.
I wonder if you might allow me a small indulgence and let me write about something that has absolutely nothing to do with music.
I was inspired to begin writing this blog by a very good friend of mine, Stephen, who goes under the blog name of ‘Quicksketch’.
Now I know that there are a fair few of you that read my simple scribblings because they stumbled across Stephen’s blog “How to be an inspiration” first.
For those that don’t know Steve’s blog is about the day to day frustrations, joys and restrictions of suffering with a degenerative condition called Muscular Dystrophy.
However, Steve is by no means a ‘moaner’ (his wife Polly of course reserves the right to disagree with this entirely) and his blog is often down right hilarious and I would heartily recommend it to you.
However, my point for writing about Steve is this, the blog is essentially about his condition and the day to day struggle he has to endure. However for myself and my good buddy Bassbin (Darren) we still don’t see the wheel chair, and the hassle that Steve has to endure even eat and sleep these days.
We still see the child, teenager and young man that grew up with us. Dignified, funny, good natured, thoughtful and a good friend.
When I was 9 years old, my father upped the family, dragging us kicking and screaming away from friends, school and familiar surroundings and moved us to a house closer to the church where he was pastor.
In this my self and my siblings had to go to a new school and I was introduced to my new class mates. Two lads in particular were given the task of integrating the newbie. Darren and Steve.
Now I’m not quite sure why those two were particularly chosen for this task, maybe it was thought that they would be the least likely to make this new kid cry. Perhaps it was felt that they would be the least likely to lead me into ‘Disaster’.
Either way, but for a twist of fate, my new best friends could have been Ricky Hartee and Andrew Scully. I don’t know what my future would have held, but I certainly would have been in the company of more girls that was for sure.
However, at the same point in history, when Man first set foot on the moon, I made two new friends that would help to sculpt my life, and I believe they did it in a very positive way indeed.
As with all of us in those days, both boys, like me, were skinny and scruffy and full of life.
I can’t remember at what point it was mentioned that Steve has Muscular Dystrophy, but I believe it was almost immediately. No big deal was made, I didn’t have a clue what it was for Pete sake, and to be honest it didn’t really matter. I was now being initiated into the ‘Whitchurch Wanders’ and a total acceptance of the MD and Steve as a founding member of that tribe was a prerequisite to belonging and his condition was virtually never mentioned again until relatively recently.
It wasn’t that it was ignored, as if a shameful thing was being suppressed and buried, it just never factored.
Steve’s dad, Roger, held a place of power and place in our young lives. He was the leader of the local ‘Cub scout’ group, of which all three of us became members. He went under the moniker of ‘Arkala’ and he scared the crap out of myself and Darren. However, he held an immense amount of respect from both of us, and I believe, from what has been revealed to us later, he was rather fond of us.
The Cubs were and I suppose are, a great institution. Although it was a hell of a lot more fun back in the days before the oppression of health & safety had got a hold of us. We got taught to light fires, use knives, sleep in DIY shelters and got told stories in gory detail of what can happen if you do stupid things with your sheaf knife.
Roger, like two of his sons, also had the condition Muscular Dystrophy, so he probably knew more about was in store for his lads than perhaps they did. As far as I can remember though he didn’t do his oldest boy any special favours, Steve was treated like the rest of us, although I do remember more badges appearing on Steve’s uniform than Darren and I could both muster together. If I remember rightly there were a few grumblings of ‘fix’ being banded about. However, as with all of our dealings with Steve, the suggestion that he might have been given a break because of his MD didn’t even occur to us (the fact that he has always applied himself a bit more enthusiastically also didn’t occur to us either and that he had simply ‘earned’ more badges than us).
It was during these heady days of cubs that Steve’s condition did start to become more apparent and also evidence of its debilitating effects on him became more noticeable. It was during the ‘swimming badge’ that Steve was unable to perform all the tasks set for him (neither could I, so it didn’t really seem to matter). However for Steve, it wasn’t matter of ability, he physically couldn’t do.
But again, Darren’s and my attitude was ‘Hey ho…no worries’.
It was at this point Darren and I began to show early signs that we could make complete idiots of ourselves when the occasion required, usually with Steve standing behind us shaking his head in despair. We both nearly got sent home from a cub camp when we got ourselves into a full blown fist fight over…..a woggle!! (that’s the thing that you tied your neckerchief up with incidentally). Don’t ask me what it was about, but I remember that it was pretty heated.
These heady days continued until I was asked to leave on account that I was now the oldest cub in Bristol, and a full year older than I supposed to be. I didn’t last very long in scouts (I don’t think that Darren and Steve even got that far…the cubs were our moment of glory).
