Weather or not...

What has happened to weather forecasts? It used to be that you'd have this reassuring, crusty old TV voice letting you know in a couple of terse sentences exactly what weather conditions to expect in the coming hours -  "Mostly sunny this morning, followed by increasing clouds and a chance of a stray shower during the early evening hours." Or, as was quite often the case in the UK, "Rainy this morning, becoming showery later."

 I miss that. Now, of course, we have so much extraneous information that it's hard to see the torrents for the breeze. We go online to any one of several hundred thousand weather sites scattered about the interwebs, where we're regaled with endless charts, graphs and interactive radar images all showing you what the weather was like during the past hour. Want to know how many cloud to ground lightning strikes occurred this morning? No problem. Today's pollen count? Click here. Perhaps you'd like to see a time-lapse visual (courtesy of our very own radar with a cutesy name) where you can see the exact movement rain showers that popped up earlier this morning? Step right this way...

Given the  technology on display, you'd think that finding out whether or not you'll be needing your brolly during the coming afternoon hours would be a straightforward affair. Alas no. With eye-catching distractions like the Marine Forecast, Ragweed Report and the ubiquitous Tropical Update Designed To Scare The Crap Out Of You As Soon As It Gets Cloudy Over The Cape Verde Islands, the actual forecast can easily get lost in the haze (no sunny pun intended).

At work today, I spent a several minutes on a local news website trying to gauge the chances of rain this very afternoon, but instead came away armed only with stats concerning current visibility, wind speeds and assorted regional rainfall totals during the past 24 hours. On the weather page in question, the main graphic was an oversized map of our region, which might have been helpful if there had been something informative superimposed on it, like, "Rain is very likely here during the next 2 hours; bring an umbrella or your hairdo will be as flat as a fart within minutes" or even, "Not a cloud in the sky here; wear your sunscreen or perish, lobster boy." That's information I could definitely use. Instead, the map was plastered with a plethora of mostly identical numbers representing current local temperatures.

Whose idea was this? Has anyone embroiled in a Florida summer ever made a decision on whether or not to go outside based on the temperature? It's summer! You know full well that it's going to be between 88 and 92 degrees. Every. Bastard. Day. And every night it will be in the mid to high clammy 70s. Is anyone really interested in an occasional one-degree difference in the daytime high between towns five miles apart? What possible difference could it make? These numbers should all be replaced with a single line of copy over the map that simply says, "Miserably to unbearably hot and sticky until sometime in late October. Or maybe November."

So, I stumbled from tab to tab, passing on the Tide Times page because I've never once in my life wondered when low (or high) tide might occur in any locale I've ever been in. Similarly, I resisted clicking on the Sunset/Sunrise Calculator because the idea of entering the realm of mathematics to find out how dark or light it's going to be at various times of the day seems a little daft. I mean, if it's night it's going to be a little dark, and when day breaks it's going to be a little lighter isn't it?

Perplexed by this soggy information overload, I did something quite extraordinary. Taking a breather, I tore myself away from the computer, walked out into the lunch room and took a peek out of the window. A real window, with a view and everything.

It was raining.


Photo by Bob Hinchcliffe.

Shhh dear, don't cause a fuss. I'll have your spam; I love it!

People are so touchy when it comes to spam. Spammers are often spoken about in tones usually reserved for child pornographers and Taliban insurgents. Is it annoying to see dozens of daily e-mail teasers from insurance companies, dating services and pharmaceutical suppliers in your daily inbox? Of course it is. But it's way down on my list of annoyances and pet peeves.

Speaking of pet peeves, honey containers are rubbish aren't they? Actually, honey itself is rubbish too. God bless the bees and hives and the whole notion of it being nature's sweetener and all that. Just don't ask me to eat the bloody stuff. As my granddad used to say when remarking upon foods he didn't like, "Ugh, it gets in your mouth."

I actually quite like the taste of tea, so I wouldn't dream of putting any kind of sweetener in mine (natural or otherwise), but my wife insists on using honey in hers every morning, and since I'm generally the tea boy, I also have the chore of squeezing honey out of a bottle and into her mug. As many of you no doubt know, honey is deplorably sticky and and feels so grotesque on your fingers that you have to immediately run to the sink in a blind panic, soap up and wash your hands. I do this on a daily basis.

What I can't for the life of me figure out, is how the hell the honey always manages to repeatedly get on the outside of the container. It can be a freshly opened bottle, but by the next morning the whole exterior will be tacky to the touch. Even if you take it to the sink, lather it up with specially formulated anti-bacterial honey-eating soap and then dry it off completely, by the next morning the bottle will be honey-coated again. How can this be? Does it ooze its way through the plastic to spite us as we sleep? I ponder this on a daily basis. Seeing a spam-filled inbox pales in comparison, I can tell you.

Anyway, yes spam is decidedly tasteless, lowbrow and unnecessary, but then so is most of our reality TV-fueled celebrity worship culture. We don't hit the delete button enough on that, in my opinion. Quite the contrary really. They keep selling gossipy garbage to us because we keep buying it. Not only that, we actually go in search of it with our TV remote controls.

So, while it can get tedious sifting through your e-mail messages, not all junk mail and spam is useless. Oh no. Just today I discovered that just by mailing a cashier's check to a Mr Codogo in Namibia, I can stake my rightful claim on a sizable inheritance. Can't get that from the latest episode of Baby You Can Drive My Kardashian can you?

