A Wednesday morning, long ago.....
Great! A free Wednesday morning. No little kiddie keyboard groups to battle with. The better part of two whole hours to go practice piano....
Sidling up to one of my preferred mistresses in room two down at Jaques Samuels, I dumped my stuff, eased onto the stool, started concentrating on breathing and posture, and laid my hands to the black and white....
Phone Call 1: didn't answer....left message....some teaching thing....deal with it later....
Right, back to the breathing....
Phone Call 2: answered strangely.....silly gig up north...said yes, then realised it would be no....handball it to D-Funk....deal with it later....
Okay, back to posture and breathing....hang on, someone tried to call while checking message two....
Phone Call 3: old mate G-Man offering me a European tour.....
Hold on a sec.....that's the kind of call you don't blow off. G-Man had been murmuring to me about this for some time now, but as I've found with most things in the freelance music world, I wasn't gonna start up a mortgage on it.
But this was for real.
Called him back straight away, and as he spoke more, I believed it more. And then I couldn't believe it!...
12 June 2006
11 June 2006
Gig Review - Marc Ribot and Ceramic Dog
One Sunday afternoon, long ago...
Your correspondent had the privilege to share an intense hour and a bit with Ceramic Dog, Marc Ribot's new three-part invention, recently on tour through here and the continent. After house reds and a bowl of wedges with J-Sax, my usual concert-going partner-in-crime, we ascended the steps at the Royal Festival Hall to the Purcell Room, one of the best settings for small ensemble music I've seen in this city to date.
Surrounded by a to-be-expected black-shirt die-hard weirdo audience, Senor Ribot and co slinked their way through the one door at the back centre of the stage. A welcome unexpected beginning to the gig was going from customary fiddling and tuning straight into the first free improv. We had the name to the left on guitar with various electronics before him, then centre stage was Chad Smith, this big surfer looking guy who accompanied any athletics on the kit with an unusual slack-jawed sway. Then to the left, by far the most interesting looking player in the room, was (forgotten his name)....this guy somehow missed out on the Weet-Bix at the childhood breakfast table....tiny head, wearing a giant shoulder-padded jacket from which emerged long spindly unnatural looking arms, also fortified with various electronics and an empty water-cooler bottle.
Free improv melted into tune melted into wacky bleep-infested groove and so on....first highlight was 'Todo El Mundo Es Kitch', which I suppose was Ribot's sung/spoken version of Paul Kelly's song about every city feeling the same....'In Paris, we sat at a cafe / we were drinking coffee'....by far the other lyric highlight of the afternoon was 'When We Were Young We Were Freaks.' "This next song," went Ribot's intro, "was written by the leading gay S and M poet in the East Village in the 70s. He was also my accountant at the time......"
Some cubano grooves popped up, well appreciated by your reviewer who originally came to know Ribot's work through the two outstanding albums with Cubanos Postizos (The first, self-titled, and the second "Muy Divertido"). Various instrument swapping went on throughout, as well as using each player to his full extent (J-Sax recalls the Martian-looking bassplayer pulling out some groove with big toe on keyboard on beat 1, one hand on bass and other hand on some electronic thing, I think)....
After the dramas of a forgotten battery, the session came back to earth with a final lyric contribution ("George Bush, fuck you! Tony Blair, fuck you!") before encore. In the obligatory post-gig recount, I agreed with J-Sax's early observation that it sounded pretty much like you would expect it to sound, but this didn't detract from the product one electronic bleep. Original but accessible, unusual but not confronting, highly original. Ribot is definitely one to keep an eye on.....
Your correspondent had the privilege to share an intense hour and a bit with Ceramic Dog, Marc Ribot's new three-part invention, recently on tour through here and the continent. After house reds and a bowl of wedges with J-Sax, my usual concert-going partner-in-crime, we ascended the steps at the Royal Festival Hall to the Purcell Room, one of the best settings for small ensemble music I've seen in this city to date.
Surrounded by a to-be-expected black-shirt die-hard weirdo audience, Senor Ribot and co slinked their way through the one door at the back centre of the stage. A welcome unexpected beginning to the gig was going from customary fiddling and tuning straight into the first free improv. We had the name to the left on guitar with various electronics before him, then centre stage was Chad Smith, this big surfer looking guy who accompanied any athletics on the kit with an unusual slack-jawed sway. Then to the left, by far the most interesting looking player in the room, was (forgotten his name)....this guy somehow missed out on the Weet-Bix at the childhood breakfast table....tiny head, wearing a giant shoulder-padded jacket from which emerged long spindly unnatural looking arms, also fortified with various electronics and an empty water-cooler bottle.
Free improv melted into tune melted into wacky bleep-infested groove and so on....first highlight was 'Todo El Mundo Es Kitch', which I suppose was Ribot's sung/spoken version of Paul Kelly's song about every city feeling the same....'In Paris, we sat at a cafe / we were drinking coffee'....by far the other lyric highlight of the afternoon was 'When We Were Young We Were Freaks.' "This next song," went Ribot's intro, "was written by the leading gay S and M poet in the East Village in the 70s. He was also my accountant at the time......"
Some cubano grooves popped up, well appreciated by your reviewer who originally came to know Ribot's work through the two outstanding albums with Cubanos Postizos (The first, self-titled, and the second "Muy Divertido"). Various instrument swapping went on throughout, as well as using each player to his full extent (J-Sax recalls the Martian-looking bassplayer pulling out some groove with big toe on keyboard on beat 1, one hand on bass and other hand on some electronic thing, I think)....
After the dramas of a forgotten battery, the session came back to earth with a final lyric contribution ("George Bush, fuck you! Tony Blair, fuck you!") before encore. In the obligatory post-gig recount, I agreed with J-Sax's early observation that it sounded pretty much like you would expect it to sound, but this didn't detract from the product one electronic bleep. Original but accessible, unusual but not confronting, highly original. Ribot is definitely one to keep an eye on.....
That Guy Returns
Yes, friends, back from one of the most amazing months of my life....so much to recount I'm not quite sure where to start, so I guess it'll come through in dribbles, here and there.....here's the first one.....