When we reached the heady age of 11 or 12 (I was a full 10 months older than the other two so I have always been considered ‘the old man’ of the out fit. Great when you are 12….pants when you are in your 40’s.) we were introduced to our new secondary school, Hartcliffe Comprehensive School, the most frightening institution on God’s green Earth.
Hartcliffe at that time was one of the biggest schools in the country and it certainly had one of the worst reputations for brutality…both from students and staff.
Steve’s ability to move had begun to slow somewhat, but it didn’t matter, we all walked slower in way of unmentioned, unsolicited compensation (some habits die hard I have discovered). His facial expressions also began to suggest that the muscles weren’t as strong as they used to be. However, we all looked liked train wrecks from Pizza hut in those days so it didn’t matter.
Steve’s recollection may be better than mine, but I don’t recollect him getting a particular hard time from the other kids, which is remarkable given the age of the kids that were repulsed by even the slightest of differences.
He may have been getting some stick but to be honest I was too busy wrapped up in my own misery. As I said, my father was pastor of the local church and he used to come into our school to take our assemblies. This was like manna from heaven for my class mates in terms of Mickey taking. I would be followed around by groups of kids, monk like in mock prayer as they trailed ‘The preacher’s kid’ around the play ground.
I cannot illustrate how painful and humiliating that was for me, which is daft considering as I look back on it now most of the kids were very fond of my dad, and I have since become extremely proud of the nickname ‘The preachers kid’. Strange how we grow.
As with all our journey together, Steve was not offered any special dispensation by his growing army of mates, although instinctive allowances were made for Steve’s reducing physical prowess, however, to draw attention to it would have been tantamount to an insult.
However, some of the staff weren’t quite so open minded when it came to being over protective of the ‘disabled boy’.
Mr Owen was a maths teacher, and I believe he was a ruddy psychopath. Even the staff were terrified of him.
I remember making the stupid mistake of treating Steve like any other kid in one of Owen’s lessons. I leant over a desk and cuffed Steve around the back of the head (that’s the sort of things mates do to each other ….it’s a male thing apparently).
I had not realised that my ‘torturous act upon this helpless young cripple’ had been observed by the Ogre of class 4B and with a roar of fury he launched himself across the classroom towards me. I was wrenched from seat by my jacket lapels, and had to suffer a torrent of venomous abuse on the subject of being unkind to those less fortunate than ourselves, and then unceremoniously I was flung across three or four desks to crash into a crumbled heap in the corner of the room.
Steve simply wet himself laughing.
Steve and I did suffer at the hands of a couple of Neanderthal thugs who managed to sit with us in our science class. However, our pleas for assistance to our form tutor (something they encourage children to do nowadays), was met with “You are bigger than then…..beat them up”. I was “The Preachers Kid” I didn’t do ‘beating up’, and even back then Steve was becoming a man of learning and not a boxer.
Still, I suppose the only satisfaction I can muster is the pair of them are probably due for parole at some point in the near future (not a very Christian day dream I grant you….but stuff it!).
For those of you who have been reading this blog regularly, you will already be aware of what happened when Steve, myself and Darren first began to dabble in music with my blog "My tone deaf mate”.
By the time we reached the sixth form (before, both Darren and I were asked to leave), Steve had begun to circulate in a more learned circle than that offered by Darren and myself (we only had ourselves to blame really, the draw of listening to the Sex Pistols at Darren’s house had a greater draw than attending English Literature lessons I can tell you).
So by 1979 we began to go our separate ways as Darren and I got our first jobs and I had the opportunity to travel a bit with a band, and Steve eventually went off to London to University, became a successful and talented playwright. Co-wrote a best selling no 1 record, got married and had kids.
We never really lost contact, however it has really been more in the last few years that we ‘picked up where we left off’.
The reason for my walk down memory lane is this. I have worked with disabled people from time to time during my working life, and I found this to be hard work, and often rewarding, I have even occasionally found it to be an honour.
However, I have never seen Steve in that light.
I can honestly say that as hard as it has become for him in recent years I still do not see the wheel chair.
To me he is a mate, pure and simple. A good mate who has helped put several huge dollops of paint onto the canvas of my life. A mate that has succeeded in life and has contributed to the arena that he travelled in.
He married a beautiful (and patient) women and they have two very lively, intelligent boys that do their parents proud.
Steve was and is far more than that ‘disabled boy’ that refused to get drawn into the ‘ah, bless him’ space (no matter how hard our mothers tried)
I suppose what I am trying to say is, the next time you run into somebody who is being pushed along in the wheelchair……don’t just see the chair…there is a history sat there. A history of a vibrant human being…that has mates…like me and Bassbin…..just try to resist the temptation to cuff him around the back of the head…Mr Owen could be near by.
Tuesday, 10 February 2009
Monday, 9 February 2009
It would appear that Cowboys do like the snow
At least they do in the South of Bristol anyways.