If that weren't enough, there's always the good old anti-impotence drug offers. You know, the ones that they even advertise on TV now, complete with outrageous and embarrassing disclaimers that you try to cough over when your children are within earshot. For a while there, they were showing an ad featuring a couple holding hands while sitting in separate bathtubs. On a cliff. I always thought this was the most barmy ad I'd ever seen. Thankfully, I haven't seen it for a while. Perhaps the drug company realised how bizarre it all was and surmised that if you and your wife are in the recreational habit of dragging bathtubs up onto a cliff, impotence might just be the least of your problems.

No, give me spam e-mails over Unreal Housewives and Celebrity Chef Food Fights any day. They're at least good for the occasional giggle. Why just this very afternoon, I was informed by way of a demographically targeted message that mature single ladies wanted to meet me. Not that funny by itself, but the next e-mail up was from a self-described cougar dating site, and I found the juxtaposition quite amusing. Who are they trying to set me up with? Betty White?

Now, that's entertainment.

NBC: Nicely Butchered Coverage

Yes, it's that time again: time for NBC to show us how inept they are at covering the Olympic Games.

This is not a rant against the usual jingoistic, flag-waving (stars and stripes only, please), USA-centric coverage of the games themselves; I'm used to that by now. I know that the average NBC Olympics viewer could be forgiven for not knowing that other countries also have national anthems, or that there are actually events other than gymnastics, swimming, and the Kerri Walsh-Jennings & Misty May-Treanor swimsuit parade in the Olympic line up.

No, I'm still a little peeved about the botch-job that they made of covering the opening ceremonies.  I can sort of understand NBC delaying the broadcast until prime-time, for ratings bragging rights; I can almost get past the insane number of intrusive commercial breaks that continually halted the flow of the show, but what I can't fathom is why they saw fit to edit out an entire sequence.

The sequence in question was widely perceived as a tribute to victims of the 7/7 terrorist attacks in London in 2005. These attacks occurred the very day after London was awarded the 2012 games, and the 52 victims were among those memorialized in a poignant dance sequence set to the strains of "Abide with Me" performed by Scottish singer Emile Sande.  By all accounts, it was quite moving, and one would think a rather important part of the ceremony. But for some reason, NBC honchos felt that their US audience would be better served by splicing in a taped and tepid interview with Michael Phelps instead.

What? We missed the most sensitive part of the proceedings to watch Michael Phelps squirm and shrug his shoulders at the same old tired, inane questions again? Surely we'd be seeing enough of that during the coming 17 days or so? I can't imagine what their reasoning was. Was it somehow politically motivated? Like NBC, I have no clue. It certainly wasn't to give the three nitwit NBC presenters something more to do; after all, they were already busy yammering incessantly over much of the broadcast.

Actually, when I think about it, the trigger-happy TV presenters might have been the real low point of the broadcast. Losing the memorial tribute section was, after all, achieved by way of a swift editorial scissor snip, and much of the US viewership was none the wiser. In contrast, the wince-inducing commentary from the boorish Bob Costas, the comfortably smug Matt Lauer and the completely batty Meredith Vieira cast a pall on the entire programme.

During the National Healthcare tribute segment, Vieira was heard to utter, "Quite frankly, none of these children look really sick to me," which although a bit of a head-scratcher, still wasn't the kind of wtf moment that occurred with her use of the term money shot while referring to the Queen. I know the editors were busy engineering the coverage to suit what they perceive to be American tastes, but you'd think that since this was a delayed broadcast, someone would have thought to put those censor's scissors to good use here.

I suppose you could forgive Ms.Vieira for not being familiar with Sir Tim Berners-Lee, the inventor of the world wide web, although her eagerness to admit it just as he was being featured in the ceremony came across as a little cavalier ("If you haven't heard of him, we haven't either.") and certainly the irony of Matt Lauer's response, "Google him" is giggle-worthy, but the fact that she later saw fit to actually impose herself on the musical soundtrack by singing along with karaoke-like aplomb to the Rolling Stones' "Satisfaction" for a few bars was painful, and well, unforgivable.

Not to be outdone, Lauer's schoolboy-insightful commentary included such zingers as, "Djibouti's name sounds funny!" and "Madagascar - for our younger viewers, a country associated with a few animated movies." Wow. Sounds like he really did his homework.

The unbearably glib and condescending Bob Costas, is of course, an Olympics veteran and should know better. Actually, when I think about it, he does know better -  he knows better than almost anyone how to routinely belittle and marginalize an entire nation with a smarmy, xenophobic quip. Political failings? Budgetary crises? Lack of international sporting success? It's all fair game for Bob. 

 He demonstrated this ably during the parade of nations part of the broadcast. As the athletes entered the stadium, his commentary veered between patronizing and mean-spirited, and made for uncomfortable viewing. Botswana, for example, simply merited a mention as a country whose basketball team was crushed by the US "Dream Team" in 1992 by over 40 points, while Egypt's political climate was referenced with a condescending comment about the country being in "a transition of some sort," adding, "From military dictatorship to Jeffersonian democracy? Not quite." 

His dismissive barb about Australia being "originally founded as a penal colony" was simply lazy and irkesome, but the dismissive "Not a country I would be visiting soon" comment aimed at the North Korean contingent was totally unnecessary, and by the time the Ugandan athletes entered the stadium and Costas actually saw fit to reference Idi Amin, the ex-Ugandan dictator/mass murderer, I broke out in cold sweat and had to throw in the towel. 

