The Boy From Down The Hill

 During my last visit to old Blighty (shamefully, it was way back in 1994) I passed by a butcher's shop while walking down Scunthorpe High Street, and did a bit of a double take at the headless pig carcass hanging right there in the shop window. Of course, while growing up there, such a vision would have been an innocuous part of the local scenery, with nary an eyelid batted. But, I suppose I'd been over in the US long enough at that point to find it noteworthy, jarring even. Well, it's not a sight commonly seen in your local hyper-sanitized Publix supermarket is it?

Arriving back at my folks' house later that afternoon (at the bottom of the hill, natch), I scribbled down the words, "Headless pig in a window telling me I'm home; it doesn't matter where I go, this is where I'm from", with a view to building a song around them later on. I know, I know - they're daft lyrics, and a headless pig isn't likely to be telling anyone much of anything - but what's a little dramatic license between friends?  

Tellingly, I could never make use of the phrase in a way that I liked. I tried a couple of different melodic approaches and chord progressions over the next couple of years, but wasn't thrilled with any of them, so I gave up on it and let it languish in the old lyric notebook.

Fast forward some 18 years or so, and I had this little folkish guitar riff in search of a lyric, and as I usually do, I set about leafing through the aforementioned notebook of scribbled lyric fragments for inspiration. When I saw the old "headless pig" snippet, I gave it a whirl, and to my pleasant surprise, after a little nip and tuck, it dropped in there quite nicely. The rest of the song came together quite quickly after that, as if making up for lost time.

I sent Ed an acoustic guitar and vocals recording of the resulting song for him to play with, assuming that its future lie in jangly folk-rocker land. Silly me. Ed turned it on its pig-less head, returning my song with ghostly, plinking piano parts, ominous-sounding drums and all manner of clanking percussion tracks that sounded downright medieval to me. I loved it.

From there, the song winged its way over to Swindon where XTC guitar maestro Dave Gregory had his way with it, sending us a slew of swooping backwards guitar phrases that gave the song the psychedelic nudge it needed to render it almost unrecognizable from the vision I originally had for it.

Then, it was up to Massachusetts where the fab Dave Mattacks breathed further life into it with his own swinging drums and percussion tracks. Like Ed, I'd been knocked out (still am, actually) when I'd heard the two Daves together on XTC's swoon-worthy Nonsuch album, and the fact that we had them both together again on one of our songs, no less, made Ed and I giggle like little schoolgirls. Not that it takes much...

Yes, this one has been around the block, as they say. I do love that aspect of collaborating with others, though. For better or worse, you end up with something that never would have happened with any one ingredient missing. It's just a thrilling adventure to me. Of course, it doesn't hurt when you're on board with musicians of the calibre of Woltil, Gregory and Mattacks. Even if they do sound a bit like a law firm, I'm a lucky boy indeed.

Funnily enough, this song's title harks back to my schooldays back in the 70s. I had a mate who lived in a nice detached house at the top of the hill up from where I lived. I resided in a dodgier area of terraced council houses at the bottom of the hill, and if his dad answered the phone whenever I'd call his house, I could often hear him say as he passed the phone, "It's for you... it's the boy from down the hill".

I'm not sure if his words were a variation on the classic "wrong side of the tracks" idiom, or whether he was just speaking geographically, but for the sake of the song, I'm going with the former. Besides, it hints deliciously at the great British tradition of class warfare and the mutual mistrust that can lurk therein which makes for a more interesting song. Either way though, I felt drawn to the phrase at first hearing and I hung on to it in hopes that I'd be able to make use of it someday. True to form, it only took me 40 years.

Scunthorpe footage courtesy of Steve Bird, and Capertain.
Still photos by Bob (The Boy From Up The Hill) Hinchcliffe

Song for The Donald?

Despite the somewhat judgmental and political tone of the lyrics as they stand today, Elastic Man began its life with me simply singing from the point of view of someone who would do and say whatever (and even be whomever) it takes to keep his significant other happy - bending over backwards, as they say.

It was initially sung in the first person - "I'll try to be what you want, do the best that I'm able; be the head of the restaurant or a crumb at your table", but as the lyrics began to take on a more silly, cartoonish vibe and the flip-flopping Elastic Man theme began to assert itself, I began singing in the third person because, well, who doesn't like pointing fingers and shaking their heads in bemusement at the follies of phony politicos? On top of that, singing from the point of view of a soulless, spineless, vacuous and opportunistic liar would come across all creepy, like.