The party that was described in my last blog was a great success, with a variety of friends of the birthday boy arriving all dressed in a variety of cowboy and red Indian costumes (apart from one chap who had clearly read his invite wrong and turned up as a Blues Brother….either that or he was proud of said costume and was determined to wear it regardless) and all cramped into a domestic kitchen until much jollity was had by all.
It was noted by the band that we have in fact played in smaller venues, and to much smaller crowds so we didn’t complain and ‘went for it’ with as much gusto as we could manage.
As I have mentioned previously, we are NOT a country & western band….although I do have to confess that having got hold of a C & W greatest hits album to get me ‘in the mood’ I found myself singing happily along to Dolly Parton’s ‘Jolie’ and ‘Coward of the County’.
However, we thought that in this case we really ought to make an effort to sing something that at least had a ‘Country’ feel to it, so that morning I managed to download and memorise ‘D.I.V.O.R.C.E as sung by Billy Connolly. If song doesn’t ring any bells then get yourself onto Youtube and have a look.
I also managed to remember the words to an old John Denver song called ‘Grandmother’s feather bed’.
I always remember that song fondly from my childhood and didn’t in my innocence see anything untoward about it at all.
Unfortunately, the crowd we were performing to tonight was made up largely of rugby players and their spouses.
They found great amusement in the concept of “having a lot of fun on grandmother’s feather bed”, especially as that ‘fun’ included “8 sheep, six hound dogs and a piggy we’d stolen from the shed”.
By the time I had sung the line about “wrestling with my cousin” I began to wish I had tried to remember the words to ‘Annie’s Song’ instead.
All in all it was fun evening, especially as they plied CJ and Aaron with free beer (muggings here had negotiate the snow and ice so stayed away from anything that might result in my skidding into the back of a snow plough).
By the time we had finished out two hour set the crowd were in good form and were in the mood to sing…roaring that immortal line to the birthday boy “Why was he born so beautiful, why was he born at all”. The rest is unprintable.
Leaving CJ to enjoy himself Aaron and I managed to discreetly slip away, with a few cans for later secreted in our pockets, and bought ourselves a curry on the way home.
Now, if that is what County and Western music is all about, I might be tempted to do some more.
Only ‘tempted’ mind you.
The party that was described in my last blog was a great success, with a variety of friends of the birthday boy arriving all dressed in a variety of cowboy and red Indian costumes (apart from one chap who had clearly read his invite wrong and turned up as a Blues Brother….either that or he was proud of said costume and was determined to wear it regardless) and all cramped into a domestic kitchen until much jollity was had by all.
It was noted by the band that we have in fact played in smaller venues, and to much smaller crowds so we didn’t complain and ‘went for it’ with as much gusto as we could manage.
As I have mentioned previously, we are NOT a country & western band….although I do have to confess that having got hold of a C & W greatest hits album to get me ‘in the mood’ I found myself singing happily along to Dolly Parton’s ‘Jolie’ and ‘Coward of the County’.
However, we thought that in this case we really ought to make an effort to sing something that at least had a ‘Country’ feel to it, so that morning I managed to download and memorise ‘D.I.V.O.R.C.E as sung by Billy Connolly. If song doesn’t ring any bells then get yourself onto Youtube and have a look.
I also managed to remember the words to an old John Denver song called ‘Grandmother’s feather bed’.
I always remember that song fondly from my childhood and didn’t in my innocence see anything untoward about it at all.
Unfortunately, the crowd we were performing to tonight was made up largely of rugby players and their spouses.
They found great amusement in the concept of “having a lot of fun on grandmother’s feather bed”, especially as that ‘fun’ included “8 sheep, six hound dogs and a piggy we’d stolen from the shed”.
By the time I had sung the line about “wrestling with my cousin” I began to wish I had tried to remember the words to ‘Annie’s Song’ instead.
All in all it was fun evening, especially as they plied CJ and Aaron with free beer (muggings here had negotiate the snow and ice so stayed away from anything that might result in my skidding into the back of a snow plough).
By the time we had finished out two hour set the crowd were in good form and were in the mood to sing…roaring that immortal line to the birthday boy “Why was he born so beautiful, why was he born at all”. The rest is unprintable.
Leaving CJ to enjoy himself Aaron and I managed to discreetly slip away, with a few cans for later secreted in our pockets, and bought ourselves a curry on the way home.
Now, if that is what County and Western music is all about, I might be tempted to do some more.
Only ‘tempted’ mind you.
Friday, 6 February 2009
Do cowboys like the snow?
“How do you know when the stage the drums are set on (drum riser) is level?.......when he begins to dribble out of both sides of his mouth!