Oh well, looking on the bright side - we've got another 4 years before we have to endure the NBC's own broadcasting dream team treating us to assorted vapid factoids about Carnival, and (Brazilian bikini) waxing about life in the slums of Rio. Can't wait. 

NBC: No Bloody Clue.
         

All that glitters...

I'd come back if only you'd let me in

I'd be there without warning

Bring back pennies, steam trains and Slade Alive!

I'd be there by the morning

Wonder if I'll ever manage to release a collection of songs without inserting all manner of lyrical allusions to trains and glam-rock bands of the 70s?

Probably not. The fixation with trains is a given, really. My grandfather worked on the railways for over thirty years; my dad was an avid trainspotter as a kid, and his older brother was a train driver, so I suppose it's in the blood a bit.

As far as sparkly glam-rock goes, well, I grew up with the stuff didn't I? Not that I could ever sound remotely like Noddy Holder, of course. Who could?* It's just that along with Marc Bolan's T.Rex, Slade were such a big part of the soundtrack of my youth that during any nostalgic flashbacks I happen to have, they're nearly always playing in the background.

Speaking of T.Rex, they were equally massive for me. When I got my first electric guitar as a Christmas present in the early 70s, I attempted to glue silvery glitter to the front of it so I could look like Marc. As I once noted in Lucky 7 (another one of my overly nostalgic musical meanderings), "Blame it on T.Rex, blame it on Slade, blame it on the 45s The Shadows made, but I was miles away". I was Miles away alright; I was utterly convinced that I looked wickedly cool with my glittery guitar as I worked on my lip-synching skills in front of the hallway mirror. I'm sure that in reality, I looked a complete prat.

Given my somewhat glittery roots, I suppose it's funny that the music that I now make is about as un-glam as anything out there. I mean, glam was all about riotous sparkle and making a spectacle of oneself, usually while wearing towering platform boots (sorry, no photographic evidence remains, thanks for asking). In contrast, my drippy, confessional singer-songwritery posturings appear more sullen than sparkling; more prone to moribund reflection rather than youthful riot. In short, I'm a bit of a dull fucker. A staid and stodgy old geezer (feel free to interrupt...) 

And platform boots? That's a laugh; I get vertigo from air-cushioned running shoes. Oh well, at least there is still the occasional glistening flash of silver about my person whenever I set foot on the lighted stage. Of course, it's not on my guitar these days; it's on my head, but let's not split gray hairs.

*Anyone caught offering up the name Kevin DuBrow ( of Quiet Riot fame) will be excused and promptly ordered to don dunce cap and hairshirt, and go and sit in the corner.

RIP Levon Helm

A lovely man, and one of the great voices ever. Watching and listening to this clip makes me sad and jubilant at the same time. What an amazing talent. 

Back in the mid-80s, my old band, The Headlights opened a show for The Band, and Levon was late for the show for some reason. A roadie filled in for the first few songs, and when Levon finally arrived at the venue, he slipped onstage and with a big smile, deftly took over in midsong. He made it look so effortless. He always did though, didn't he?

Man, this one hurts.

Richard Thompson, w/ special guests Steve Robinson & Ed Woltil - Tampa Theater, Friday, Feb 3rd.

I love this theatre. It's gaudy and beautiful at the same time. A bit like my adopted homeland, you might say. You might. I wouldn't, of course; might come across a trifle haughty and judgmental. A bit like the old country, you might say. You might. I wouldn't, of course; it might appear fickle and ungrateful. A bit like the French.

Jesting of course. I don't have anything against France, or any other nation come to that (except Argentina, of course). Sometimes you just have to have a laugh don't you? Joie de vivre and all that.

What the hell am I talking about? I have to wonder sometimes. What I should be talking about is the upcoming show with the legendary Richard Thompson this coming Friday. My musical comrade of Dutch extraction, Ed Woltil, and I are huge RT fans and we're both well chuffed to be opening the show. 

The doors open at 7 pm and Ed and I go on at 8. We'll be playing a selection of songs from our upcoming Sunshine Drenchy CD release, Cycle, and then settling in to enjoy a set from one of our musical heroes.  Should be a lovely evening. 

Hope they move that big organ from the stage though. Looks a bit intimidating to me. A bit like Germany.

Love is real...

...and sometimes it's really complicated, messy and ragged, often taking a long time to mature. A bit like songs, I suppose.

The chords and melody of this song were married back in the early 80s. I was still living in England at the time and had inherited an old upright piano that I used to plonk away on, gamely trying to figure out how to play Gilbert O'Sullivan's Alone Again, Naturally. (Yes, I've always been quite the hipster.)

Love is Real was the first original song that I came up with on the piano. Now, if that were entirely true, I might be quite proud of myself. As it happens, I cringe with embarrassment whenever I recall the original lyrics I came up with. Mercifully, I've blocked out many of them, but I do remember that the working title was "After All", with the chorus being built around the woeful phrase - "Love's not all ... after all". Ugh.

Yes, it was all written from the dour point of view of a lover spurned and giving up on the idea of real love. It wouldn't be so bad if it had been based on a real life experience, and I was simply venting or expressing true sorrow. Alas, I rather think it was merely a half-arsed, self-indulgent exercise in dopey doe-eyed singer-songwritery. Even then, I must have known it was crap, because it sat untouched for some 25 years or so.

Truth be told, I was always quite fond of the melody and the chord progression, and thought it had potential, and I'd long intended to rescue it from the scrap heap and write some new lyrics for it. As it turned out, it took me until 2006 to actually get around to it. Talk about a lazy songwriter!

