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.

Enjoying the ride...

"So much ahead of you, so much behind

Keeping your balance while walking the wire

Flying your flag, any colour you like

Happy as sin in the middle of life."

I'd like to dispel rumours about my upcoming EP release, "The Ride Of Our Lives". To clarify, I have not taken to singing in an impossibly high-pitched voice while vamping on an electric piano. Further, the CD's title is not "Crisis? What Midlife Crisis?". 

Admittedly, the record in question is a little reflective, and it does contain a few nostalgic nods to the old country as I remember it. It also, dare I say it, features a song called "Middle of Life", which might sound alarm bells for some, but it's really not an angst-ridden lament, by any stretch. In fact, to my ears, its overall vibe is more celebratory in nature; a sort of -  "I've made it through the first act relatively unscathed; I've learned a bit on the way, and with this new-found maturity and self-assuredness, I'm better equipped to navigate the second act without as many cock-ups, thank you very much" angle. At least, I hope it comes across that way. Come to think of it, I hope it works out that way, too (especially the maturity and self-assured part...)

It's a tricky subject though, isn't it? I mean, I'm as wary as the next bloke when it comes to listening to the self-absorbed bleatings of whiny songwriters struggling with their emotional baggage and ennui. But your whole way of looking at the world changes as you get into those middle years, especially when you have a beautiful child who's turning into a beautiful little adult right before your eyes, and you simply have to write about it. 

So, all apologies for that. Look on the bright side though - at least I don't have sticky, mid-life divorce proceedings as my muse. Then, I'd be turning into Phil Collins.

"If there were no music

Then I would not get through

I don't know why

I know these things, but I do" 

The cynic in me wants to view these lines from Shawn Colvin's I Don't Know Why as a bit melodramatic, but sometimes the cynic in me really needs to just sit down and be quiet. 

Yes, this could easily be another Reasons To Be Cheerful post, in which I extoll the virtues of the fabulous Ms. Colvin. But, since she has previously won Grammy awards, I suspect that most of us already realise just how special a singer, writer and performer she is, so I'll refrain from too much ungainly gushing. Instead, I want to consider the power and truth inherent in the above-quoted lyric (gulp).

I mean, is music really that important to some of us? 

I'm beginning to think that it might be. I've often heard performers make comments along the lines that the only time they feel really comfortable is when they're on-stage or in the studio creating music. So often, it strikes me as a little self-aggrandizing; almost like they're furthering some over-romanticized notion of the struggling artist. You know, a misunderstood, tortured soul lurking outside of the zeitgeist, who can only find redemption and self-expression through his art.

In the days of my youth, this kind of airy-fairy behaviour would have been ill-advised, at best. A grimy council-estate in a decaying northern English steeltown in the 1970s (think US government housing, but with rougher accents and uglier carpets),  was hardly the time or place for such arty posturing. That is, unless of course, you were partial to scorn, ridicule and the occasional outbreak of physical violence. (I once heard Big Country frontman, Stuart Adamson, remark that as a kid growing up in Dundee, Scotland, he kept his guitar playing a secret for fear that he'd be beaten up if his sissy musical proclivities were to be made public. I fear he wasn't exaggerating.)

Of course, at this point I'm no longer in northern England, nor am I living in days remotely resembling those of my youth, having long ago left the cold and damp of Lincolnshire for the hot and damp of Florida. As far as I can tell, the threat of schoolyard bullies has retreated somewhat, so maybe it's safe to own up to the fact that I too, have occasionally (ok, often) been prone to seeking comfort in that skulking, pained and struggling artist territory that makes me so queasy. 

You know, it's a sobering thought, but on paper at least,  I now qualify as a mature, middle-aged man (Please, no laughing at the back!), and so all manner of male menopause symptoms abound. Night sweats? I have them during the day too. Mood swings? Yeah. (No.) Overly nostalgic and  sentimental? Please. I get teary-eyed watching Laurel & Hardy silents.