Although the majority of my songs are written on the acoustic guitar, sometimes I like to write something on the piano. Since I am to piano playing what Mike Tyson is to hand puppetry, this leads to lots of uncertainty and errant chords. This is good, in that it throws you out of your comfort zone and although much of what you play might be overly simplistic and trite, occasionally one of those happy accidents comes along to thrill you.

It happened almost right off the bat with this song. I was trying to play a simple chord but missed it; my hands landing rather clumsily on the wrong keys. I didn't really know what the resulting chord was, but I knew that I liked it. It married with the melody in a far more interesting fashion than the chord I'd actually tried to hit, and it proved to be the kick in the pants I needed to continue on experimenting with the song.

No such clumsiness from the rest of this song's contributors, though. Snazzy drum tracks courtesy of our good friend Chuck Darling; acrobatic (elastic, even!) bass part from Andy Irvine; sublime electric and slide guitar playing supplied by Sir Dave Gregory; and the usual inspiring aural fingerpainting from our Ed all conspire to make me feel like the luckiest sod around. At the risk of sounding kinky, I'd bend over backwards for the lot of them.

Bendy fool has spoken!

"Cycle" - What They're Saying...

"No filler to be found here, overall its like a musical shot of happiness with the overall theme “Seize The Day”. Simply beautiful and very highly recommended."
- Powerpopaholic

"Full of clever twists and turns and knowing nods to a variety of pop styles, Cycle’s heartbeat is perhaps best demonstrated in the gorgeous. slightly trippy folk-pop number, “Elastic Man,” a sixties hug with echoes of Paul McCartney and Donovan that sounds like it’s enclosed in a Dukes of Stratosphear wrapper. The elegant “Wake Up Dreamin'” evokes images of a warm summer night that follows a sunny day that was chock full of surprise. The very English ballad “Little Regrets” conjures up images of Martin Newell as arranged by George Martin, a very good thing."
- Alan Haber's Pure Pop Radio

"Cycle finds veteran Florida folk-popsters (pop-folksters?) Steve Robinson and Ed Woltil teaming up for a collection of songs that’s a high water mark in each of their careers. In a music world full of self-conscious irony and angst (lots of angst), these slices of optimistic, classic 1960s influenced jangle are a refreshing alternative."
- Rob Caldwell, No Depression

"Remember when you heard one of those classic, timeless albums for the first time? One that, as soon as that needle hit the surface of that slab of vinyl,you just broke out into a smile? You couldn’t find a reason why it made you feel good to be alive; it just did. It would have you smiling one minute and the tears welling up the next just because it sounded so good. ‘Cycle’ is such an album."
- Malcolm Carter, Penny Black Music

"Tampa Bay's premier folk-poppers team up for one of 2015's best, a graceful and melodic collection of tunes that bring the pastoral side of XTC to mind."
- Steve Ferra, Absolute Powerpop

"Yeah, but are you selling any?" - Mrs Robinson

"Er... the Cycle CD by Steve Robinson & Ed Woltil is now incredibly available for purchase at:
Bandcamp https://steverobinsonedwoltil.bandcamp.com/, at 
CDBaby (http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/steverobinsonedwoltil1) ,  and can be downloaded at the
iTunes fortress (https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/cycle/id989681104)" 
- Steve R.

Me and my leaky head...

A couple of years back, Ed turned me on to the aural delights of Ron Sexsmith's recordings. His earnestly delivered songs really grabbed me. They seemed unrepentant in their sweetness and melancholy and I loved them immediately. It was probably due to listening to a fair bit of Ron's introspective, open hearted confessionals that I ended up writing "Little Regrets".


I sent a simple piano/vocal recording of it to Ed, and as he so often does, he transformed it into something quite grand, adding orchestral touches aplenty and giving it a stateliness that I'd never have conceived. He actually even rewrote a couple of lines, but I forgave him quickly, and we moved forward.