As it happened, I'd been working on a bunch of songs that would ultimately surface on the Undercurrent CD, and for grits and shins, I decided to record a snippet of After All (Ugh) to see if it inspired anything. Like I often do when coming up with lyrics, I set up the vocal mic and sang stream of consciousness-type gibberish over the recorded instrumental track in the hope that something remotely usable might pop out.

This process can be alternately funny, frustrating, fruitful, futile, and various other terms sometimes beginning with "f". It can also be particularly harrowing for anyone in the vicinity who overhears what you're doing. Since I record at home and I live in a small house, my family has to endure such indignities on a regular basis.

Sometimes, the noises made aren't even real words; they're just noises (a bit like a Geordie accent, really*) that act as a sort of placeholder for the lyrics when (and if) they finally come to you. Other times, phrases that have no business being anywhere close to a song tumble out from Lord-knows-where and make you question your own sanity. Once in a while though, you'll vomit up a line that excites you, and you realise that you can build a song around it. Some might consider it profound and poetic; others may find it closer to peurile or pathetic (and various other terms beginning with "p") but, it hardly matters. When that moment of recognition happens to you, and the words actually please you, it can be exhilarating. And it keeps you coming back for more.

In this instance (please excuse the soul baring here - I'm cringing, if that helps) the rather daft, and certainly cringe-worthy phrase - "Hide behind the corner, hide behind that tree" tumbled out of my mouth. (Ugh.) But, before I had the chance to roll my eyes in disgust, the line - "You'll find love is real" had tumbled out of mouth and plopped into my lap, and I thought - Love is Real, there's your song, dear boy.

So, all the other lyrical snippets (including any and all mystifying tree references) were stripped away and all I had to do was piece together the rest of the song around that phrase. Just like that, it went from a whiny 'love is nothing but a pain in the arse' lament, to an exulting 'love is everything' lullaby.

Like I said, whether it's good, bad or mediocre, hardly matters, really. For me, the process is just so thrilling. Sometimes they take days to blossom; sometimes they take decades, and sometimes they don't flower at all. I really don't understand how songs happen, or for that matter why I've suddenly taken to using flowery metaphors. What I do know is that I'm just grateful for every little brush against the beautiful mystery that is songwriting.

What does any of this have to do with the old film clip from "The Sealed Room" that I snared for this little video? I'm buggered if I know, although on reflection, a sealed room might be perfect for any future songwriting brainstorming sessions. It's certainly be appreciated by my poor family and neighbours. Nah, I'm just a sucker for these old silent films. This one features a minstrel who looks like he just stepped out of an old Monty Python sketch. Good enough for me.

* No offence intended to Tynesiders; I've recently been immersed in Steve Coogan's "I'm Alan Partridge" TV series and it's rubbing off on me I'm afraid.

"Once the cat is bitten, the mice will play shy" and other rubbish sayings...

Apparently, Malcolm Carter of Pennyblack Music fame thinks I should be selling "shed loads of albums". He says so in his Review of "The Ride of Our Lives". He's a kind man. Naive, but kind. 

Yes, selling CDs these days is insanely difficult. Though many punters are now accustomed to getting music for nothing, they often mistrust you if you actually do give it away. A sort of "If he's giving it away, it can't be any good" conundrum that's hard to battle. 

Best not to try, really. Just pour your heart and soul into it and let the chips fall where they may, is what I say. Of course, I'm also known to say - "A beauty bird in the hand is worth two in the bush of the beholder" on occasion, so I'm not sure I can be trusted.

Be that as it may, once in a while your music tickles someone's ear enough that they feel compelled to buy some of it; sometimes they even publish reviews, which is lovely. 

Yes, despite widespread economic malaise, financial doldrums and other assorted stultifying media catch-phrases, people have been very generous. Jonathon and Ophelia Titmarsh of Shingay-cum-Wendy in Cambridgeshire, England were even kind enough to buy several copies as gifts for family and friends, and although they wish to remain anonymous, I've mentioned them here because I think their names are adorable.

Further, Steven Ferra, the kindly gent at the Absolute Powerpop blog had this to say about my humble little EP, while Music To Eat's Rob Caldwell actually included it in his Top 15  of 2011.

You have to smile don't you? Small victories all, to be sure, but like I always say -" Too many hands in the cook make light work of the broth".

The Ride of Our Lives EP now available...

Yes, The Ride of Our Lives EP is finally available for purchase! Read on for the What?, the Where?, the How Much? and the Why?...

What?  I said - "Yes, The Ride of Our Lives EP is finally available for purchase!"  Are you not paying attention?

Where? Why, from all fine purveyors of nostalgic folk-that-poppery and finger-pluckery of course. But, since such vendors are a bit thin on the ground these days, you can always find it in my Bandcamp  store. There, you can either download it in your choice of format (including lossless .wav or aiff files - perfect for the audio snob in your life), or buy an actual compact disc thingy that doubles beautifully as a shaving mirror or beer mat. CD Baby is also selling them, of course, and downloads should be available at iTunes and other assorted download sites shortly. 

How much? A paltry $6 plus shipping. Isn't that a bit cheap? You bet your bottom six dollars it is! Not only that, the first 50 customers will also receive a never-to-be-sold-in-stores (and for good bloody reason) 12-piece set of kitchen knives with fairly sharp blades. 

Why? Why record and release overly nostalgic songs addled with midlife rumination and introspection? Er, now I'm flummoxed.... well, I suppose because the alternative is to not do it, which is a rubbish alternative in my opinion. For men of a certain age it's also cheaper and slightly less cheesy than buying a sports car. 