Yes, those crushing feelings of existential angst commonly associated with middle age have been having their wicked way with me for a good couple of years now. Fears, regrets, frustration and the occasional outbreak of despair may work well as a title for an imaginary Morrissey compilation album, but in reality such dastardly emotions can put a real damper on your social life.  Apparently, they often herald the arrival of the much-ballyhooed "midlife crisis", often involving a tawdry affair with a young girlfriend, or a reckless trip to the local sports car dealership. Not for me though. I've never liked sports cars, anyway. They strike me as rather sad and desperate, and I would never want to be seen in one. Or a young girlfriend, for that matter ...

So, a couple of weeks ago, there I was, having a bit of an episode, as they say. I'd been feeling totally out-of-sorts for a couple of days, and a rather fitful night's sleep had intensified my rather dour mood for most of the following day. By evening, I was feeling emotionally frazzled, without really knowing why. That night, I sat down at the piano, turned on my trusty Korg recorder and managed to finish writing, and then record, a demo of a new song. I was lucky enough to have a few hours to myself, and boy did I take advantage. As I'm prone to do, I totally lost myself in the music,  and all else (including my sense of time) melted away into the periphery. If my wife hadn't returned home and asked me why I hadn't turned on the lights, picked up the mail, or even eaten dinner, I might still be sitting there. 

Now, I don't really know how good the song is, or whether people will like it (although I may soon find out, since it seems destined for inclusion on the upcoming Steve Robinson/Ed Woltil collaboration.) It hardly seems important, though. Getting into that zen-like state where you are right in the moment and are able to focus entirely on the task at hand, especially doing something that you love,  should be reward enough. I mean, it's a beautiful thing even when it's fleeting; when you're fortunate enough to experience it for several hours, it's like a bloody miracle. As an added bonus,  I slept like a baby that night. A really content baby. 

I suppose music really is that important to me.  Like it or not, music is where I've often retreated to in times of duress. I feel like a pretentious prat saying it, and writing it down here is certainly making me squirm a little, but writing songs and singing them is the most liberating and cathartic process I know of. I really don't know how else to work through stuff. Therapists are so damn expensive, and if word got back to the UK, I fear that a schoolyard bully or two may come out of retirement.

So what if there really was no music? Well, I suppose Shawn Colvin would have to find a different way to get by, as would I. I have no idea what Shawn would do, but as for me -  well, ideally, I'd like to think that I would invest my time and creative energy into perhaps making something a little more practical and useful than songs. Maybe I'd take up carpentry and learn how to make coffee tables, or something useful like that. Come to think of it, making furniture would be a lot more beneficial to the household than making music, wouldn't it? It would certainly make my wife a lot happier. 

I don't know how I know these things, but I do.

I'm the best singer ever.

I know this because my daughter, Emma, told me so after witnessing The Headlights' appearance at the 30th Anniversary extravaganza at Skipper's Smokehouse, this past Saturday night.

It's important to note that Emma is now thirteen, and that if she's ever within earshot of any of her peers, my very presence is usually cause for alarm (or merely embarrassment, if I'm lucky). I get the feeling that if I were to actually engage in conversation with any of her friends, it would cause severe emotional scarring from which she might never recover. On this day though, I was "cool" to her (or as close to "cool" as I'll ever get) and my goodness, was it ever fun while it lasted.

Throughout the set, she stood close to the stage, snapping pictures on her phone and beaming from ear to ear (of course, she may or may not have been taking pictures of me, I don't know, but let's not spoil the illusion). After the set, she came up and gave me a big hug and we posed for a photo or two together in the backstage area. All in all, a lovely time.

On Sunday night, I was on my way to bed when I noticed Emma's light was still on. I was slightly irked, since it was quite late and she knew full well that she had to get up early for school the next day. I went in to her room intending to voice my displeasure, but before I had a chance to speak, she intercepted me with the zinger: "You're the best singer ever, dad!"

Was she buttering me up, safe in the knowledge that I'd become all jellyfish-like in the face of such flattery? Maybe. Not only that, I'd doubt that she thinks I'm the best singer out there, and that I pale in comparison to any of the Jonas Brothers (and maybe even their distant cousins) but it still might have been my finest hour.