You should never let the drummer organise the gigs, if you do then you will end up performing gigs like we have tonight….in somebody’s kitchen and dressed as cowboys.
My apologies to our American cousins, but I firmly believe that there are only two REAL evils in this world, ‘Country’ and ‘Western’.
So to be performing for a ‘surprise’ birthday party that has said Country & Western theme isn’t really considered to be a plus….although I am sure that I am going to cut a fine dash in my Stetson.
In all seriousness, we each do a ‘favour’ gig for each member of the band (co’s were good like that) and this on is for a friend of CJ’s, although the sting was taken out of this particular tail when CJ informed Aaron and I that we were in fact getting, fed, watered AND paid….top result then.
One big problem however. We are currently experiencing the heaviest snowfall in Bristol in over three decades, and it does not look as if there is any indication that it is going to let up. There is a very real possibility that we may not be able to get there.
Now, those American cousins that I mentioned may well scoff at the confusion that reigns when we get even the lightest dusting of snow. All over the radio we have heard accounts of smug American’s and Scandinavians who get to work despite three foot of snow EVERY night.
However, they get this climate every year, we haven’t had even close to this much snow since about 1986, and even then it was pretty much gone within 24 hours.
You have to admit that this particular ‘white adventure’ is pretty much a rarity for us Brits.
It was amazing to walk to work this morning to see the misery of a long line of lorries that had slewed to an embarrassing halt on the hill a short way from my house.
As they yelled insults and accusations regarding the ineffectual response of the Councils gritting Lorries, I had to fight an over whelming urge to wander up to them and say
“oh, innit pretty”.
I imagine there response would be swift and far from pretty.
So as I sit here in the deserted school where I have my NHS office and contemplate the long walk home, I ponder the question; do real cowboys like the snow.
I’ll let you know how we get on.
You should never let the drummer organise the gigs, if you do then you will end up performing gigs like we have tonight….in somebody’s kitchen and dressed as cowboys.
My apologies to our American cousins, but I firmly believe that there are only two REAL evils in this world, ‘Country’ and ‘Western’.
So to be performing for a ‘surprise’ birthday party that has said Country & Western theme isn’t really considered to be a plus….although I am sure that I am going to cut a fine dash in my Stetson.
In all seriousness, we each do a ‘favour’ gig for each member of the band (co’s were good like that) and this on is for a friend of CJ’s, although the sting was taken out of this particular tail when CJ informed Aaron and I that we were in fact getting, fed, watered AND paid….top result then.
One big problem however. We are currently experiencing the heaviest snowfall in Bristol in over three decades, and it does not look as if there is any indication that it is going to let up. There is a very real possibility that we may not be able to get there.
Now, those American cousins that I mentioned may well scoff at the confusion that reigns when we get even the lightest dusting of snow. All over the radio we have heard accounts of smug American’s and Scandinavians who get to work despite three foot of snow EVERY night.
However, they get this climate every year, we haven’t had even close to this much snow since about 1986, and even then it was pretty much gone within 24 hours.
You have to admit that this particular ‘white adventure’ is pretty much a rarity for us Brits.
It was amazing to walk to work this morning to see the misery of a long line of lorries that had slewed to an embarrassing halt on the hill a short way from my house.
As they yelled insults and accusations regarding the ineffectual response of the Councils gritting Lorries, I had to fight an over whelming urge to wander up to them and say
“oh, innit pretty”.
I imagine there response would be swift and far from pretty.
So as I sit here in the deserted school where I have my NHS office and contemplate the long walk home, I ponder the question; do real cowboys like the snow.
I’ll let you know how we get on.
Friday, 30 January 2009
A moment in history.
I write music reviews for a website called ‘Cross Rhythms’, which to be honest isn’t as exciting as it sounds. Sure I get sent loads of free CD’s, however the tendency is that if it is a good one I have to return it for the CR library.
The biggest drag with reviewing at this point in history is that Christian music on the whole tends to be going down the ‘Cold Play’, ‘Keane’ mellowed out, intellectual angst route. Whereas 20 years ago, if you were middle aged and middle class and wanting to show that you were ‘cool’ you listen to ‘Dire Straights’ (I know by which I speak, I used to run a Hi Fi shop and those persons that I described ALWAYS brought along their prized copy of ‘Brothers in Arms’ to demo their intended purchase.)
It got to the point that my staff began playing ‘The Wurzals’ over the shops music system as an act of rebellion.
Nowadays, it’s the day of the ‘Glastonbury’ headliners (stop me if you disagree).
The trouble is, the world and his wife are producing bands that sound just like they have finished having a full depressive breakdown. Hordes of corduroy wearing, unshaven, long haired college types, hammering away on their un distorted guitars and pub pianos about the bleakness of existence.
And I have to review it.