Life is a Carnival...

Good times, clean rhymes and riddles. Ah, those were the days. Well, I'm assuming they were, although this footage is from the 40s which means I wasn't there, so don't take my word for it.

Come to think of it, I wasn't there in the 50s or 60s either, since this is Coney Island and I've never actually set foot in the place. Still, since the song's lyric does have an air of innocence and nostalgia about it, to me it does seem to fit the mood and theme of the visual somewhat. Ah, good old dramatic license...

Riddles is from the upcoming The Ride of Our Lives EP, which will be available very soon for purchase from reputable emporiums and dodgy vendors alike. Details to follow shortly, it says here.

Random Public Service Announcement:

FolkAlley.com went online in September 2003, offering live-streaming music over the Internet 24 hours a day. The hosted stream is produced by WKSU-FM in Kent, OH, which also built and maintains the web site. The Folk Alley playlist is created by senior host, Jim Blum, and Folk Alley Music Director Linda Fahey and features a distinctive blend of the best of singer/songwriter, Celtic, acoustic, Americana, traditional, and world sounds.

FolkAlley.com is listener supported and relies on donations and sponsorships to fund the web site and the music streams. Folk Music is disappearing from radio playlists and store shelves. Folk Alley aims to reverse this trend by bringing traditional, Celtic, bluegrass, Americana, singer/songwriter, acoustic and world styles to music lovers – young and old – around the globe through the Internet. Click Here  to make a donation today.

Yes, Folk Alley is a bit of a treasure and deserves our support. I should add that his has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that they just selected me as their Open Mic Artist of the Month.

That one kills and this one saves...

Back when I was recording the Undercurrent CD, I was going to toss this song out because I didn't want to come across like a cheesy, overly earnest protest singer. I sent a bare bones version to co-producer/studio bully Ed Woltil for his opinion, and he forbade me to give up on it, sending it back with a fabulous string arrangement on it. What would I do without him?

Reasons To Be Cheerful (Part 7) 

Is there more wretched place than Florida in which to spend the summer months? I sometimes wonder.

Showy, sub-tropical fauna may be in full fanciful bloom around here, but enjoying it really has to be done from behind window glass. Unless you happen to be an alligator, venturing outside, even in the evening, is a sickeningly uncomfortable affair, and beads of sweat will populate your person within seconds. But, sooner or later, the bedraggled container plantings in your front yard will beg to be watered, and you have to venture outside to face the welcoming committee of equally thirsty mosquitoes.

So, last night, there I was with my trusty garden hose, valiantly swatting away battalions of bugs and trying to water weary hibiscus and Mexican petunia both - all the while cursing under my breath - when I heard the faint strains of my daughter's piano playing and singing emanating from the front room of the house. 

Now, listening to Emma play and sing is always good for whatever ails me, regardless of the song, but this particular performance was to prove especially uplifting. I moved in for a closer listen.

The chords were simple; the tempo slow and steady, but the melody was sweet and  intoxicating, and although it sounded familiar, I couldn't place it for a second. Of course I couldn't place it - 14-year-old girls aren't supposed to be singing Elephants by Crowded House for their own amusement are they? 

As I listened to her sing, I found myself grinning like a madman. Why wouldn't I? I doubt that many, if any, of Emma's peers are aware of, let alone in-tune with, the music of Crowded House. Hell, I doubt that many of her friends' parents are even aware that Crowded House are still a band and that Neil Finn continues to write music this beautiful. And yet, here I am, listening to my daughter's voice dancing in the night air -

"Elephants come down to the water hole at dusk

They feel the same as us about life

We all take a drink, the sun begins to sink

The alligator waits for his time"

Instinctively, I let the garden hose fall to the ground and ventured inside to attend to more important business. I made it just in time to join her in singing the refrain:

"Let admit the world don't turn around us

It's acting like we don't exist

A drunk that's sleeping in the corner

Sweet dreams, make waves, find bliss"

It was a sublime moment for me. I mean, I knew that she appreciated the quality music of the and all. The "Intriguer" CD (the album from whence Elephants came) had long been a fixture in the car's CD player, and I'd seen that knowing look in her eyes whenever we'd sing along to it in the car. But, the fact that she'd actually gone to the trouble of downloading the sheet music for it, so she could play it herself, thrilled me to no end. It was one of those moments when you just feel so blessed, you almost have to pinch yourself. 

Yeah, it's as miserable as sin outside, and there's still yard-work to be done, but right now I'm so content. I'm standing by the piano, singing along with my beautiful daughter as she plays a song by one of my all-time favourite songwriters. Life is good.

"... Sweet dreams, make waves, find bliss." 

Indeed.

In a just world...

• Michael Penn would be the more famous of the Penn siblings.
• They'd make a real TV reality show about the impending death of TV reality shows.
• Comedy films relying almost entirely on gross sight-gags involving bodily functions would be outlawed. In other words, there would be no more comedy films made. I think I could survive quite handily, thank you very much.
• Owners of all corporate radio stations would be forced to actually listen to their radio stations. Cruel, but fair.
• I'd be able to watch this video and enjoy it, rather than crying like a baby as soon as I hear George's guitar. So lovely.

Bliss at One's Elbow...

Forget the glib "Coldplay with beards" comments bandied about in assorted hipper-than-thou music pages whenever Manchester band, Elbow are mentioned. These guys are disturbingly good. 