Either way though, I think I may have the best daughter ever.

Reasons To Be Cheerful (Part 5)

I've wanted to be in a band with Ed Woltil since the mid-1980s, when he and his band Mad For Electra regularly shared local stages with my old band, The Headlights. Being a three-piece, they didn't have an overly powerful sound that knocked you over with its bombast. Theirs was more of a sound that quietly sat you down and gave you a serious talking to. Every show was a little clinic on how to execute smartly crafted, punchy pop songs with wittily literate lyrics and fabulously catchy melodies of the sort that would have done Elvis Costello or Glenn Tillbrook proud. It might been irritating if they hadn't been such a likable bunch.

It was always obvious that Ed had something special about him, and even after our respective bands folded, and though our paths wouldn't cross for another 20 years, I still held out hope that we might work together in some capacity. Of course, we never did end up in a band together, but here we are, a quarter-century later, finally collaborating on an album to be released on Sunshine Drenchy Records sometime this ...er, century.

As far as progress goes, well, we're making it. Oh, there's a way to go yet, of course, but the songs are all written, and recording is underway, with several of them closing in on completion. As far as the songs go, it's a real mixed bag of goodies. There's a love song or two, a little goofy pop, and a dollop of snarky social commentary for balance. Looks like there'll even be a pretentious instrumental snippet or two thrown in for good measure (Hey, if it's good enough for REM...)

One of the best things about collaborating with Ed, is that if you give him a song to work on, he always manages to add something thrilling to it; something that's so appropriate, that it almost feels instantly familiar. Like it's the embodiment of a fleeting idea that you once had, but were never quite sure how to finish. I'll be sitting with headphones on, listening to his parts for the first time, and I'll find myself grinning and nodding my approval, thinking, "Yeah, that's just what I was thinking should go there". Only I'd probably never really thought it at all. Some people always seem to say the right thing; Ed always seems to play the right thing.

Yes, aside from an occasional lapse in judgement when choosing collaborators (ahem), the man has impeccable musical taste. But more than that, he also has an almost childlike sense of adventure, of the sort that can have him scavenging about for strangely wonderful sounds to paint the song up with. So often, he'll come up with something that instantly sets a song apart, without it losing its way. It can be a delicate balance sometimes, but he seems so sure-footed, I'll trust him every time. He can tell me that he's found an old sample of a medieval percussion instrument that sounds suspiciously like a metal chain clanging against a rusty portcullis, and I'm totally on-board with it. I feel pretty confident that when he flies it into the song, it's going to make a competent track sound bloody amazing.

I really feel privileged to be working with the lad, and although I've no idea what the reception is going to be for this record, once it's done, I do know that I've never enjoyed the process of creating music more than this. It's exhilarating enough that I sometimes feel compelled to smack a rusty portcullis with a metal chain just for the joy of it.

I'd like to announce the simultaneous release of the new Ditchflowers CD, and the Steve Robinson & Ed Woltil collaboration, on the Sunshine Drenchy Record label. I mean, I'd REALLY like to announce it, but of course, neither project is close to being finished, so I'd better hold off on that.

Fear not though, fellow folky poppers and poppy folkers, there is indeed a brand new addition to the fledgling Sunshine Drenchy Records catalogue. Namely, the long-awaited solo release from my old friend and Headlights' guitarist extraordinaire, Steve Connelly.

Unless you've been laying low in Luxembourg for the past decade or so, you'll probably know that Steve has long been the go-to sideman and workaholic engineer/producer for anybody who's anybody in the bay area's Folk-Rock/Rootsy-Americana music scene. Consequently, he never seemed to get around to recording and releasing any music of his own. Thankfully though, he's taken a break from working on his studio tan, and has made things right with the release of "Every Monster", a rather stellar collection of originals both young and old, thank you very much.

