm sure.

But one thing I felt I needed to write was a few more words about my grandma. I've just returned from seeing my mother last night, which meant I had the opportunity to see my grandma this morning.

I went into her house and knocked, as I always do, on the living room door before going through. As I opened it I saw her sat in her chair, motionless, silent, facing away and looking sort of crumpled. She was dozing. I said a necessarily loud hello - she's as deaf as I'm likely to become - and she looked up, startled, saying a couple of half-formed words and who...what's happening?. I braced myself for what I thought might be a difficult conversation trying to navigate with her through a rather vague, foggy mental state.

It couldn't have been much more different: apart from a couple of mild moments of forgetfulness, she was bright as a button, and appeared far more aware and together than I've seen her in months. It was such a nice, pleasant surprise. We chatted for a while, and it was gratifying to see some of her old spirit much more in evidence than has been the case for a while, though in a way this heightens the contrast with her quite fragile physical state.

It made my day.

What has helped, I'm sure, is that she is now getting daily visits from a social services agency to help her to manage. I think the sense of routine, and the stimulus provided by conversation with visitors who are there to help, has focused her mind to a noticeable degree. It's also meant my mother has been able to relinquish a lot of the responsibility of helping her, and so things are slightly better all round.

Wish me luck for tonight.

Hills

I'm just about recovered from an excellent weekend staying in Malham, up in the Yorkshire Dales (or even down in the Yorkshire Dales, depending on where you are in relation to them). The defining moment for me was cycling off-road for a long stretch over occasionally boggy moorland atop the dales. The majestic sight of Pen y Ghent was to my right, and my vision of it was suddenly obscured by a white sheet of what looked like sudden, thick fog; instead it turned out to be a hailstorm (neither the first nor the last of the weekend).

We'd already been cycling for a couple of hours by this point, and though I was thankful that the wind was behind me (not a reference to the previous post) for the first time that day, it also meant that the hailstorm was heading towards me. I redoubled my efforts and for what seemed like several minutes, I was cycling on the very edge of the storm as it followed in my wake. Finally I had to stop as I realised I needed a large intake of sugar - in the form of chocolate - since my energy levels were showing signs of dipping. Me and my two companions sheltered by a wall as the hail continued beating down on us, I ate my chocolate as swiftly as I could, and then we continued on our way.

Several more hours were to pass before we reached the warmth and comfort of our accommodation in Malham, including a long stop in a cafe in Horton in Ribblesdale. The beer and pub food that evening were well deserved: and we did it all again on the Sunday, ending up in a blizzard before our final descent back onto lower ground.

I didn't take my camera with me, which is a shame in the sense that there were many stunning views, especially with all the dramatic changes in the weather. On the other hand, if I'd had my camera in my coat or my backpack, it would have felt like an accident magnet, and I really didn't want that to serve to distract me.

I'm glad - obviously - to have finished up with no injuries, serious or minor (or anything else). Now I'm suddenly hectic with other things again. My evenings this week are being taken up with further work on music, since I've been booked to play again very soon. Which is one way of explaining the fact that I haven't had - and won't have - much time for visiting other people's blogs for the next few days. No doubt the weekend will be over all too soon, what with the upcoming event, and that of my birthday also.

Tidying up

I think it's probably not surprising that in the aftermath of the events described in the previous post, I've been having a lot of vivid dreams: some intriguing, some disturbing. The main part of one of last night's dreams that I recall was walking past a building which turned out to be a university for teaching people how to accost someone with a gun. I found out because as I walked past there was a gap through which I heard a noise and when I looked, I glimpsed all these people in what looked like a gym. They were rehearsing moves for knocking someone to the floor and then pointing the gun at their head.

Don't ask, because I don't know: and that's but one of many scenarios that have been generated in the depths of my subconscious mind this week. I think it must be part of the process of my brain unwinding after all the hopes, anxieties and excitement leading up to last Friday.

Mind you, I think it's also because my sleeping mind has actually had some space in which to project all this imagery, so quelled was it by voluminous quantities of post-gig alcohol over the weekend. Not that I got trashed, it was just that there was plenty of time in which drinking could be done at a steady pace.

Well I'm having an easy, quiet week. I feel in a way like I've finished reading a novel - here's a pause while I let it all sink in, and also while I notice the absence of the activity of reading it day in, day out. But it should soon be time to pick another one up and to start anew. More than one person commented on the infectious energy in my last post: it would be self-defeating of me not to make sure that this kind of thing remains prominent amongst my activities again from now on.

It should be achievable: there was, for a while, a disruptive, negative force in my life. Amongst other things I allowed it to divert me from what creativity I possess, and I remained for a long time feeling unable to get back into such habits. As I've noted before, thematic to an extent in this blog has been the effort to change this: and since that disruptive force is no longer there, except for the residual memories, then it's up to me to make sure I don't forget how last Friday (and the process leading up to it) made me feel.