20 May 2006
On The Road
Hez Kids,
It's about 1 o'clock in sunnz Frankfurt, and while I've got this spare fifteen minutes I thought I'd drop a quick note to zou all on this the halfwaz daz of the Sophie Solomon European Tour! It's all going bloodz great as expected, and I reallz can't believe that I'm alreadz halfwaz through it. I'll wait until I get back to London to expand on all the goings on. Germanz's a funnz place, lots of meat and cheese and meat and cheese, and this kezboard has some funnz letter placements on it, one in particular, can zou guess which one?
Lots of love to z'all.....
It's about 1 o'clock in sunnz Frankfurt, and while I've got this spare fifteen minutes I thought I'd drop a quick note to zou all on this the halfwaz daz of the Sophie Solomon European Tour! It's all going bloodz great as expected, and I reallz can't believe that I'm alreadz halfwaz through it. I'll wait until I get back to London to expand on all the goings on. Germanz's a funnz place, lots of meat and cheese and meat and cheese, and this kezboard has some funnz letter placements on it, one in particular, can zou guess which one?
Lots of love to z'all.....
05 May 2006
"Gonna be a bright....sun shiny day"
I opened the front door and took two steps out and it hit me, through my clothes and all over my skin. It wasn't just light in the sky this time but warmth in the air...our first real summers day! Absolutely awestruck, I ditched my big grey coat on the bed and strolled out onto the street.
And as I turned out the little green wooden gate at the end of our yard, it just occured to me that it's been a whole year....
Step
That's right, it was May long weekend, wasn't it....
Steps
That awkward afternoon in London Fields with all the crew, and the drive back in the vet van, knowing full well what was about to happen...
More steps
And the four long months that followed...
Steps
Wow, how about that....I almost forgot!
Steps
I almost forgot? I've always enshrined those kind of personal history dates...how could I have almost forgotten that one?
And where's the rest of it? Where are the attachments? Where's the anger, at self, at her, the frustration, the endless examination of events spiralling out of control, as they did? Where's that tired, aged feeling?
Gone.
WHAT?
Gone. For today, at least, perhaps back another day, but never as intense, and at this moment, they are nowhere to be found.
And I realised, dear friends, as I was pacing up the street in that glorious white light and warmth of the English morning, that at age 26, off to another twelve-hour pound-earning day doing mostly music related stuff, local gigs in the book and a European tour in a couple of weeks....emailing this cute Japanese girl I met at a gig last weekend....striding up that street in my black pin-stripe shirt....I realised that, despite the tone of recent entries, that for single Mike, things aren't so bad after all.
And to top it all off, it's a beautiful day....
And as I turned out the little green wooden gate at the end of our yard, it just occured to me that it's been a whole year....
Step
That's right, it was May long weekend, wasn't it....
Steps
That awkward afternoon in London Fields with all the crew, and the drive back in the vet van, knowing full well what was about to happen...
More steps
And the four long months that followed...
Steps
Wow, how about that....I almost forgot!
Steps
I almost forgot? I've always enshrined those kind of personal history dates...how could I have almost forgotten that one?
And where's the rest of it? Where are the attachments? Where's the anger, at self, at her, the frustration, the endless examination of events spiralling out of control, as they did? Where's that tired, aged feeling?
Gone.
WHAT?
Gone. For today, at least, perhaps back another day, but never as intense, and at this moment, they are nowhere to be found.
And I realised, dear friends, as I was pacing up the street in that glorious white light and warmth of the English morning, that at age 26, off to another twelve-hour pound-earning day doing mostly music related stuff, local gigs in the book and a European tour in a couple of weeks....emailing this cute Japanese girl I met at a gig last weekend....striding up that street in my black pin-stripe shirt....I realised that, despite the tone of recent entries, that for single Mike, things aren't so bad after all.
And to top it all off, it's a beautiful day....
04 May 2006
The People That You Meet - Marc Anthony
During the many hours of hanging...before sets, in between sets, after sets, at other people's gigs...among the usual types there (musos, non-musos, bar staff, managers et al), another breed sometimes emerges, the hangers on.
These guys love the scene and they're keen to hang, but what sets these guys apart is that they kind of want to be musos as well, they want to play a part that's a little more involved than just being mates.
Marc Antony was one notable example. The Latin scene's short statured stalwart, on the regulars he'd rock up every night - trademark waistcoat, shaded glasses, goatee and slicked back hair, always darting about talking to the next guy, always whingeing to me about how W the bandleader (who'd be constantly taking the piss out of him) never got him in for free on the door or bought him drinks (much more about W later). He professed to being a promoter, showed me his card, talked about plans, always plans....
Nice enough guy, but I kind of feel a little sorry for him...it never happened on the Latin scene of course, but I know well enough there would be Jazz guys who wouldn't want to give him the time of day. Never being one too cool for school myself, I always seem to end up talking to these people when no-one else will.
Sometimes, because these guys are so keen, they'll do stuff for you at a gig (these people are always handy for absent-minded musicians such as myself, as long as you don't abuse the privilege). I rocked up to a duo gig in a hotel basement bar recently...it was the first time I'd lugged my gear in a while and the one thing I forgot this time (there's always something) was the power plug for the amp. A simple enough D-plug, like the one in the back of your kettle, I expected a major central London hotel to probably have a load just lying around. Come gig time, and it became quickly apparent that this was somehow not the case.
Scratching my head on stage, I look over at Marc Antony, who is sitting there at the bar with the reluctant-looking singer, telling her how he just got back from Budapest from meetings with the girl group he's allegedly promoting.
The singer on the gig and I didn't know what else to do, so I beckoned him over and asked him to run off and get us one. Sure enough, halfway through a jerry-rigged solo set, Marc Antony came bounding back from out in the driving rain with something he'd dug out of a pub about three blocks away.
But you know the really odd thing about this guy? And why the ancient Roman reference? Because Marc Antony isn't one person, but two. I knew a guy called 'Marco' at the Latin gigs back in Melbourne who fit the description, and strangely enough, in some bizarre quasi-doppelganger echo, 'Antony' is a guy who I've met and known on Jazz gigs here! Same person - short, glasses, quasi-promoter, always hanging around. Freaky...
These guys love the scene and they're keen to hang, but what sets these guys apart is that they kind of want to be musos as well, they want to play a part that's a little more involved than just being mates.