Released under the moniker "Steve Connelly and the Lesser Gods", the record sees several Headlights chestnuts and older Connelly nuggets that had never seen the light of day, duly resurrected and nestling ever so nicely against some splendid new compositions. The whole sumptuous affair is testament to Steve's abilities outside of the guitar-slinger role that he's often saddled with. It's a little ironic, I suppose, that my favourite track on the entire album, the soul-baring "Inside Today", is actually a piano-based song with nary a lead guitar in sight. Have a listen to it and tell me that it doesn't raise your arm hairs, and I'll put a call in to the nearest medical facility on your behalf.

CDs will soon be available at the usual outlets: CD Baby, iTunes, Rhapsody etc, but if you'd like to cut out the middle man, you can get one directly from the Sunshine Drenchy cupboard, er ... offices, by responding to this email. Domestic orders will be immediately dispatched upon receipt of a paltry $13 (shipping included), while international orders are $15 - a steal in any currency, I'm sure you'll agree. As far as payment goes - Paypal, personal cheques, cash, money orders or even a fine Belgian ale (bottle fermented, please) will work fine.

For those of you in Florida, Steve's official CD Release party is on Saturday, June 5th at Skipper's Smokehouse in Tampa, so you can pick one up there if you'd rather. Further info can be found here and at the official Steve Connelly website (designed by the nauseatingly multi-talented Ed Woltil)

Now about that pesky Robinson/Woltil CD ... well, the recording is going well, if a little slow, but the track listing has more or less been finalised and several tracks are close to completion. Stylistically and thematically, we're all over the bloody show and proud of it, really. There's a little goofy pop, some good old middle-aged self-resignation-type angst, and even a little politically tinged finger-pointing thrown in for good measure. Add to this a couple of loving odes to our children, a dash of sunny (and rainy) nostalgia, and a couple of instrumentals attempting to tie the whole bustling bag together, and on paper, it all starts to sound unnervingly like a bloody concept album doesn't it? You might want to make your escape plans now. I hear that Luxembourg is nice this time of year...

So, that was Christmas... 

... the season of the iPod touch, "Doorbuster Sales" (what a sad term that is) and must-have video games where you can do all sorts of things without actually having to do them. Wonder if there's a Christmas Shopping video game?

Anyway, a new year is upon us, and I'd like to announce the release date of the new CD that I've been working on with my friend, label-mate, and head-Ditchflower, Ed Woltil. I'm not going to, of course; that would be foolhardy, especially since it's not even close to completion. Ahem... 

Speaking of the Ditchflowers , they're hard at work in the studio on the highly anticipated follow-up to their rightly acclaimed debut, "Carried Away" (by rights, anyone who doesn't already own this nugget should be heartily scolded and humiliated in public, by the way) and the tracks I've heard so far are as brilliant as you might imagine. I was actually brazen enough to send over some harmony vocals for a couple of the tracks, and although I'm not sure whether they'll be used in the final mixes, I am the head of this label, so I think that there's a really good chance. Release details will be announced as soon as we announce them...

Elsewhere in Sunshine Drenchy-land, my old partner in The Headlights, Steve Connelly, has somehow found the time to complete his first solo project, which will, I'm proud to announce, be released on Sunshine Drenchy Records in early 2010. 

As you probably know, Steve is the resident engineer/handholder/guru/workaholic at  Zen Recording here in St.Petersburg, and is routinely called upon to assist regional faves like Have Gun Will Travel, Rebekkah Pulley, Ronny Elliott and Will Quinlan in their rootsy Americana-tinged recording endeavours. In between, he somehow finds the time to play guitar with The Ditchflowers and 41 other bands; it's quite the balancing act. 

So how did he find the time to record a solo CD? I'm not sure, but I'm a little peeved about it; he's really making me look quite lazy.

Everything is broken...

I'm the last person to point fingers at handymen. After all, I'm so inept around the house, that in my eyes, replacing a blown lightbulb with a new one, and having it actually work when the switch is flipped, warrants a jubilant victory lap around the garden. Having said that, I have to wonder if the standard of hired professional help is gradually declining. It could be the luck of the draw, of course, but several incidents of late, involving supposed tradesmen, has left me wondering.