As somebody who absolutely refuses to slag off somebody else’s work, I try my very best to find something good and laudable to pen in each review. Believe you me I am getting very good at ‘creative’ writing. However, I am currently staring at two CD’s that without actually ‘lying’ could result in me hurting somebodies feelings.
So you can imagine my joy when a re-released classic fell on my doorstep and contained a bonus track recorded live at a gig I was actually at.
The album was ‘In another land’ and the artiste is ‘Larry Norman.
Now for those of you not in the know (which presumably are the majority of you) Larry Norman was the first Christian ‘Superstar’.
An American that started his career in the 60’s, Norman penned some classics that most church kids who owned a guitar in the 70’s cut their teeth on.
However, to that gig I mentioned.
Myself and my good friend ‘Bassbin’ travelled to a festival called Greenbelt in 1979 in Darren’s dark blue escort van (I only mention that van because I am sure it is going to feature in several other blogs in the future and so I thought I ought to take this opportunity to introduce it to you).
This was quite a moment for me as Bassbin has always declined to get involved in all things ‘God Bothering’ by nature and so to get him to come along with me to a ‘Christian Festival was a result.
Now it was a great festival and left a mark in history, and I promise I will give you a proper account of the weekend as there were some truly hilarious as well as revolting moments.
However, for this particular article there were two stand out moments. One was the realisation that when two blokes sleep in the back of a van, you need to keep the windows open just a tad….or you suffocate.
The other was the headline gig on the Saturday night.
The headliner was one Cliff Richard. Now I know that he has come in for a lot of stick over the years, but he is actually a very good performer and back in 1979 he was at his peak.
Half way through his set he introduced a singer from America and much to the delight of the 25,000 strong crowd, Larry Norman strolled onto stage, his long blond hair shining in the spot lights and blowing in the breeze.
They then launched into a song that Bassbin and I had been trying to perfect for years ‘The rock that doesn’t roll’…….pure rock & roll magic. The already over excited crowd went utterly bonkers, and it is a memory that stays with me today.
So as I said, I was delight at having to write a review for not only a classic album (his whole back catalogue is being re-released as Norman sadly died at an all too young age this time last year), but at finding that somebody had recorded that same song from 30 years ago, re-mastered it and here it was……..on my Hi fi.
Beats the heck out of ‘Dire Straights’ and ‘Cold Play’ I can tell you.
Altogether now!
“Well, it’s good for your body and it’s great for your soul, he’s the rock that doesn’t roll”.
The biggest drag with reviewing at this point in history is that Christian music on the whole tends to be going down the ‘Cold Play’, ‘Keane’ mellowed out, intellectual angst route. Whereas 20 years ago, if you were middle aged and middle class and wanting to show that you were ‘cool’ you listen to ‘Dire Straights’ (I know by which I speak, I used to run a Hi Fi shop and those persons that I described ALWAYS brought along their prized copy of ‘Brothers in Arms’ to demo their intended purchase.)
It got to the point that my staff began playing ‘The Wurzals’ over the shops music system as an act of rebellion.
Nowadays, it’s the day of the ‘Glastonbury’ headliners (stop me if you disagree).
The trouble is, the world and his wife are producing bands that sound just like they have finished having a full depressive breakdown. Hordes of corduroy wearing, unshaven, long haired college types, hammering away on their un distorted guitars and pub pianos about the bleakness of existence.
And I have to review it.
As somebody who absolutely refuses to slag off somebody else’s work, I try my very best to find something good and laudable to pen in each review. Believe you me I am getting very good at ‘creative’ writing. However, I am currently staring at two CD’s that without actually ‘lying’ could result in me hurting somebodies feelings.
So you can imagine my joy when a re-released classic fell on my doorstep and contained a bonus track recorded live at a gig I was actually at.
The album was ‘In another land’ and the artiste is ‘Larry Norman.
Now for those of you not in the know (which presumably are the majority of you) Larry Norman was the first Christian ‘Superstar’.
An American that started his career in the 60’s, Norman penned some classics that most church kids who owned a guitar in the 70’s cut their teeth on.
However, to that gig I mentioned.
Myself and my good friend ‘Bassbin’ travelled to a festival called Greenbelt in 1979 in Darren’s dark blue escort van (I only mention that van because I am sure it is going to feature in several other blogs in the future and so I thought I ought to take this opportunity to introduce it to you).
This was quite a moment for me as Bassbin has always declined to get involved in all things ‘God Bothering’ by nature and so to get him to come along with me to a ‘Christian Festival was a result.
Now it was a great festival and left a mark in history, and I promise I will give you a proper account of the weekend as there were some truly hilarious as well as revolting moments.