Marc Antony was one notable example. The Latin scene's short statured stalwart, on the regulars he'd rock up every night - trademark waistcoat, shaded glasses, goatee and slicked back hair, always darting about talking to the next guy, always whingeing to me about how W the bandleader (who'd be constantly taking the piss out of him) never got him in for free on the door or bought him drinks (much more about W later). He professed to being a promoter, showed me his card, talked about plans, always plans....
Nice enough guy, but I kind of feel a little sorry for him...it never happened on the Latin scene of course, but I know well enough there would be Jazz guys who wouldn't want to give him the time of day. Never being one too cool for school myself, I always seem to end up talking to these people when no-one else will.
Sometimes, because these guys are so keen, they'll do stuff for you at a gig (these people are always handy for absent-minded musicians such as myself, as long as you don't abuse the privilege). I rocked up to a duo gig in a hotel basement bar recently...it was the first time I'd lugged my gear in a while and the one thing I forgot this time (there's always something) was the power plug for the amp. A simple enough D-plug, like the one in the back of your kettle, I expected a major central London hotel to probably have a load just lying around. Come gig time, and it became quickly apparent that this was somehow not the case.
Scratching my head on stage, I look over at Marc Antony, who is sitting there at the bar with the reluctant-looking singer, telling her how he just got back from Budapest from meetings with the girl group he's allegedly promoting.
The singer on the gig and I didn't know what else to do, so I beckoned him over and asked him to run off and get us one. Sure enough, halfway through a jerry-rigged solo set, Marc Antony came bounding back from out in the driving rain with something he'd dug out of a pub about three blocks away.
But you know the really odd thing about this guy? And why the ancient Roman reference? Because Marc Antony isn't one person, but two. I knew a guy called 'Marco' at the Latin gigs back in Melbourne who fit the description, and strangely enough, in some bizarre quasi-doppelganger echo, 'Antony' is a guy who I've met and known on Jazz gigs here! Same person - short, glasses, quasi-promoter, always hanging around. Freaky...
27 April 2006
Stereotypes
My dad used to by the odd lottery ticket now and then, or go place some bets on the horses on a Saturday afternoon, and so in a similar vein, to break up the routine, I bought a copy of Esquire magazine this morning. Apparently there's some tips in there on how to be a perfect gentleman, as well as some revealing (but not pornographic) pictures of big busty blonde chicks. I'm appreciative of women in all their beautiful forms, but sometimes....and then I was thinking that this is kind of contradictory of me really....
Ever since I can remember, I've built up this stereotype in my head of the guys that get all the girls. Back in home town in rural New South Wales, it was the footy jocks, all built up like stockings full of chestnuts in their blue and white Coota Bulldogs jackets, not-real-bright-but-can-lift-big-weights, some small dolled up platinum blonde accompaniment by their side. Those guys seemed to get all the hot girls in town looking at them. I felt about ten thousand light years away....
In Canberra they were still around, but their presence was a lot less stifling as there were new and different people to meet who were into other things like books and music and compound sentences....
So it happened that this breed seemed to vanish out of my general milieu for a while....then D-Funk and I went out for his birthday at my favourite club in town last year. They were everywhere! battalions of them, just in a slightly different form....spiked up hair, collared white or stripey shirt, blue jeans, chiseled jaw, some sort of arrogant look....and sure enough, there were the accompaniments, by their sides.
So then, how can I despise that male stereotype so much, that apparently gets all the girls, have my own things that I look for in women, and still have my head turned by the latest vacant-eyed stereotyped bombshell on a magazine cover?
That male stereotype is all crap anyway....all you gotta do is dress right, talk right, laugh and a smile, and it's a start. And of course, why would I want to go for girls that are after Mr Brainless Human Sandbag anyway?
I'm Oz, professional musician, in central London, I can converse with people reasonably well on a wide variety of subjects, I dress all right.....I like to think I have a couple of things going for me, and yet out there on my horizon there's nobody. None at all.
But then again, in the near future, that could change....
Ever since I can remember, I've built up this stereotype in my head of the guys that get all the girls. Back in home town in rural New South Wales, it was the footy jocks, all built up like stockings full of chestnuts in their blue and white Coota Bulldogs jackets, not-real-bright-but-can-lift-big-weights, some small dolled up platinum blonde accompaniment by their side. Those guys seemed to get all the hot girls in town looking at them. I felt about ten thousand light years away....
In Canberra they were still around, but their presence was a lot less stifling as there were new and different people to meet who were into other things like books and music and compound sentences....
So it happened that this breed seemed to vanish out of my general milieu for a while....then D-Funk and I went out for his birthday at my favourite club in town last year. They were everywhere! battalions of them, just in a slightly different form....spiked up hair, collared white or stripey shirt, blue jeans, chiseled jaw, some sort of arrogant look....and sure enough, there were the accompaniments, by their sides.
So then, how can I despise that male stereotype so much, that apparently gets all the girls, have my own things that I look for in women, and still have my head turned by the latest vacant-eyed stereotyped bombshell on a magazine cover?
That male stereotype is all crap anyway....all you gotta do is dress right, talk right, laugh and a smile, and it's a start. And of course, why would I want to go for girls that are after Mr Brainless Human Sandbag anyway?
I'm Oz, professional musician, in central London, I can converse with people reasonably well on a wide variety of subjects, I dress all right.....I like to think I have a couple of things going for me, and yet out there on my horizon there's nobody. None at all.
But then again, in the near future, that could change....
20 April 2006
At the Gay Bar....
Went to a gay bar last night....
At this point (ahem), as an Australian male from country New South Wales, I must strongly reaffirm to you all my staunch heterosexuality....okay, now that's done....
Whenever your correspondent feels a little despondent, he usually ends up stumbling into some drunken adventure which can take him further into despondency or perhaps out of it. New housemate Luka really wanted me to come out with her workmates to see some guy sing at Heaven....haven't been out much lately so I thought I'd give it a go. The club thing isn't my scene really, but it's good every once in a while to stick your head out of the usual runaround.....
Felt a little out of place with all these rowdy waiters and waitresses as we walked down from TGI Fridays to Traf Square. Shyed away from the bouncer vibe...bully human dogs in black. I guess a gay bar would need them....