A plumber (I call him a plumber because that's what it said on the side of his van) called to my humble abode to give me a quote on fixing two leaky faucets, seemed so disinterested in doing the work that I almost felt guilty asking him for a price. One of the faulty faucets was on the bathroom pedestal sink, and he appeared to be troubled by the fact that the sink was very close to the wall. (If I'd known that in advance, I suppose I could have had it installed in the middle of the room to spare him the hurt, but never mind.)

Add to this, his consternation at the fact that the shut-off valves appeared to be original to this 1941 house, and it began to appear that he wished he'd never been consulted. His response to the sight of the dripping shower faucet was a sullen aside along the lines of - "Yeah, they do that sometimes...how long as it been like that?".

The implication seemed to be that I needed to give it time to stop dripping, but even after I told him that it'd been that way for about two months, he seemed disinclined to tackle the project, and he was sighing so heavily that I actually felt sorry for him, and set him free to go and disappoint other potential customers.

The next "professional" to let me down was a bit of an all-rounder. He informed me in advance that he could tackle any and all home improvement jobs, and this was good news because my mother-in-law apartment out back had some rotten wood siding panels in need of replacement, and a shower stall that required serious attention.

The siding repair job went quite well, but when it came time to survey the shower stall, his mood turned rather more sombre. The raised step into the shower was tiled, but the tiles had seen better days; several were cracked and loose, and old, crumbling grout had obviously contributed to some water damage of the step and the shower stall both. Obviously, I was concerned that repairs would be costly, and prepared myself for a pricy estimate.

After the requisite stroking of the chin and the raised eyebrow, the alleged handyman stunned me with his off-hand comment - "I don't know if I'd mess with that." Unbelievable. He obviously wanted nothing to do with the job at hand; confirming it with a little shake of the head, and then the clincher - " I don't know if I'd open that can of worms...you just don't know what you're gonna find under there." Well, obviously, I didn't know what I'd find under there! That's why I called a "professional" in: to have someone open cans of worms for me.

Apparently, his concern appeared to be that the more repairs he tried to do, the greater the possibility of finding more damage would be. His answer seemed to be to simply leave well alone and tread lightly in the shower.

Brilliant. I went from being concerned that I'd have a huge repair bill, to wondering what kind of evil worm creatures might be residing under my shower stall, and how long it would be before the building collapsed, forcing me to replace the entire structure. The upshot of this is that I still have a dysfunctional shower, and since I'm not currently on first name terms with any plumbers in the mood to actually do any work, I suppose I'll have to live with it.

Anyway, I have other things in need of repair that take precedence. My trusty old Takamine acoustic/electric guitar has dodgy electrics and is in need of some serious fret work. Since I am supposed to be working on a new album, this is a bit of a hindrance. The thing is, I think I'm scared of asking local luthiers for assistance, in the event that they steer me clear of fixing old problems for fear of exposing new ones.

Ideally, I'd like to avoid the whole thing and simply ask my wife if I could just buy a new guitar instead, but I don't think I want to open that can of worms.

Reasons To Be Cheerful (Part Four)



Revisiting old records that influenced you during your formative years can sometimes be a bit of a letdown. Songs that you remember as exhilarating during your youth often sound a little pedestrian when you listen with the somewhat jaded ears of middle age. Many of them suffer from being saddled with the overblown production techniques of their era, and so sound gimmicky to the point of distraction. Records released by Free back in the early 1970s are not among them.

When I was a young lad trying to feel my way around my first electric guitar, most of what I learned to play was gleaned from listening to Rolling Stones and Free albums. For rhythm playing I'd look to Keith Richards; for lead playing it was always Free's Paul Kossoff. Looking back on it, even though I'm sure I sounded horrible trying to emulate them with my cheap Les Paul copy and gnarly Carlsboro fuzz box, I had good instincts.