However, for this particular article there were two stand out moments. One was the realisation that when two blokes sleep in the back of a van, you need to keep the windows open just a tad….or you suffocate.
The other was the headline gig on the Saturday night.
The headliner was one Cliff Richard. Now I know that he has come in for a lot of stick over the years, but he is actually a very good performer and back in 1979 he was at his peak.
Half way through his set he introduced a singer from America and much to the delight of the 25,000 strong crowd, Larry Norman strolled onto stage, his long blond hair shining in the spot lights and blowing in the breeze.
They then launched into a song that Bassbin and I had been trying to perfect for years ‘The rock that doesn’t roll’…….pure rock & roll magic. The already over excited crowd went utterly bonkers, and it is a memory that stays with me today.
So as I said, I was delight at having to write a review for not only a classic album (his whole back catalogue is being re-released as Norman sadly died at an all too young age this time last year), but at finding that somebody had recorded that same song from 30 years ago, re-mastered it and here it was……..on my Hi fi.
Beats the heck out of ‘Dire Straights’ and ‘Cold Play’ I can tell you.
Altogether now!
“Well, it’s good for your body and it’s great for your soul, he’s the rock that doesn’t roll”.
Wednesday, 28 January 2009
An ambition
This could be interesting.
One of the things that The Mudheads would like to do this year is go back into the studio and record something. This has been something I haven’t done since 1995 when Mudheads Monkey recorded Shout! an album that actually made money and sold surprisingly well in Norway.
Regular readers of this blog will recognise the producer of Shout! As Jez Coad, a long term friend of mine and now a well respected producer of named bands (he has just finished recording his second collaboration with Simple Minds).
As I thoroughly enjoy working with Jez and I firmly believe that he gets the best out of me, I approached him again to see if he could help The Mudheads record an EP (that’s an old fashioned term for you under 25’s meaning ‘extended play’…in English a CD with about four tracks on it).
Jez said that he would be delighted to work with us again and gave me some advice and suggestions to take back to the band.
The most exciting advice was that we should record the tracks at the Rockfield studio’s in Monmouth.
Now I am betting none of you have heard of that name before, however I am pretty sure that you would have heard of at least one song that was historically recorded there.
Does the name Bohemian Rhapsody mean any thing to any of you?
So there we go, excited or what!!
However, this is a big boy’s studio that charge big boy fees. Even with nice guy Jez pulling a few favours and strings, it could still cost a packet. More that three struggling gigging musicians from Bristol can afford that’s for pretty darn sure.
Or maybe not.
I shall keep you all up to date with developments.
Oh, incidentally, we have several other ambitions for the band this year….mine is to get Bassbin along to a gig……I however, I think that recording in one of Britain’s nay the worlds, most famous studios is going to be easier to pull off.
One of the things that The Mudheads would like to do this year is go back into the studio and record something. This has been something I haven’t done since 1995 when Mudheads Monkey recorded Shout! an album that actually made money and sold surprisingly well in Norway.
Regular readers of this blog will recognise the producer of Shout! As Jez Coad, a long term friend of mine and now a well respected producer of named bands (he has just finished recording his second collaboration with Simple Minds).
As I thoroughly enjoy working with Jez and I firmly believe that he gets the best out of me, I approached him again to see if he could help The Mudheads record an EP (that’s an old fashioned term for you under 25’s meaning ‘extended play’…in English a CD with about four tracks on it).
Jez said that he would be delighted to work with us again and gave me some advice and suggestions to take back to the band.
The most exciting advice was that we should record the tracks at the Rockfield studio’s in Monmouth.
Now I am betting none of you have heard of that name before, however I am pretty sure that you would have heard of at least one song that was historically recorded there.
Does the name Bohemian Rhapsody mean any thing to any of you?
So there we go, excited or what!!
However, this is a big boy’s studio that charge big boy fees. Even with nice guy Jez pulling a few favours and strings, it could still cost a packet. More that three struggling gigging musicians from Bristol can afford that’s for pretty darn sure.
Or maybe not.
I shall keep you all up to date with developments.
Oh, incidentally, we have several other ambitions for the band this year….mine is to get Bassbin along to a gig……I however, I think that recording in one of Britain’s nay the worlds, most famous studios is going to be easier to pull off.
Monday, 26 January 2009
Where was Jeremy Clarkson when I needed him?
Even Rock God’s get the odd ‘mid life’ crisis to deal with…providing they are of the age to have a mid life crisis of course.
This particular insult has been heaped upon me by the individuals I call my family over the incident of ‘a new car’.
I have always had a hankering for a two seater sports car that has the capacity to go from nought to death in about three and half seconds.
This longing was first brought about by a teenage friend who had a Triumph Spitfire, and then compounded by my musical colleague Matt from Mudheads Monkey who had a Toyota MR2.