Weaving between tall black drag queens and pretty boy couples, we found the VIP room easy enough and watched Luka's workmate strut his stuff....yeah, whatever.....I wasn't there for the music, I guess I was there for a bit of a different vibe. Restaurant gigs to City Boys and their trophy wives is one of the workplaces which for the moment I'll be happy to do for the rest of my days, but as a crowd they're dead boring and pretty arrogant. Here at least was a different crowd, different scene....
Made me think of all the classic old hangs that we hear about through Jazz history....Congo Square, Storyville, the solo piano cutting contests in New York of the 20s, the bebop scene of the late 40s, Cuba in the 50s (that must have been something else!), the hippie thing of the 60s, even disco in the 70s. With the exception of the last one, all those places were amazing moments in world musical history, but they would also have been incredible places to meet amazing characters and get into adventures of the night. What made me think of it was that all this that I was seeing openly displayed before me, in London's biggest gay club, would all have been there in those places too, as it always has throughout human history, but it all would have been hidden, suggested....
It was a Wednesday night and the place was pumping. Asking directions from a shirtless waiter, on the way to the toilets I realised that I wouldn't have to make the distinction between male and female, as round here there didn't seem to be one!...
Surveyed the scene a little....Luka and other housemate X who I was there with said that talking to girls would be all right in a gay bar because they're a lot less defensive, but then on looking around and seeing all the ladies with other ladies, I was still a little reluctant....
Throughout the labyrinth of it all, I eventually ran into Luka again, and as we propped up the aluminium bar and paid over three quid for pints of Carlsburg in plastic cups, she got all heavy on me again about finding love. Ah, the intrigue of the strangers you live with....a fellow cruise-ship dweller for a time, on the last day of her contract she came across in the crew library a book in Hungarian (her native language) about ancient Greek mythology. The crew libraries on board are places where the ever-transient crew leave books behind for others to enjoy, perhaps the only real traces of a communal vibe among all that corporateness.
She opened it to a random page and found a picture of Eros, the love god, and so she has kind of adopted this identity...there was a section about how Eros is always finding love for others but never for herself. She's gone in to this rave a few times now - quite remarkable really, just opening up to me like that and we've only known each other a couple of weeks. At the end of the day I guess we're all looking for somebody, battling against the loneliness....I knew I wasn't going to find anyone in that place, so I did what I do....I got my big grey coat from the cloakroom, wrapped myself up in it, and charged off to the night buses.
And sure enough, woke up this morning and felt strangely happy with everything. Maybe it was the mention of the Caribbean...everyone I've ever met from there has been so amazing with the charisma and charm and people skills...the kind of people that make you feel good about yourself. Gotta get back there one day...
And of course, any troubles that I may have are always framed within the plight of four billion of my fellow inhabitants of this tiny crystal ball who are living in poverty, living in far worse conditions than my own charmed little muso life. But then here in the Western world, with all our weapons of mass distraction, with the media continually telling us how privileged we are among the citizens of the world, it can still be so difficult to pull one's head out of it all and marvel at how good we really have it. I've always found that a bit strange....
At this point (ahem), as an Australian male from country New South Wales, I must strongly reaffirm to you all my staunch heterosexuality....okay, now that's done....
Whenever your correspondent feels a little despondent, he usually ends up stumbling into some drunken adventure which can take him further into despondency or perhaps out of it. New housemate Luka really wanted me to come out with her workmates to see some guy sing at Heaven....haven't been out much lately so I thought I'd give it a go. The club thing isn't my scene really, but it's good every once in a while to stick your head out of the usual runaround.....
Felt a little out of place with all these rowdy waiters and waitresses as we walked down from TGI Fridays to Traf Square. Shyed away from the bouncer vibe...bully human dogs in black. I guess a gay bar would need them....
Weaving between tall black drag queens and pretty boy couples, we found the VIP room easy enough and watched Luka's workmate strut his stuff....yeah, whatever.....I wasn't there for the music, I guess I was there for a bit of a different vibe. Restaurant gigs to City Boys and their trophy wives is one of the workplaces which for the moment I'll be happy to do for the rest of my days, but as a crowd they're dead boring and pretty arrogant. Here at least was a different crowd, different scene....
Made me think of all the classic old hangs that we hear about through Jazz history....Congo Square, Storyville, the solo piano cutting contests in New York of the 20s, the bebop scene of the late 40s, Cuba in the 50s (that must have been something else!), the hippie thing of the 60s, even disco in the 70s. With the exception of the last one, all those places were amazing moments in world musical history, but they would also have been incredible places to meet amazing characters and get into adventures of the night. What made me think of it was that all this that I was seeing openly displayed before me, in London's biggest gay club, would all have been there in those places too, as it always has throughout human history, but it all would have been hidden, suggested....
It was a Wednesday night and the place was pumping. Asking directions from a shirtless waiter, on the way to the toilets I realised that I wouldn't have to make the distinction between male and female, as round here there didn't seem to be one!...
Surveyed the scene a little....Luka and other housemate X who I was there with said that talking to girls would be all right in a gay bar because they're a lot less defensive, but then on looking around and seeing all the ladies with other ladies, I was still a little reluctant....
Throughout the labyrinth of it all, I eventually ran into Luka again, and as we propped up the aluminium bar and paid over three quid for pints of Carlsburg in plastic cups, she got all heavy on me again about finding love. Ah, the intrigue of the strangers you live with....a fellow cruise-ship dweller for a time, on the last day of her contract she came across in the crew library a book in Hungarian (her native language) about ancient Greek mythology. The crew libraries on board are places where the ever-transient crew leave books behind for others to enjoy, perhaps the only real traces of a communal vibe among all that corporateness.
She opened it to a random page and found a picture of Eros, the love god, and so she has kind of adopted this identity...there was a section about how Eros is always finding love for others but never for herself. She's gone in to this rave a few times now - quite remarkable really, just opening up to me like that and we've only known each other a couple of weeks. At the end of the day I guess we're all looking for somebody, battling against the loneliness....I knew I wasn't going to find anyone in that place, so I did what I do....I got my big grey coat from the cloakroom, wrapped myself up in it, and charged off to the night buses.