Harmonies and counter melody vocals were subsequently added and Steve Connelly kindly donated some lovely pedal steel flourishes. Actually, he might have asked for them back if he'd known of my plans for the song's coda. You see, for some reason I thought it might be a good idea to tie in the vague Edith Piaf "Little Sparrow/No Regrets" reference in the bridge by pretentiously singing a couple of lines in French towards the end of the song. I even went to the trouble of writing more lyrics and translating them into French. Of course, after I tried singing them, it quickly became apparent that a vaguely northern English-inflected voice singing in a half-arsed French accent is more comedic than dramatic, so I promptly erased them. No regrets there.

I could kick myself
I’ve skipped so many towns.
They raced past my window so fast…
Thought I was glory bound. (I think I let them down)
Ugly city scenes,
Pretty village greens.
Little regrets behind a white fence
I could kick myself.

Sometimes I hate myself
for stupid things I’ve said.
They rolled off my tongue so fast
Me and my leaky head
Ill-tempered cries,
Well-mannered lies.
Little regrets grin down from the shelf
Sometimes I hate myself.

No big sweeping scenes or dreams of innocence
(How soon we forget)
Little sparrow shoots an arrow through my heart
when she sings her song, No Regrets…

I should forgive myself

or so I read somewhere.
But the world keeps spinning so fast
and we’re getting nowhere.
Give me belief,
and sweet release.
Little regrets come down from the shelf
I’ll forgive myself.
Little regrets behind a white fence
I forgive myself.
Little regrets like everyone else…

Credits:
Steve Robinson - Lead & background vocals, piano
Ed Woltil - Keyboards, programming, bass
Steve Connelly - Pedal steel guitar

See how her garden grows...

Trying to express the joys, anxieties and sheer wonder that come with parenthood in a 3-minute pop song is an exercise in futility; you have to be a nutter to try it. So it was that I sat down with my guitar, looking for inspiration in some of the old crayon drawings gifted to me by my daughter during her childhood years, and attempted to capture in song, but a snippet of the awe she inspires in me. 

Since Emma's pictures usually came adorned with gaily coloured hearts, flowers and butterflies, it's a no-brainer that the lyrics would be heavy on garden metaphors, so no apologies for the song title of Butterflies, giddy references to raindrops on petals, teardrops on cheeks, little children shooting up tall, and summery flowers reaching skyward. Sappy? Yep. All part and parcel, I'm afraid.

Well, kids are our little flowers aren't they? We try to nurture them as best we can, we watch them grow, take delight in their blooming, and spend an inordinate amount of time simply being dazzled by their beauty. 

So here I am, several growing seasons on, and my little girl is blossoming into a lovely and talented young woman right in front of my eyes. I'm terribly proud of her of course, but as she eases into adulthood, I know that along with the attendant sense of joy and wonder, I'll also be dealing with a whole new set of worries and anxieties. There'll be car insurance deductibles to contemplate, college reconnaissance spying missions to initiate and dodgy prospective boyfriends to interrogate.

Butterflies? I still have them.

Flushed cheek and teardrop
making my heart stop
teaching me all I know

Her face like thunder
and innocent wonder
see how her garden
grows up very high
to kiss the cloudy skies away

She paints hearts and flowers
in ivory towers
See all the smiles they bring

Delivered in whispers
signs them with kisses
see her she's pulling strings
to hold me down
or lift me off the ground

At once to fly away
then crashing down
and I'm all butterflies
and sunshine smiles
enjoy the ride
here we go...

High, high, high!

Petal and raindrop
making my heart stop
See how her garden grows...


Steve Robinson - Lead & background vocals, acoustic guitars
Ed Woltil - Background vocal, acoustic guitar, keyboards, programming

'ello 'ello!

Hello Hello was written soon after reconnecting with my old mate, Mark Pearson. Mark and I had been bandmates back in the UK in the 70s, but we lost touch after I left for the US and he moved down to London.

When you don't see someone for a couple of decades, and you happen to live on different continents, catching up is a bit of a tall order. While e-mail is easy and convenient, it doesn't really compare to a hug and a couple of pints in the pub does it? With so much water under the bridge, it's difficult to know where to start, and truth be told, we barely did. Instead, our correspondence quickly resorted to the familiar, trotting out old memories of rehearsals, gigs and, well, pints in the pub.