When my friend Ed Woltil turned me on to their 2006 release, The Seldom Seen Kid, I was floored. I just didn't think that I could be that startled by a band anymore. I mean, don't you usually have those apoplectic moments in your youth and carry them with you into geezerdom? Then you get to regale all young whippersnappers within earshot, with nuggets of wisdom like "Back in my day, you had to pay your dues" " or "The production on that album has never been bettered".

For me, listening to Elbow, is to be at once inspired and bewildered. Each song sounds like it's been lovingly arranged, performed and recorded. They sound like they really, really matter to the band members themselves. Now, they really matter to me, and inspire me to want to do better. No matter how many times I hear singer Guy Garvey deliver the tender opening line to Mirrorball (" I plant the kind of kiss that wouldn't wake a baby, on the self same face that wouldn't let me sleep") I'm in awe. 

What's incredible to contemplate, though - and this is the bewildering part- is that over the pond at least, these guys are winning awards, having hit records and selling out major venues. How is this possible? It beggars belief that in the coarsened, celebrity gossip-fuelled morass of childish bad taste and mindless auto-tuned mediocrity that passes for pop culture these days, something so undeniably excellent can still make inroads. It's damn encouraging, I tell you.

If you ever listen to the affable Mr. Garvey's interviews and hear him wax poetic about Manchester, it quickly becomes apparent how much his hometown means to him and the music he writes. To be honest, it makes me squirm a little. Perhaps it's because it leaves me with a vague sense of melancholy, remorse, or even guilt about having left the place I was born. I mean, here's a bloke who undoubtedly has the means to move out if he wants to. Instead, he stays and champions the place where he lives. Grey skies and soggy climate notwithstanding, he feels like he belongs there, and he embraces the whole package, warts and all. There's a nobility in it, an authenticity that springs from it, and as much as it warms my heart to hear him speak of it, it also brings these strange feelings to the surface for me.  Other than lard and incessant drizzle, I can't help but wonder if I might have missed out on something when I left. 

It makes me think about the idea that the longer you're away from home, the more you gradually become aware of the fact that you've lost a fair bit of your accent, and it's easy to wonder if perhaps you've lost some of your identity along with it. While I occasionally feel a little jarred when I hear American-accented words tumble from my mouth, I've also felt the same twinge when occasionally retreating to heavily accented slang phrases from yesteryear. It's almost like I'm acting or stuck inside some weird cultural transatlantic no-man's land or something. 

Being the transplant that I am, I suppose I suffer from a sort of envy of those who are so rooted in their surroundings, that they're able to deliver music that's pure, and seemingly devoid of artifice and pretense. If I listen to, say, an Irish folkie or even an Appalachian bluegrass band, I instantly envy their stylistic integrity, and musically, at least, it can make me feel like a bit of a phony. I mean, if I attempt to write a country song in the style of say, Lyle Lovett, it's going to sound like an exercise. I'm so obviously not from Texas, and to even try to approximate such stylings would be awkward and embarrassing. 

Oh well, as one famous permanent exile once sang -"What can a poor boy do?". I suppose there's no shame in using these vague feelings of alienation and rootlessness as food for songs. Who's to say that it's not an equally valid muse from which to draw inspiration? Perhaps I need to stop being concerned with silly restrictions like geography and genre? Yeah, that's the ticket. You know, I'm feeling better about this all the time.  

I'll bet it's pissing down in Manchester.

Happy Birthday, Mum.

Bit of a melancholy day today, really. May 24th is my dear departed mum's birthday, and I've been thinking quite a bit about her, and old times back in old Blighty.

Once in a while, people ask me if I ever miss England. It's an increasingly tough question to answer in a way, because although there may be the occasional thing about England that I miss (pubs), I wonder if I'm just being nostalgic for a bygone era. Despite the fact that it was the decade that gave us high-waisted A-line flared trousers, platform shoes and Tie a Yellow Ribbon 'Round the Old Oak Tree, it would appear that I miss the England of the 1970s. (And pubs.)

I miss blustery day trips to the seaside with my grandparents; I miss watching T.Rex performing Telegram Sam on Top Of The Pops on a Thursday evening and then rushing out to Ashley's record stall in Scunthorpe Market on a Saturday afternoon, to get my grubby mitts on my own copy; I miss skulking around the neighborhood listening to Radio Luxembourg on a tiny, tinny transistor radio while sneaking sips from cans of illegally obtained dry cider. Most of all, I miss my mum being alive.

Lowry Park Bandshell, Tampa

Steve & Ed (with Maggie Council DiPietra looking over our shoulder)

Thanks to all who came out to see The Ditchflowers as part of the Friday Extra Concert Series, last Friday evening. Head Ditchflower Ed Woltil and I opened the show, and I must say that it was nice to blow off a few of the old cobwebs and try out a couple of the new songs. It made me realise what a lazy pillock I am when it comes to this live performance thing, and I must say that I'm quite excited about the idea of doing it again. Of course, you would too, if you had Ed Woltil flanking you on stage, saving your arse at every turn.

Come Back (CD Update #2)

They say you can never go back. You can go back, of course. The thing is, when you do, people look at you funny, and you can feel a bit like a tourist, or worse still, an intruder.

The last time I went back to my hometown of Scunthorpe, was some 15 years ago. It was my first visit in four or five years and I wanted to indulge my nostalgic side by driving down my old street for a look at the old house where I used to live. If was expecting to feel all warm and fuzzy about the experience, I could have saved myself the trip. At the very least, I could have packed a pair of glasses with some seriously tinted lenses.