And sure enough, woke up this morning and felt strangely happy with everything. Maybe it was the mention of the Caribbean...everyone I've ever met from there has been so amazing with the charisma and charm and people skills...the kind of people that make you feel good about yourself. Gotta get back there one day...
And of course, any troubles that I may have are always framed within the plight of four billion of my fellow inhabitants of this tiny crystal ball who are living in poverty, living in far worse conditions than my own charmed little muso life. But then here in the Western world, with all our weapons of mass distraction, with the media continually telling us how privileged we are among the citizens of the world, it can still be so difficult to pull one's head out of it all and marvel at how good we really have it. I've always found that a bit strange....
18 April 2006
Cornwall
Just got back from a top weekend away in the most beautiful region I've seen yet. All my tripping so far has been to cities, so it was great to get back out among the rolling fields and near to the ocean.
Setting off early Thursday with my trusty travel mates (the loverliest, most easygoing people to holiday with you could ever meet), we took the hirecar west from Heathrow and into the hinterland. Got out of London okay, but about an hour into the trek the traffic was nuts, so we decided to stop off by a little circle of rocks just off the highway.
The aspect of Stonehenge that is missed in all the photos you see of it is not the thing itself but the commanding position it takes in the valley in which it is situated. Didn't know before I saw it that there are burial mounds around the whole site, so amidst all the questions among my party as to where and why and how, it seemed apparent that it was the ancient relation between the dead and the stars (a la Pyramids, Angkor Wat and others). With the peacefulness of the surrounding countryside, it definitely looked like some sort of grand resting place for important people of the time.
Pressing on, getting somehow lost in Exeter, I fell asleep sometime in the middle of Devon to awake to an extraordinarily sight. As the A30 weaved in and among the rolling hills, always so green, a beam of sunlight occasionally broke through the textured grey ceiling above us and cast its light upon a truly beautiful end of this island. As I returned to full consciousness, the road passed a clump of tall white windmills, a sight more akin to the countryside of the Netherlands, strangely graceful in all their clockwise glory. The landscape was punctuated further down the way by the old smokehouses. From foreground to horizon, they were littered in amongst farms and villages, everpresent remnants of Cornwall's mining past.
Pulling up at what I assume to be a really nice hostel (this trip was to pop my hostel cherry), we walked into Penzance, sought out some fish and chips and pulled up a park bench aside the bay. While waiting at the cafe for my plaice, I couldn't help but notice for the first time the Isles of Scilly, a clump of dots on the map about 30 miles into the ocean from Lands End. Later on, down at the pub at the end of the street, we met a friendly old guy at the bar who ended up being a font of information about the local area. Previously the mayor at one stage, I mentioned my surname and he mentioned three other Guy's he'd known over the years from these same islands. Hmm, the plot thickens!....
First day's trekking was to New Quay, one of the many nice little towns along the coast. Got some good pics, but I have to say I wasn't totally enthralled. There's a gigantic Walkabout overlooking the main beach, and when we ascended to the high road it was crammed with trinkets and silly t-shirt stores. Still, it was magnificent to finally see the Atlantic again, this time from it's eastern shores.
Saturday night saw us pull up a fine pub meal down by the bay before I managed to convince two of the four of my colleagues to hunt out the late night vibe in town, which found us dancing like monkeys in some sparsely populated upstairs barn presumably run by the local Lithuanian mafia (some of which I talked to at the bar, one of which faced me off for a while!). I went up to the DJ requesting some salsa and was given bright fluoro-coloured pop compilations in Russian! Or maybe I really was that drunk?
On the way home we decided to scale the fence at the park at the end of the street to be told off by some woman sitting inside the barbecue area, the brick and concrete adding a strange mythical witch-like effect to her voice as we ran off home.
I couldn't help wonder if I found Cornwall to be so beautiful not only because it actually was, but because of the ancestral connection. Part of my reason for coming was to visit the street in the village where my great grandfather was born, and so on Sunday morning, J-Sax and I caught a cab to Carn View Terrace, Upper Boscaswell, about fifteen minutes away.
Among the mists rolling in from the hill, we kind of stumbled on it by accident. A simple country laneway lined by tiny houses. I don't know what I was expecting, but we did a lap and then went on into the village. Left to our own devices while the others were off, I decided to press on down the hill to the Geevor mine. This and the Levant, a little further up the coast, was apparently where my family used to work as tin miners in the mid 19th century. As we entered the complex, it was amazing to look back at the village....none of this train in from your bedroom community two hours away....back in those days, you lived and worked in the same spot.
After a Devonshire tea with scones and and jam and gluttinous amounts of clotted cream (local specialty - I never knew!), we proceeded down to the cliffs, where the blue Atlantic engulfs one's vision. Walking west along what used to be the mine, we came across more old smokehouses, and with each one the view got more and more astoundingly beautiful. It added something to it too, the fact that my family worked these mines. This is where they were from.
About the fourth chimney along we looked down at the Levant mine. Much smaller than the Geevor, it seemed to sit on some sort of ledge between cliff edge and water, and I suddenly had a visual flashback to a watercolour on the side of the bookshelf in my grandfather's study. I'm guessing our family worked this one too.
We eventually got to about the fourth or fifth chimney, some sitting atop buildings, some just sticking out of the grounds, and united with our other travelling companions, we pulled up for lunch on a rocky outcrop from which we could see the whole thing. What a magnificent view! Such vivid green rolling down cliffs into the white spray and then striking blue. And the orange brick of the chimneys - incredible that the idea of them being there was so man-made, so foreign, and yet they looked like they had been always been there, would always be, gracefully disintegrating into the landscape. Drinking in the view, taking as many photos as I possibly could, I didn't want to leave. Undoubtedly the highlight of my weekend.
We drove along the coast up towards St Ives, a charming little seaside town, the best I'd seen so far. Big old beach right there in town, promenade, big green headland around to another beach, the works! And for Easter weekend, not as packed as one would think. Met up with some mates of J-Sax and drank into the night, but a bit more civilised this time around.
Monday morning saw us ferry over to St Michael's Mount, former castle monastery thingy, for a bit of a a wander. Incredible history, and got to walk back to shore over the causeway at lunchtime's low tide. The drive back was agony - it took us about ten hours all up to get back to Heathrow to return the hire car, and then another two to get home. A small time to waste though for an awesome weekend away.