We did, of course, exchange photographs of our kids, which in turn got me to leafing through some dog-eared photographs from some of those early gigs. I remember being a little shocked at how young and carefree we looked in them. Well we would wouldn't we? We were young and carefree after all; much like our own kids are now.

Mark was always someone I looked up to. He was only a year older than the rest of us, but there was a charismatic self-assuredness about him that we all lacked. Quicker-witted, more stylish (not a difficult task, admittedly) and with a rather more diverse record collection, I suppose he was the leader of the band. I mention this because one of the aforementioned gig photographs seemed to capture a bit of that for me. 

In it, I'm wearing Dunlop Green Flash plimsolls (don't ask), rolled-up jeans, an old nylon pajama top (please don't ask) and a rather serious, if slightly dazed expression (possibly second-guessing my choice of attire). Mark, on the other hand, cuts an altogether more swaggering figure, wearing an untucked white dress shirt and a pair of zipped-at-the-ankles fencing trousers with matching scowl.

It made me smile; it made me reflect on the different paths our lives took; and it made me want to use the term "fencing trousers" in a song...

Look at me in this one
trying hard to be sincere
And look at you in fencing trousers
and your finest sneer
We were so young
and we were full of it,
fearless on the face of it
and not much underneath
to hold us back,
from taking all the chances,
never looking in,
and never needing answers

Look at how we lost ourselves
and found ourselves again
I pissed off to the USA
while you went down to London to find yourself
Guess I did the same
on different streets with different names
and different points of view
to fall into,
busy taking chances,
drinking it all in
and looking for the answers

Hello hello
Hello hello
Hello hello (we're back again)

And then your parents leave you
with no one to impress
Little children helping you
to make sense of this great big mess
of headlines, deadlines, white lines
by the book, take your time
and take a look at him

He looks a lot like you,
(it might be just as well)
Look at her upon a pedestal,
she's casting spells
They are so young
and they are full of it,
fearless on the face of it
and innocence beneath,
pure and easy
Living in the moment
drinking it all in
It's looking like the answer

Hello hello
Hello hello
Hello hello (we're back again)

{ EXCHANGE PLEASANTRIES }

It made me happy when we said hello
Ain't it funny how we sing about what we don't know?
It made me happy when we said hello
Ain't it funny how we talk about what we don't know?

Steve Robinson - Lead & background vocals, acoustic & electric guitars
Ed Woltil - Bass, keyboards
Aaron Kant - Drums & percussion
Steve Connelly - Lap steel & pedal steel guitars
Emma Robinson - Background vocals

Love Somebody!

Love Somebody started its life as a rather dodgy albeit well-intentioned and affectionate Bob Dylan parody. Purely for my own amusement, I'd strapped on my acoustic, slipped a harmonica holder around my neck and barked out "You don't need a therapist to show you how to love somebody; don't need to be a poet or evangelist to love somebody true" in my best Bob impression.

Like most Dylan impressions out there, mine isn't very good and it soon had the dogs suitably howling and running for cover, but I was quite enjoying myself and continued the stream of consciousness warbling undeterred. Before I knew it, the lines, "You don't need to be a Beatle or Bee Gee to love somebody; you don't need permission just to let it be" popped out and although I was amused by the silly impudence of it all, I also wondered if I hadn't stumbled on something that I could use.

On my Away For The Day CD, I'd done something similar with a Syd Barrett-style goof that eventually became the song, Bright Side Of The Moon, so I wondered if this too might have the germ of a decent song beneath the goofiness.
​
So, I turned on my recorder to capture a hastily recorded snippet for future reference and went about my business. In this case, my business was coaxing the dogs out from beneath the furniture.

Upon subsequent review, I discovered that the lyrics and melody sat quite well with me and set about fleshing it out a bit. I set up a repeating drum machine pattern to play along to so that I could find more of a groove for the song and it fell into place quite quickly. To avoid running afoul of the local neighborhood association (and possibly the SPCA), I dropped the mad, affected Zim-like vocal sneer and wailing harmonica and sang it straight, so to speak.

A bridge section and some harmony parts later, it was starting to sound quite promising to my ears. So, I had Ed come over with his trusty Epiphone Casino and we went out to my old garage apartment where he deftly added some lovely electric guitar parts. From there it was sent to Dave Mattacks at his home in Massachusetts where he promptly gave the song the feel and groove it needed. A bass track and a little dollop of orchestration to taste (again, courtesy of Ed) and Bob's your uncle!