Please don’t be mislead by this gentle (slightly rotund) persona that I portray. I was brought up on motor bikes and I like speed, especially when I am dry and warm and I can crank the radio RIGHT up.
The current Rock God mode of transport is now, like its owner, showing the wear and tear signs of age and has a boot that leaks so badly that I have my own re-enactment of the Servern Bore taking place in my boot (trunk) on a daily basis.
The car is now so damp that I have ice on the inside of the windows and not on the outside where it is supposed to be.
With this in mind, I and ‘Mrs Rock God’ went for a little ‘look’ at some of the vehicles that might be available in my price range. And spurred on by wide reports that in light of the current ‘credit crunch’ dealers are practically ‘giving’ them away I was optimistic and enthusiastic.
Can I say right from the outset that the expression ‘practically giving them away’ is a steaming pile of poo….unless of course you feel that fifteen thousand quid is a snip. I however, who work for this countries fine health service, do not.
‘Giving it away’ in my estimation would constitute a fine and shiny new motor car given in exchange for a signed copy of my latest album and a bag of wine gums.
This however is not the case. The salesman require ‘mucho mulla’ in order to keep them in sharp suits and jangling bling and this one descended on myself and my wife with as much enthusiasm as a vulture from the Disney film ‘The Jungle Book’ with genuine promises to ‘be my friend’.
I knew it was a dead cause as I sat longingly behind the wheel of a Mazda MX 5 dreaming of the open road ‘poop poop’ and my wife went and made a beeline for a dramatically and painfully sensible people carrier type thing that had a terrifying air of ‘conservative family man’ about it.
My protestations of “What do I need something that big for” fell upon deaf and unsympathetic ears and the reply “what are you going to do with something as small as that”.
Now ignoring the obvious double entente of this remark, and before anybody else states the obvious, I defended my choice that I know longer required a vehicle that could transport ‘children’.
My wife is definitely not slow off of the remark retorted “Go on then, open the boot, where are you going to put your guitars then?”
Fearing the worse I nodded to the salesman to open said boot to reveal a space that would have been inadequate to transport your average sized lunch box let alone a couple of Takamine acoustic guitars.
As I desperately tried to find reasoned and acceptable ways to get around this problem, the salesman sadly shook his head as he witness the grumbling of yet another dream of the wide open road, top down, wind whipping through what is left of a greying head of hair.
I finally accepted my fate and that unlike Toad of Toad Hall, I would probably be better off with that flippin canary yellow cart and not the silver, slim line ego booster that I lusted after.
Does anybody know where I can buy horse feed… cheap!!
This particular insult has been heaped upon me by the individuals I call my family over the incident of ‘a new car’.
I have always had a hankering for a two seater sports car that has the capacity to go from nought to death in about three and half seconds.
This longing was first brought about by a teenage friend who had a Triumph Spitfire, and then compounded by my musical colleague Matt from Mudheads Monkey who had a Toyota MR2.
Please don’t be mislead by this gentle (slightly rotund) persona that I portray. I was brought up on motor bikes and I like speed, especially when I am dry and warm and I can crank the radio RIGHT up.
The current Rock God mode of transport is now, like its owner, showing the wear and tear signs of age and has a boot that leaks so badly that I have my own re-enactment of the Servern Bore taking place in my boot (trunk) on a daily basis.
The car is now so damp that I have ice on the inside of the windows and not on the outside where it is supposed to be.
With this in mind, I and ‘Mrs Rock God’ went for a little ‘look’ at some of the vehicles that might be available in my price range. And spurred on by wide reports that in light of the current ‘credit crunch’ dealers are practically ‘giving’ them away I was optimistic and enthusiastic.
Can I say right from the outset that the expression ‘practically giving them away’ is a steaming pile of poo….unless of course you feel that fifteen thousand quid is a snip. I however, who work for this countries fine health service, do not.
‘Giving it away’ in my estimation would constitute a fine and shiny new motor car given in exchange for a signed copy of my latest album and a bag of wine gums.
This however is not the case. The salesman require ‘mucho mulla’ in order to keep them in sharp suits and jangling bling and this one descended on myself and my wife with as much enthusiasm as a vulture from the Disney film ‘The Jungle Book’ with genuine promises to ‘be my friend’.
I knew it was a dead cause as I sat longingly behind the wheel of a Mazda MX 5 dreaming of the open road ‘poop poop’ and my wife went and made a beeline for a dramatically and painfully sensible people carrier type thing that had a terrifying air of ‘conservative family man’ about it.
My protestations of “What do I need something that big for” fell upon deaf and unsympathetic ears and the reply “what are you going to do with something as small as that”.
Now ignoring the obvious double entente of this remark, and before anybody else states the obvious, I defended my choice that I know longer required a vehicle that could transport ‘children’.