After all that peacefully quiet civilised countryside and small townedness, with people actually taking time to talk to you and be polite and such, I clambered aboard the last bus home from Ladbroke Grove, and was immediately a little startled at the Londoner vibe. It had only been a few days!....
Setting off early Thursday with my trusty travel mates (the loverliest, most easygoing people to holiday with you could ever meet), we took the hirecar west from Heathrow and into the hinterland. Got out of London okay, but about an hour into the trek the traffic was nuts, so we decided to stop off by a little circle of rocks just off the highway.
The aspect of Stonehenge that is missed in all the photos you see of it is not the thing itself but the commanding position it takes in the valley in which it is situated. Didn't know before I saw it that there are burial mounds around the whole site, so amidst all the questions among my party as to where and why and how, it seemed apparent that it was the ancient relation between the dead and the stars (a la Pyramids, Angkor Wat and others). With the peacefulness of the surrounding countryside, it definitely looked like some sort of grand resting place for important people of the time.
Pressing on, getting somehow lost in Exeter, I fell asleep sometime in the middle of Devon to awake to an extraordinarily sight. As the A30 weaved in and among the rolling hills, always so green, a beam of sunlight occasionally broke through the textured grey ceiling above us and cast its light upon a truly beautiful end of this island. As I returned to full consciousness, the road passed a clump of tall white windmills, a sight more akin to the countryside of the Netherlands, strangely graceful in all their clockwise glory. The landscape was punctuated further down the way by the old smokehouses. From foreground to horizon, they were littered in amongst farms and villages, everpresent remnants of Cornwall's mining past.
Pulling up at what I assume to be a really nice hostel (this trip was to pop my hostel cherry), we walked into Penzance, sought out some fish and chips and pulled up a park bench aside the bay. While waiting at the cafe for my plaice, I couldn't help but notice for the first time the Isles of Scilly, a clump of dots on the map about 30 miles into the ocean from Lands End. Later on, down at the pub at the end of the street, we met a friendly old guy at the bar who ended up being a font of information about the local area. Previously the mayor at one stage, I mentioned my surname and he mentioned three other Guy's he'd known over the years from these same islands. Hmm, the plot thickens!....
First day's trekking was to New Quay, one of the many nice little towns along the coast. Got some good pics, but I have to say I wasn't totally enthralled. There's a gigantic Walkabout overlooking the main beach, and when we ascended to the high road it was crammed with trinkets and silly t-shirt stores. Still, it was magnificent to finally see the Atlantic again, this time from it's eastern shores.
Saturday night saw us pull up a fine pub meal down by the bay before I managed to convince two of the four of my colleagues to hunt out the late night vibe in town, which found us dancing like monkeys in some sparsely populated upstairs barn presumably run by the local Lithuanian mafia (some of which I talked to at the bar, one of which faced me off for a while!). I went up to the DJ requesting some salsa and was given bright fluoro-coloured pop compilations in Russian! Or maybe I really was that drunk?
On the way home we decided to scale the fence at the park at the end of the street to be told off by some woman sitting inside the barbecue area, the brick and concrete adding a strange mythical witch-like effect to her voice as we ran off home.
I couldn't help wonder if I found Cornwall to be so beautiful not only because it actually was, but because of the ancestral connection. Part of my reason for coming was to visit the street in the village where my great grandfather was born, and so on Sunday morning, J-Sax and I caught a cab to Carn View Terrace, Upper Boscaswell, about fifteen minutes away.
Among the mists rolling in from the hill, we kind of stumbled on it by accident. A simple country laneway lined by tiny houses. I don't know what I was expecting, but we did a lap and then went on into the village. Left to our own devices while the others were off, I decided to press on down the hill to the Geevor mine. This and the Levant, a little further up the coast, was apparently where my family used to work as tin miners in the mid 19th century. As we entered the complex, it was amazing to look back at the village....none of this train in from your bedroom community two hours away....back in those days, you lived and worked in the same spot.
After a Devonshire tea with scones and and jam and gluttinous amounts of clotted cream (local specialty - I never knew!), we proceeded down to the cliffs, where the blue Atlantic engulfs one's vision. Walking west along what used to be the mine, we came across more old smokehouses, and with each one the view got more and more astoundingly beautiful. It added something to it too, the fact that my family worked these mines. This is where they were from.
About the fourth chimney along we looked down at the Levant mine. Much smaller than the Geevor, it seemed to sit on some sort of ledge between cliff edge and water, and I suddenly had a visual flashback to a watercolour on the side of the bookshelf in my grandfather's study. I'm guessing our family worked this one too.
We eventually got to about the fourth or fifth chimney, some sitting atop buildings, some just sticking out of the grounds, and united with our other travelling companions, we pulled up for lunch on a rocky outcrop from which we could see the whole thing. What a magnificent view! Such vivid green rolling down cliffs into the white spray and then striking blue. And the orange brick of the chimneys - incredible that the idea of them being there was so man-made, so foreign, and yet they looked like they had been always been there, would always be, gracefully disintegrating into the landscape. Drinking in the view, taking as many photos as I possibly could, I didn't want to leave. Undoubtedly the highlight of my weekend.
We drove along the coast up towards St Ives, a charming little seaside town, the best I'd seen so far. Big old beach right there in town, promenade, big green headland around to another beach, the works! And for Easter weekend, not as packed as one would think. Met up with some mates of J-Sax and drank into the night, but a bit more civilised this time around.
Monday morning saw us ferry over to St Michael's Mount, former castle monastery thingy, for a bit of a a wander. Incredible history, and got to walk back to shore over the causeway at lunchtime's low tide. The drive back was agony - it took us about ten hours all up to get back to Heathrow to return the hire car, and then another two to get home. A small time to waste though for an awesome weekend away.
After all that peacefully quiet civilised countryside and small townedness, with people actually taking time to talk to you and be polite and such, I clambered aboard the last bus home from Ladbroke Grove, and was immediately a little startled at the Londoner vibe. It had only been a few days!....
13 April 2006
"Feed the birds...."