No nativity scenes? Ok. No public prayer? Meh. No taking the piss? Bollocks to that.

Bobby Keys...RIP This Joint

One of my fondest memories from my time with the Headlights boys was our mini sojourn at Willie Nelson's Pedernales recording studio, just outside of Austin, Texas. After winning a national battle of the bands contest that he'd co-sponsored, we received a kindly invite from the country outlaw himself to spend a week there recording some demos.

During the course of the stay we'd managed to score a pick-up gig at Austin's legendary dive bar, The Hole In The Wall, and sometime during the evening, Bobby Keys sauntered in. He ended up sharing a few stories and hanging out with us for a while. Of course, when I say "hanging out", I actually mean he downed a few beers and smiled affably while I gushed like a teenage girl and bowed and scraped at his feet, but bear with me. When he learned we were recording up at Willie's place he offered to come by and maybe add a little sax to a song.

Now, for a card-carrying Rolling Stones disciple who spent much of his formative years holed up in his tiny bedroom with his guitar, trying to find his musical way with Get Yer Ya Ya's Out, Exile on Main Street and Sticky Fingers as his guidebook, this was almost too much to take in.  I mean, forget for a moment that Keys' brilliant and blustery style had graced John Lennon, George Harrison and Eric Clapton recordings, or that he played alongside Joe Ely, B.B. King and even Buddy Holly, for God's sake. This was the man whose barnstorming solos had elevated already sublime Rolling Stones tracks like Brown Sugar, Can't You Hear Me Knocking? and Rip This Joint to stratospheric status. Calling them classics doesn't really cut it for me; I just view them as monumental musical moments, and to this day they make the hairs on my neck stand to attention at every listen.



So, there we were, already feeling pretty good about things after a really fun set in front of an appreciative crowd, and Bobby Keys from Lubbock, Texas wants to know if this lummox from Scunthorpe would like him to drop by the studio with his sax. Mental. So, as I waited for my trousers to dry, we made plans for him to show up at the studio the next day.

As it is for many of us, I expect, some memories from the 80s are a little hazy. I've forgotten many of the venues we played; I have a little trouble recalling some of the songs from our setlists; and selective amnesiac that I am, I absolutely can't remember who drugged and then dragged me to that bloody Flock Of Seagulls concert. But one thing this girly fanboy remembers quite clearly is watching Bobby Keys opening up his sax case in Willie's studio that day and me asking him excitedly, "So, is that the one? You know, the one you played on Brown Sugar and Can't You Hear me Knocking?". He gave a quick wry smile and nodded, "That's her".

Other than the thrill of hearing him play, what I remember most about him was that he smiled. A lot. He just had this infectious, cheeky energy about him and despite us being a bunch of scallywags from Florida rather than the Rolling Stones, it still seemed like he just couldn't wait to play. I remember watching him from the control room and as the track played through his phones, he'd be intensely swaying with the music as if he was laying in wait for an opening to pounce on.

I never saw him again, but I still treasure the memory of that day, watching and listening to him ply his groovy trade on one of our songs. It's a day I'll not forget. It's amazing to think that he was a Stones sideman for some 40 years. Talk about sticking by your mates! A big-hearted man and a huge talent who'll surely be missed by music lovers worldwide and who leaves a big Texas-sized hole to fill on the Rolling Stones concert stage.

By the way, if you listen to "Can't You Hear Me Knockin?" (linked above) and it doesn't move you, then we're no longer friends. If we're not friends anyway, that might well be the reason. Just saying.

Dear Diary...

Today I spent the entire afternoon pretending to be a daring mountaineer. I didn't tell anyone. In fact, I never even left the house, never mind climbed a mountain. That's ok; I don't do these things for the attention you know.

Anyway, as I was busying myself not climbing mountains, I got to thinking that some people form bands and then scurry about trying to think of the perfect band name. I, on the other hand, am more inclined to come up with band names that I will never ever use, because I can't be remotely arsed to form a band these days. I also try to avoid scurrying at all costs. It looks so ungainly, especially when you're carrying mountaineering equipment. Be that as it may, here are a few band names that I'm quite partial to:

Ether Bunny
Tequila Mockingbird
Yeasty Belgians

Hitler's Sister
Marmoset Facial
The Irony Board
Tenderloink
Orifice Depot
Larding The Otter


Feel free to use any of them to delight or horrify your friends.