My wife is definitely not slow off of the remark retorted “Go on then, open the boot, where are you going to put your guitars then?”
Fearing the worse I nodded to the salesman to open said boot to reveal a space that would have been inadequate to transport your average sized lunch box let alone a couple of Takamine acoustic guitars.
As I desperately tried to find reasoned and acceptable ways to get around this problem, the salesman sadly shook his head as he witness the grumbling of yet another dream of the wide open road, top down, wind whipping through what is left of a greying head of hair.
I finally accepted my fate and that unlike Toad of Toad Hall, I would probably be better off with that flippin canary yellow cart and not the silver, slim line ego booster that I lusted after.
Does anybody know where I can buy horse feed… cheap!!
Tuesday, 13 January 2009
Has anybody seen my spleen?
Well I survived the gig with most of my lungs intact…although I am suffering an almighty headache today…..and before you ask, no it was not self inflicted. They wheeled out a local cider at this place that bubbled…I thought it best to leave well alone and stick to that black sticky American soft drink that the police clean the blood off of the roads with.
We performed our best, although my singing voice wasn’t up to much (comments like “so what’s new” are not appreciated) and Aaron had to take over on several occasions when I doubled up with a hacking cough.
His concern really came from his experience of this particular virus with myself and his mother coughing so badly that we….well……without putting to fine a point on it…puked!
Now I know that the harder edge of Heavy Metal vomit on stage as part of the act. The keyboard player from ‘Cradle of Filth’ (a good Christian band much sought out for Sunday school parties) regularly vomited up a mixture of plum tomatoes and latex to particularly stunning effect.
However, the sight of a 40 something doubled up, cradling his acoustic guitar and hocking up his sticky toffee pudding and custard in a local public house would probably not be greatly appreciated by the management and punters alike and would probably guarantee a life time blockade on ever being asked to return.
Anyway, apart from having to recover my spleen from behind the bar where it had landed no great damage was done, apart from the irreparable beating my dignity took.
By the looks of it, 2009 will probably see the return of more acoustic style music to The Loader’s repertoire, especially as we do not have to cart about two and half tonne of equipment around with us. That is not to say that The Mudheads will in anyway slow down, but we are endeavouring to be more selective on the type of gigs we play.
On the journey home from the gig Aaron made an encouraging observation.
He works in a massive music store with lots of other musicians who apparently tend to give him a fair amount of stick for performing in a band with his old man.
His response to these ‘serious’ musicians is philosophical. He said that most of these guys spend most of their time ‘talking’ about music and dreaming of that big major record deal.
Aaron concedes that he does play in a band with his dad, but he is out there doing it and not just talking about it. He is also generally getting paid for it, which in his mind is a real bonus.
So on behalf of the ‘old farts’ in The Mudheads (which generally speaking means me)…and to quote The Who……”I hope that I die before I get (TOO) old”.
Rock & roll
We performed our best, although my singing voice wasn’t up to much (comments like “so what’s new” are not appreciated) and Aaron had to take over on several occasions when I doubled up with a hacking cough.
His concern really came from his experience of this particular virus with myself and his mother coughing so badly that we….well……without putting to fine a point on it…puked!
Now I know that the harder edge of Heavy Metal vomit on stage as part of the act. The keyboard player from ‘Cradle of Filth’ (a good Christian band much sought out for Sunday school parties) regularly vomited up a mixture of plum tomatoes and latex to particularly stunning effect.
However, the sight of a 40 something doubled up, cradling his acoustic guitar and hocking up his sticky toffee pudding and custard in a local public house would probably not be greatly appreciated by the management and punters alike and would probably guarantee a life time blockade on ever being asked to return.
Anyway, apart from having to recover my spleen from behind the bar where it had landed no great damage was done, apart from the irreparable beating my dignity took.
By the looks of it, 2009 will probably see the return of more acoustic style music to The Loader’s repertoire, especially as we do not have to cart about two and half tonne of equipment around with us. That is not to say that The Mudheads will in anyway slow down, but we are endeavouring to be more selective on the type of gigs we play.
On the journey home from the gig Aaron made an encouraging observation.
He works in a massive music store with lots of other musicians who apparently tend to give him a fair amount of stick for performing in a band with his old man.
His response to these ‘serious’ musicians is philosophical. He said that most of these guys spend most of their time ‘talking’ about music and dreaming of that big major record deal.
Aaron concedes that he does play in a band with his dad, but he is out there doing it and not just talking about it. He is also generally getting paid for it, which in his mind is a real bonus.
So on behalf of the ‘old farts’ in The Mudheads (which generally speaking means me)…and to quote The Who……”I hope that I die before I get (TOO) old”.
Rock & roll
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