I thought it was snow at first, but the warmer spring weather wouldn't have it....little seedlings from some far off unknown plant were drifting aimlessly down Chancery Lane towards me as I strode toward the bank.
Standing at the teller window, I started to realise how incredibly aware I was today of...well....everything. I had come to the High Holborn branch to pay my National Insurance self-employment contribution, about two quid a week, backdated through the past three months. An amount I was unconcerned with, but yet another seemingly useless bill to pay in this country nevertheless.
The new teller left momentarily, and whilst looking behind me along the queue that streched almost out the door....
"But I want to keep my tuppence...I want it to feed the birds!"
"Fiddlesticks, boy..."
What am I paying this stupid bill for? Why don't I run off down the street and feed the birds. St Pauls is only a couple of blocks away, maybe the old woman would be there.....
The cultural references got me straightaway when I got here....I can't walk past Covent Garden piazza without seeing Audrey Hepburn yelling "Aaaaaooowww" and careering down a flower cart.....
"Hello gorgeous"
At the next window, chiseled, spiky haired City Boy in the cheap grey pinstripe suit next to me is trying to raise a smile from Rowena the large-breasted teller in the red top, to kill the boredom of a mundane bank run on a warm Thursday afternoon.....
I discover myself playing with paper clip on the counter.....piped radio tells us all of the latest media tale of gloom, an old woman found dead in her home after two years.....wonder how many days the rags will milk that one, maybe a week if we're lucky....
"I read the news today oh boy...."
Was it that second coffee with D-Funk this morning? Or is it my appointment this evening in Ladbroke Grove with the gorgeous Hungarian girl who can't speak a word of the Queen's tongue.....
Yes, gentle readers, after some encouraging comments from various parties, I decided to text her up last night from the gig and see what she would be doing tonight. "Meet her near your place," said CL as she drove me home afterwards.....
And why, while wearing the poker face through the afternoon, while surfing the torrent of blood and adrenaline running through my veins, is there always that hint of melancholy about the whole thing? Bloody artistic types!....
Bill paid. I stride back out into the light.....
Standing at the teller window, I started to realise how incredibly aware I was today of...well....everything. I had come to the High Holborn branch to pay my National Insurance self-employment contribution, about two quid a week, backdated through the past three months. An amount I was unconcerned with, but yet another seemingly useless bill to pay in this country nevertheless.
The new teller left momentarily, and whilst looking behind me along the queue that streched almost out the door....
"But I want to keep my tuppence...I want it to feed the birds!"
"Fiddlesticks, boy..."
What am I paying this stupid bill for? Why don't I run off down the street and feed the birds. St Pauls is only a couple of blocks away, maybe the old woman would be there.....
The cultural references got me straightaway when I got here....I can't walk past Covent Garden piazza without seeing Audrey Hepburn yelling "Aaaaaooowww" and careering down a flower cart.....
"Hello gorgeous"
At the next window, chiseled, spiky haired City Boy in the cheap grey pinstripe suit next to me is trying to raise a smile from Rowena the large-breasted teller in the red top, to kill the boredom of a mundane bank run on a warm Thursday afternoon.....
I discover myself playing with paper clip on the counter.....piped radio tells us all of the latest media tale of gloom, an old woman found dead in her home after two years.....wonder how many days the rags will milk that one, maybe a week if we're lucky....
"I read the news today oh boy...."
Was it that second coffee with D-Funk this morning? Or is it my appointment this evening in Ladbroke Grove with the gorgeous Hungarian girl who can't speak a word of the Queen's tongue.....
Yes, gentle readers, after some encouraging comments from various parties, I decided to text her up last night from the gig and see what she would be doing tonight. "Meet her near your place," said CL as she drove me home afterwards.....
And why, while wearing the poker face through the afternoon, while surfing the torrent of blood and adrenaline running through my veins, is there always that hint of melancholy about the whole thing? Bloody artistic types!....
Bill paid. I stride back out into the light.....
12 April 2006
Lost In Translation
Took a girl on a date yesterday. Met her through new housemate J - gorgeous, a bit shy, very cute. Musos put a lot of stock into judging books by their covers, or rather, certain chapters of the book perhaps, and I'm starting to see that most of the time that it's generally spot on. And so I could tell by looking into her eyes that she was a lovely person, maybe even my kind of girl....
The Catch? Doesn't speak English. Been in the country a couple of weeks - barely a word.
A fool's errand, you might be asking? Probably....I thought it'd be a laugh, some fun, and since there's not much else going on in your humble correspondent's love life....this girl is clearly fresh off the boat, so I thought I'd show her some love.
Ducking in from the drizzle into Tinderbox on Upper Street, I coudn't believe it....I've been coming to this place on and off for a year and for the first time ever, a pair of the airline seats up the back were free.....surely a good omen.
Phrasebooks and a notepad were quickly fished out. No usual conversational paranoia here (What to say? Where to take it?.....Oh no, a silence!!), as her average sentence construction time was about five minutes. I calmly flicked through a magazine while she took longer than seemed necessary to look up words like 'but' and 'therefore'.
So it was tough at first, yes, but eventually we got into talking about where she lived and what work she was looking for, and there was definitely something in those dark eyes and smile....gorgeous body.....drizzle outside....it's all right, you're doing all right, just be cool and you're fine....
Excusing myself to get another drink, I carried the ponderous-looking hot chocolate back to the table to find a couple of rather direct questions on the notepad. It seemed that one minute we were talking about public transport and sharehousing and the next minute she's asking me whether I'm interested in her. You know what they say about doing one thing a day that scares you?....."You done it this time, champ," I said to myself...
So I thought what the hell and I told her I liked her, just to see what happened, and we started talking about relationships and past loves and such. It seemed that when I was at my best, she couldn't understand, but when I perhaps sounded not as eloquent as preferred, she seemed to understand entirely. I have to say though, on the subject matter she was quite a cool customer, perhaps more so than I.
Finally realising the ridiculousness of the situation, I went to wind it all up (the phrase 'just good friends' was used) and went to leave....walking her to her bus-stop though, in another random moment of spoken clarity she asked me when she could see me again, leaving me trudging off into the back streets of Islington not really knowing where I stood.
Ah me, is there any hope....