Listening to their records today, I can't help but think that despite being the unadulterated fan that I was, I had no grasp of how great they really were. There's such a self-assured yet understated power in their playing; like they knew how good they were, and so never felt the need to show off. They could rock pretty hard, but they reeked of soul, and rather than overplay, they seemed to leave spaces in all the right places. It's ridiculous to think that these guys were so incredibly young (bass playing phenom Andy Fraser was barely 16 on the first album, I believe), yet they had the maturity and restraint to simply settle into the groove and make every note truly count like they did.

Of course, it doesn't hurt when you have a voice like Paul Rogers' out front. No matter how simple the lyric (and theirs usually were of the tried and tested blues rock variety) his voice sounded absolutely brilliant singing it. Actually, it barely mattered what he was singing; his voice was just another great sounding instrument along with Kossoff's guitar, Andy Fraser's bass and Simon Kirke's drums.

Listening to Fire and Water now is so thrilling for me, I have to wonder if there was ever a better rock band than this. It makes it almost impossible to refrain from retreating into old fogey-dom and uttering old chestnuts like "They don't make them like this anymore".

They don't make them like this anymore.

I've got blisters on my fingers...

I don't play the guitar. Not really. What I mean is, I don't practice. The only time I pick up the guitar is to either work on a song or to record one. It's shameful, and I often entertain the thought that this might be the year that I finally get it together and start working on my playing. Oh well; it's the thought that counts.

It's sad because whenever I do pick up the guitar to record a part and begin the usual 'fumble around blindly in search of something that sticks' routine, I get to a point where, if something finally clicks, I admonish myself with a stern talking to. A sort of "See what you can do if you put your mind to it?" finger wagging, that's usually followed up with a guilt-inducing "Just think how good you could be if you practiced every day for about the next, oh... 35 years or so".

I recently had one of these episodes. I had a song that I originally thought might sound great with a fiddle playing the solo, but budgetary concerns prompted me to have a bash with electric guitar, just in case it worked. I took out the guitar from the closet, dusted it off, and played around for a good hour or so before it started to sound remotely musical, and although I knew I wanted to work on it a little more later, I recorded a take so I could do a quick mix to listen to in the car, just to see if I was on the right track.

Now, I play electric guitar even less than I do the acoustic, and boy did my finger tips make me pay. I ended up nursing two ridiculously raw finger blisters that left me unable to play either guitar for about a week, and to add insult to injury, I was still undecided about the suitability of the guitar part. So I gave the CD to a mate of mine and requested a little honest feedback.

He took the CD with him and when he returned it a while later, I plied him with the query,"Do you think that this is a good approach for the song?" After a brief hesitation, he sidestepped me with a query of his own. "I thought you were going to have fiddle on this one?"

Like I said, I need to practice, and I will. As soon as these blisters fully heal...

Reasons To Be Cheerful (Part Three)

Ian Dury may have arrived commercially via the Punk and New Wave explosion of the late 70s, but his music always felt gloriously old to me.

What a wonderfully odd star he was. He may have been physically compromised by a childhood bout with polio, but he was a vibrant and commanding presence, both on stage, and off. His records would share bin space with bands made up of snotty-nosed punks with their practised sneers and three-chord workouts, yet he was already as old as some of their dads.

He came across as more vaudeville than punk rock, yet he was afforded much respect from punky punters and performers alike. Rather than speedy, anger-fueled faux-anarchy tales, though, Ian came armed with crafty songs that were ripe with bawdy humour and a sort of cheeky old-time music hall sensibility.

The colourful characters in Dury's vignettes — Plaistow Patricia, Clever Trevor, Billericay Dickie et al — were rough around the edges to be sure, but even with his gruff, often half-spoken and occasionally profane vocal delivery, there was always the sense that he was singing with affection, and it all had this sort of positive, life-affirming quality about it; a gentle naughtiness that warms the cockles to this day.