Reasons To Be Cheerful (Part 8)

In 1’s and 0’s the data flows
this is how we roll.
In an endless freefall zone
I feel so alone with my old dumbphone





Many of us have been known to talk about the way that technological advancements intended to further our connectedness often seem to have the opposite effect. Sometimes we might even conduct such discussions on our smartphones or tablets, engaged with someone other than the person we're actually sitting with in the wi-fi hotspot that doubles as a coffee shop. Not that the other person minds of course; they're probably texting someone else about the coffee and pastry they could be enjoying right now if they had a couple of spare thumbs.

It's a bit of an awkward conversation to have, I suppose. Especially when so many of us seem to prefer blogging to snogging, or tweeting to eating. Oh, we may lament the way that our cyber-dependent, multitasking lives make it difficult to slow down and actually experience a moment rather than documenting it with a selfie, or how we'll paste thoughts to a Facebook page before we've even finished formulating them, but we'll probably do it via text. A sort of half-hearted SOS via SMS if you like.

My friend and label-mate Ed Woltil doesn't do that though. Oh no; if he's telling me the truth, his phone is an avocado-green rotary dial model with a long curly cord attachment that ends up wrapped tightly around his legs and torso during each phone call. This is good, since it encourages him to keep calls short and sweet and frees up the time necessary to craft little masterpieces like Hiding in Plain Sight. I just feel like I'm floating away, weightless, whenever I listen to this little beauty.  It's a blissful ride alright, and I've never once been tempted to check my phone while listening to it.

Interestingly, Ed will be hiding in plain sight this Saturday evening (2/29) at his Paper Boats CD release party at The Hideaway in St. Petersburg. He'll be serenading all the lucky blighters in attendance with selections from his new release, as well as a few nuggets from his plump back catalogue. Word has it he'll be playing both solo and with his new 4-piece live outfit, Ed Woltil & The Loaded Question, and the admission price also gets you a copy of the fab new CD. For further details, you can always click here, and then text all your friends about it (while glancing at assorted flat-screens when you're dining out with your family). This is how we roll, apparently.

Is it just me? (occasional random musings and neurotic utterances) #1:

Using public conveniences is never pleasant is it? Fact is, there are going to be times when you have to visit them. When you do this, you can usually acquit yourself relatively painlessly as long as you abide by the number one unwritten rule of the public bathroom visit: No talking.

Sounds simple enough, and it usually is. Most sensible people quietly concur with this simple piece of urinal etiquette. Occasionally though, someone, in a moment of madness, will attempt to initiate a conversation.

Why they do this, I've no idea. No verbal exchange can rival this for awkwardness and stilted language. I don't know if it's some deep-rooted homophobia on my part, or simply an exaggerated sense of vulnerability during what should ideally be a private, er... function; all I know is that when it happens to me, it constitutes major trauma.

I mean, I'll gladly gab mindlessly with you after we leave the confines of the karsey, but for the love of God, let's just get on with the business at hand and get everybody out of there unscathed shall we? When we get outside we can exchange pleasantries and ask about each other's kids and wives and all that. Until then, it should be clenched jaws and eyes to the ground for all and sundry.

Malala Yousafzai: A little guidance please...

Let me get this straight: The Taliban were sufficiently threatened by this brave, beautiful child and her public advocation of women's access to education, that they actually sent gunmen to board a school bus in order to shoot her? Not only do they admit to this unthinkable atrocity, but they gleefully maintain that they will again come after her in the event that she recovers from her injuries.

I'm trying to think of something worthwhile and insightful to say about this horror story, but I'm honestly at a total loss. It's so far beyond my comprehension that all I can do is scream silently inside and hope to God (or perhaps to that oft-mentioned prophet whose name and image I'm hesitant to mention lest I use it inappropriately and get my own personal fatwa issued just in time for Christmas) that someone can offer me some little pearl of wisdom or a little spiritual guidance that might help me process this.





Photo: Getty Images

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.