I remember pulling into the close, at the rear of the house and glancing over at the old garden gate that I'd opened and closed so many times over the years. Ideally it should have been a tender, poignant moment, but it didn't quite turn out that way. A group of young kids were kicking around a football, just like I'd done with my mates all those years ago, and seeing a car they didn't recognise, they ambled over for a closer look. 

It's worth mentioning that this was a council housing estate. Of course, the word estate is a bit of a misnomer, since it suggests, on this side of the Atlantic at least, a rambling country homestead with an elegant manor house to match. In reality, it's social housing for the working classes - more urban blight than country life - so things can get a little rough around the edges, you might say. (The photo above is of Westcliffe Shopping Precinct, just across the road from my old house. I must have walked that little strip thousands of times while growing up. Can't say I remember leaving beer bottles on the ground, though. Not Stella Artois ones, anyway.)

Anyway, these kids were very young, probably no more than 5 or 6 years old, but with their football hooligan-in-training buzz-cuts and best menacing scowls on display, they already had the rough around the edges thing down. As the boldest one sided up to the car window for a better look at whoever was invading his territory, I looked up, and our eyes met just long enough for him to dismiss me with a swiftly delivered reverse V-sign hand gesture.

What? Had I really just been advised to fuck off , by a snot-nosed 6-year old kid right outside my old house? I mean, I wasn't expecting a parade or anything, but this was depressing. 

Apparently, things had changed. I had changed too, of course. Specifically, I'd changed my mind about wanting to hang around my old house, and instead I quickly retired to my old local public house in order to console myself with a couple of pints of John Smith's bitter. As melodramatic as it sounds, I remember feeling a little like a door had truly closed on my past, and I felt like such an outsider. It was really an odd experience, and I've yet to return. I think I'm a little frightened of what I might find next time.

So, Come Back is one of the songs (there are others; you have been warned!) that sprang from some of the conflicting emotions that can rise to the surface when looking back at a fateful decision to leave the place where you were born. It seems like there's always a part of you that feels like you might still belong there, yet you've gone and made a home and a new life in another place entirely. With this, comes that vague, yet persistent feeling of rootlessness that you carry with you. And let's not forget the slow, guilt-ridden realisation that you once saw fit to ditch your family and turn your back on your heritage and all that, which is something that weighs more heavily on your mind as you watch your own child grow into adulthood (one of my biggest karmic fears is that my daughter will end up marrying an Englishman and move to the land of my birth!)

So, the world spins madly on; family members come and go; your old hometown changes, and you change too. Then, one day you wake up and realise that you've been gone for 28 years. It hardly seems possible, but I've now lived  considerably longer in the US than I did in the UK. It's a strange feeling, I can tell you. Yeah, so much has changed, and still you have all these questions: Could I ever go back? Would they want me to come back? Did anyone actually notice that I left? Could I have another pint of bitter please?

I'd come back if only you'd let me in

I'd be there bearing roses

I'd endeavour to crawl upon hand and knee

While you all stare down your noses

I have changed like you

Rearranged and new

I'll show you proof

When I come back to you

I'd come back if only you'd change some things

I'd be there without warning

Bring back pennies, steam trains and Slade Alive!

I'd be there there by the morning

You have changed like me

Rearranged, I see

I'll tell the truth

When I come back to you

Places to go, love to take or to leave

Big consequences we never conceived

Time on the clock ticking over

So far away is much closer

Than we might believe

I'd come back if only you'd talk to me

I would answer your questions

Where did I go and why did I let you down?

Funny that you should mention...

We have changed, it's true

Edges frayed and unglued

We'll know the truth 

When I come back to you

Come Back ©2011 Across The Water Music (BMI)

(Photograph by Dominic Romney)

Giddy up! (CD Update #1)

Don't fall over, but the recording for the upcoming solo EP (The Ride Of Our Lives) is over. It's not really finished of course, but it is over. Thanks for asking.

Of course, there are always things you wish you'd done differently, just as there are always a few overdub ideas that you never got around to trying. There comes a time, though, when you realise that you could easily spend the rest of your life labouring over these songs without ever finishing any of them, and so you come to accept that it's time to let them go. That way, you can start labouring over the next batch.

So, guitars and microphones have been put away, and under the expert guidance of Brian and Ed Ditchflower, mixing has begun. And what fun it is, too. I mean, I love just being in the company of these extremely fine and talented gentlemen at the best of times, but joining them in the cozy confines of Mr Merrill's Studio Bee in order to fine tune and polish these little songs over a couple of fine fermented beverages? It's damn uplifting, I tell you.

First order of mixing business was the title track, which is actually the last song on the record (I said it was fun; I never said it was orderly). This song means a lot to me, since it's built around a true story (unlike the majority of my material which is gleaned from unsubstantiated rumours and bald-faced lies). The Ride Of Our Lives tells the story of my mother, Jean, and her best friend, Mary, growing up together in post-war England, and how their friendship endured into adulthood. Although my mother remained in England, and Mary ended up marrying an American and settled in the US, their lives (and the lives of their children) remained entwined. Mary's American husband would become my Godfather, and in case anyone wants to point fingers, it was his invitation for me to come over to America, back in 1978, that resulted in me actually moving here.