"Reasons To Be Cheerful (Part Three)" came hot on the heels of his UK chart-topper "Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick", and it's basically a jumbled list of ...well, reasons to be cheerful. Hard to argue with that, really. Hard to argue with the musical delivery either, as it happens. Dury recites (some might say, raps) over a stellar, funky (some might even say disco) backing, courtesy of his always brilliant band, The Blockheads, and although it's not really even my favourite song of his — that honour most likely goes to the lovely "You'll See Glimpses" — but it's still a little gem. Like most of Ian's music, it still makes me smile whenever it floats by. I really wish we still had him around.

Apparently, Ian Dury once declined an invitation from Andrew Lloyd Webber to write the lyrics for "Cats", ostensibly turning down a small fortune in the process. His response when asked for a reason, was simple and brutally honest — "I hate Andrew Lloyd Webber. He's a wanker, isn't he?".

That just might be more "punk" than anything Johnny Rotten ever did.

Listen Here


Why don't you get back into bed?
Reasons to be cheerful part 3

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Summer, Buddy Holly, the working folly
Good golly Miss Molly and boats
Hammersmith Palais, the Bolshoi Ballet
Jump back in the alley and nanny goats

18-wheeler Scammels, Domenecker camels
All other mammals plus equal votes
Seeing Piccadilly, Fanny Smith and Willy
Being rather silly, and porridge oats

A bit of grin and bear it, a bit of come and share it
You're welcome, we can spare it - yellow socks
Too short to be haughty, too nutty to be naughty
Going on 40 - no electric shocks

The juice of the carrot, the smile of the parrot
A little drop of claret - anything that rocks
Elvis and Scotty, days when I ain't spotty,
Sitting on the potty - curing smallpox

Reasons to be cheerful part 3
Reasons to be cheerful part 3
Reasons to be cheerful part 3
Reasons to be cheerful part 3

1 2 3

Reasons to be cheerful part 3

Health service glasses
Gigolos and brasses
round or skinny bottoms

Take your mum to paris
lighting up the chalice
wee willy harris

Bantu Stephen Biko, listening to Rico
Harpo, Groucho, Chico

Cheddar cheese and pickle, the Vincent motorsickle
Slap and tickle
Woody Allen, Dali, Dimitri and Pasquale
balabalabala and Volare

Something nice to study, phoning up a buddy
Being in my nuddy
Saying hokey-dokey, singalonga Smokey
Coming out of chokey

John Coltrane's soprano, Adi Celentano
Bonar Colleano

Reasons to be cheerful part 3
Reasons to be cheerful part 3
Reasons to be cheerful part 3
Reasons to be cheerful part 3

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Yes yes
dear dear
perhaps next year
or maybe even never

in which case...

Tales from the podcasting couch...

When Ditchflower Brian Merrill approached me with the idea of doing a podcast to showcase our little record label, Sunshine Drenchy Records, I was a little relieved. I was beginning to think that I was destined to be the only person around not involved in podcasting. I mean, I've had considerable airplay from other podcasters over the past couple of years, but my limited technical expertise has left me watching from the sidelines, unable to join the fray.

No longer! Fortuitously, Brian is a self-described geek when it comes to technology, and along with the requisite array of software about his person, also has intimidating piles of hardware audio devices populating his home, studio, kitchen and water closet. They tend to have lots of flashing lights on them, and occasionally make strange beeping noises. The thing is, I think he actually understands what they're saying to him. It's quite amazing. The upshot, of course, is that he not only has the knowledge to put a podcast together, but he also knows the magic spells necessary to make it available for people to listen to.

So, why do a podcast? Well, why the hell not? It can't hurt can it? Besides, I'm between records right now, as are the Ditchflowers, so it might be a good way to promote the label a little bit; a chance to offer free downloads of previously unreleased tracks and live in the studio performances, as well as an excuse to get together at Brian's Studio Bee and have a bit of a natter over a fine ale or three. Why not indeed?

As will no doubt be apparent to listeners all, there was no script for "Bed Of Ales"- episode 1 of the Sunshine Drenchy Radio Podcast. Hell, there was no real plan or outline, other than for us to talk a little about the label and to play a couple of album cuts along with a song or two live in the studio. There was to be no rehearsal of the songs either. It would be matter of deciding which songs I would do, and Ed simply joining in after Brian hit the record button.

So, armed with several quality yeasty beverages, and a capo (no guitar— Brian said I could use his; it's much shinier than mine, and it doesn't rattle and hum every time you even glance at it), I traipsed over to Studio Bee and happened upon a podcast in progress. Yes, Brian and Ed had started without me. A decidedly unprofessional start to this Podcasting series, I'm sure you'll agree. It's a path we'll no doubt continue on as we go forward.

Click here to go to iTunes for the Podcast...Sunshine Drenchy Radio. Feel free to subscribe; it'll not cost you a penny, but it will make us feel quite loved.

If iTunes isn't your cup of iTea, you can also listen here.

Enjoying the ride...

I've struggled a bit, in the past - as I suspect many of us do as we get a little older - with the whole idea of enjoying the journey, rather than simply focusing on the destination.

In these early stages of recording my next collection of songs, I've been doing a lot better with it. Granted, there are still moments where my mind races forward and I find myself wondering when it'll be finished; where I'm going to find the time to actually play and sing all the parts, or even obsessing about the final running order of songs that have yet to even be recorded. More often, though, I've found myself feeling exhilarated by the fuzzy frenzy of the creative process. I've tried to exult in those little victorious moments that bring a song a little closer to fruition. It's silly not to, really, isn't it? It'd be a bit like catching a train and missing the scenery by pulling down the blinds until you get to where you're going.


Just yesterday, I began scribbling on a notepad, in search of words for the bridge section of a song I've been working on for a while. Suitable lyrics for this bit had been eluding me for weeks, and I still couldn't stumble on anything that thrilled me. So, I did what I often do -- instead of waiting for inspiration to strike, I had a beer instead.

It didn't really help with the lyrics, though. In fact, it distracted me a little, as a silly stream of beer-infused, pun-filled song titles like " Boozing, My Religion", " This Old Harp Of Mine" and "What's Bud Got To Do With It?" barged around my brain. By the time I found myself audibly groaning at "Labbatts, The Way I Like It", I knew that it was time to get to work, and I decided to record a quick demo of the song, in the hope that hearing it on playback might spur something.

Invariably, when recording the vocal for a song with missing lyrics, I tend to sing a little impromptu gibberish in the section in question, with the intent of replacing it later. You never know what's going to spill out when you do this, and that's half the fun. It can be totally dull, unintentionally funny, puzzling, and occasionally even frightening to hear yourself spew out words without premeditation.(I know there are those who think that much of what I write sounds like impromptu gibberish, but that's by the by.)

Although in the early days of writing this song, the idea was to go with the old early Dylan approach --single acoustic guitar, solo vocal and a bit of harmonica thrown in just to annoy the neighbours -- as I started to record it, discipline went flying out the window and the kitchen sink came rushing in. I upped the tempo, added a drum track that completely transformed the whole mood of it, doubled the lead vocal and layered some harmony vocals behind them.

The thing is, the recording, as hurried and off-handed as it was, took on a bit of a life of its own, taking me completely by surprise and giving me a bit of a kick in the pants in the process. I got all giddy and excited by the feel of the track, and all manner of ideas came flooding in. In particular, the words I was searching for showed up unannounced, and I promptly scribbled them down.

I think part of this new-found, er... maturity (ahem) stems from feelings of gratitude and thankfulness that, for better or worse, these songs continue to arrive. It's probably a common fear of people who like to put pen to paper, that the well will one day run dry, and I routinely have that "Well, that's probably the last song I've got in me" feeling. (Don't get your hopes up, though.)

Now, whether these songs are actually any good or not, and whether or not this song in particular delivers on the promise that I was feeling, hardly seems the point, really. The fact is, it felt really bloody joyful at the time, and I savoured it. The very idea that what can start off as a couple of phrases and a sliver of a melody occasionally ends up resembling an actual song is something I still find amazing, and I'm having a ball with it. The neighbours, I'm not so sure about -- tonight I'm recording harmonica parts...