Acoustic guitar-based, with a dash of mandolin, this might be the folkiest-sounding concoction I've come up with yet. No apologies there though; the lyrics almost insisted upon it, really. I'll admit that early on in the recording process, I was a little concerned that it might sound a little too fake-Celtic or something, but I've stopped worrying about it. Instead, I'd rather focus on how thrilled I am with the viola part that Nashville-based string maestro, Tim Lorsch, added to the song. I'd originally asked him for a fiddle track, and he suggested using a viola instead. It ended up adding a nice plaintive touch of melancholy that seems to suit the song perfectly. Having said that, if any reviewer does end up levelling the fake-Celtic barb at this effort, Tim will, of course, get the blame.

The next one up was "Come Back", which is to be the opening song on the record. Lyrically, this one has me looking back at Old Blighty (again) and sprang from me thinking about my decision to leave, all those years ago. They say you can never go back, and Lord knows I'm not going to argue with that, but it is a bit of a deep and murky issue for me, and one that I have trouble dealing with, and articulating. So, I did what any self-respecting, repressed Englishman would do: I trivialised and made light of it by dressing it up as a 4-minute disposable poppy-folk song.

I have to say that Brian did an admirable job of blending in Ed's snazzy, foraging electric guitar embellishments and assorted atmospherics in order to tart up what otherwise is another rather stark, acoustic guitar song (anyone noticing a trend here?) Truth be told, I'm really pleased with how this one came out, and am particularly proud of the fact that I managed to work references to both steam trains and Slade, into one song. It makes little sense of course, but it makes me happy. Giddy, even.

Meanwhile, my old Headlights comrade-in-arms, Steve Connelly, has worked his usual magic over at Zen Recording, mixing track #3 for the record. This one's called Bed Of Nails, which is one I've had kicking around for a while. In fact, it was originally intended for "Undercurrent" but it never got finished. The drum track (courtesy of the charming and talented Chuck Darling) actually dates from the Undercurrent sessions, and like everything Chuck does, it makes me giddy. 

This week we'll be mixing the final two songs: Middle of Life, and Riddles. Middle of Life is another folky one, and is an homage to my ballroom dancing expertise. Ok, it's really not, but it is in 3/4 time, waltz you very much.  Once again featuring the mighty Tim Lorsch with his acrobatic fiddle, along with the sublime Miss Emma Robinson on some sweet backing vocals, it also has the term "glottal stop" inserted into the first verse. Giddy? Yep.

As for Riddles? Well, it's one I've yet to figure out.

Good times, clean rhymes and riddles

Be kind, don't lie or

Fiddle about (don't shout!)

We'll tell you what you need to know

Not what you want to hear

Listen to me

I sound just like you

Old ways, long days to dally

New toys, old boys

Carrying on, with bells on

Tell us what we need to know

Not what we want to hear

Listen to you

You sound just like me

Feel your heart break

Back in the neighbourhood

The faces we make

Sometimes stay that way for good

Good times, clean rhymes and riddles

©2011 Across The Water Music (BMI)

Reasons To Be Cheerful (Part 6)

For this pasty-faced adolescent in the UK, David Bowie's appearance on Top Of The Pops in 1972 was a bit of a life-changer. And what an appearance it was; I'd certainly never seen or heard anything like it. I had no idea what hazy cosmic jive was, but the minute he sang of it, whatever it was, I wanted a piece of it. Amid the New Seekers and Donny Osmond-strewn pop landscape, it felt a bit like an alien had landed in the living room to save us all. Nothing would be the same again. 

The next day, I went into town, marched into WH Smith's record department and plonked down two pounds and nineteen pence for a copy of The Rise & Fall of Ziggy Stardust & The Spiders from Mars, the album from whence Starman came. It was the first album I ever bought, and listening to it today still thrills me to no end. 

It's funny, this is the only record I remember everyone in our house being in agreement on. My sister fell for it hard, and quickly took to pasting pictures of the Starman himself over every square inch of her bedroom walls. Amusingly enough, a glance or two at our old family photo albums from the 70s suggests that she may have even been looking to him for makeup and hair-colouring tips, but we'll not go into that, just in case she decides to offer up retaliatory photographic evidence of my one-time predilection for gaily colored platform-soled footwear. 

My dad loved Ziggy, too, and I'd often catch him listening to it on his headphones. He'd usually have his eyes closed, but every now and then he'd look over, raise his eyebrows and point at the gooseflesh on his forearms during one of the many spine-tingling moments on the album, as if to let me know that he really was getting it. It tickles me now, to think of this man whose listening habits had previously revolved around Herb Alpert's Tijuana Brass and easy listening icons like Bert Kaempfert and James Last, sitting in his recliner, all blissed-out in his own private moonage daydream. Brilliant.

Even my mum was in on the act. She had little time for most of the music I'd listen to, but for some reason, something about the Ziggy Stardust record tickled her ear. She always used to say - "I like something I can 'la-la-la' to", which was her way of saying that she was only interested in easily digestible, and easily hummable, melodies. As a result, her musical diet was generally very white-bread, leaning towards cabaret-style acts like Englebert Humperdink, Tony Orlando & Dawn, and maybe even a little Neil Diamond (if she was in an edgier mood). I think the closest she got to anything remotely exotic was a little daffy Euro-pap from a continental crooner like Sasha Distel (don't ask), so the fact that Ziggy grabbed her, says something. I don't know what it says, exactly, but in retrospect, I love the fact that she looked past the glam space alien schtick and simply enjoyed the noise that Bowie was making. I suppose that Starman, with its catchy "La-la-la-la..." refrain, literally fit her musical requirements, while for me, an impressionable young teen recently armed with his first guitar, it marked the arrival of a whole slew of new ones.