The Catch? Doesn't speak English. Been in the country a couple of weeks - barely a word.
A fool's errand, you might be asking? Probably....I thought it'd be a laugh, some fun, and since there's not much else going on in your humble correspondent's love life....this girl is clearly fresh off the boat, so I thought I'd show her some love.
Ducking in from the drizzle into Tinderbox on Upper Street, I coudn't believe it....I've been coming to this place on and off for a year and for the first time ever, a pair of the airline seats up the back were free.....surely a good omen.
Phrasebooks and a notepad were quickly fished out. No usual conversational paranoia here (What to say? Where to take it?.....Oh no, a silence!!), as her average sentence construction time was about five minutes. I calmly flicked through a magazine while she took longer than seemed necessary to look up words like 'but' and 'therefore'.
So it was tough at first, yes, but eventually we got into talking about where she lived and what work she was looking for, and there was definitely something in those dark eyes and smile....gorgeous body.....drizzle outside....it's all right, you're doing all right, just be cool and you're fine....
Excusing myself to get another drink, I carried the ponderous-looking hot chocolate back to the table to find a couple of rather direct questions on the notepad. It seemed that one minute we were talking about public transport and sharehousing and the next minute she's asking me whether I'm interested in her. You know what they say about doing one thing a day that scares you?....."You done it this time, champ," I said to myself...
So I thought what the hell and I told her I liked her, just to see what happened, and we started talking about relationships and past loves and such. It seemed that when I was at my best, she couldn't understand, but when I perhaps sounded not as eloquent as preferred, she seemed to understand entirely. I have to say though, on the subject matter she was quite a cool customer, perhaps more so than I.
Finally realising the ridiculousness of the situation, I went to wind it all up (the phrase 'just good friends' was used) and went to leave....walking her to her bus-stop though, in another random moment of spoken clarity she asked me when she could see me again, leaving me trudging off into the back streets of Islington not really knowing where I stood.
Ah me, is there any hope....
06 April 2006
I Live By The River...
So like I said yesterday, my preliminary inquiries into staying here weren't sounding too fruitful. But instead of getting wound up about it all like I usually would, I got a kind of reticence (right word?) about it all. As I stepped off the bus at the back of Camden markets and walked past the Cafe At The End Of The World, I started thinking to myself, what if my days here are drawing to a close. Eleven months away, sure, but there's a time limit to all this?
I met Mr N at the little bridge that ascends out of the goth murk of Camden town and into Primrose Hill, one of the nicest parts of central London (a boutique suburb I suppose one could call it). It's so typical of this town - you might be walking for blocks through crap and then turn a corner and it's all gorgeous (Kilburn High Road to Maida Vale comes to mind). Celebs abound in this cute little urban village, although as Mr N and I wandered up the little boutique high street, none seemed to appear. I remember reading about some Jude Law wifeswapping scandal back in the day....
We got to the end of the street and climbed the steep green hill, and it was astouding...why have I never seen this place before? It was 7.30pm but the sun hadn't set yet (love the long dusks in this country), and the night was really clear, so you could see the whole thing spread before you, all the way out to Canary Wharf. Primrose Hill is now officially one of my new favourite places in London.
Tangent time - the other day I went to THE best cafe in London, hands down. 'Flat White' on Berwick Street, Soho - open wood floor, earthy colours, warm vibe, run by Aussies, and undoubtedly the best coffee here by far. It was uncanny - I ordered a pumpkin and fetta ciabatta, which is what I used to get at Ray's back in Brunswick. Come to think of it, the place seemed to have a bit of a Melbs vibe to it.....
Back to Primrose Hill - repairing to the nearest pub (of which there's a bunch of great ones nearby), I raved on with all my usual stuff, but also was wondering about Melbourne. I suppose that on my grand return to the homeland (whenever that is), it'll be back to the city by the bay, and I started thinking about how it would all be - eating my pasta at Mario's, taking my coffee from Lygon St Food Store, dodgy Latin gigs north and south, get some band together (finally) of my own and do weirdo electronica gigs on Brunnie Street, find some teaching - have my nice little Melbourne muso life.
The place is gonna seem like a VILLAGE compared to this grumbling grimy urban maelstrom I live in now!
No, not just yet, my friends. I've got almost a year to go here, and I'm not bailing without a fight. I went through so much just to get here and set myself up, turn it around from a disaster to a success, and London wouldn' t expect anything less from me. And if it doesn't work out, then probably some more travel, maybe another cruise ship before hitting the places I really want to go (New York, Havana, Brazil), before the great return.
Funny that all that whingeing I did about this place in previous blog entries, that all now seems to be drifting away....
Seeing Primrose Hill for the first time was yet another reminder of all the stuff there is to do here that I haven't done yet (art galleries, museums, walks etc). But that's the common thread through all the opinions of everyone I've talked to about this place - there's so much to do, and you'll never see all of it. If I only have eleven months to go here, then I definitely intend to make the most of it....
I met Mr N at the little bridge that ascends out of the goth murk of Camden town and into Primrose Hill, one of the nicest parts of central London (a boutique suburb I suppose one could call it). It's so typical of this town - you might be walking for blocks through crap and then turn a corner and it's all gorgeous (Kilburn High Road to Maida Vale comes to mind). Celebs abound in this cute little urban village, although as Mr N and I wandered up the little boutique high street, none seemed to appear. I remember reading about some Jude Law wifeswapping scandal back in the day....
We got to the end of the street and climbed the steep green hill, and it was astouding...why have I never seen this place before? It was 7.30pm but the sun hadn't set yet (love the long dusks in this country), and the night was really clear, so you could see the whole thing spread before you, all the way out to Canary Wharf. Primrose Hill is now officially one of my new favourite places in London.
Tangent time - the other day I went to THE best cafe in London, hands down. 'Flat White' on Berwick Street, Soho - open wood floor, earthy colours, warm vibe, run by Aussies, and undoubtedly the best coffee here by far. It was uncanny - I ordered a pumpkin and fetta ciabatta, which is what I used to get at Ray's back in Brunswick. Come to think of it, the place seemed to have a bit of a Melbs vibe to it.....
Back to Primrose Hill - repairing to the nearest pub (of which there's a bunch of great ones nearby), I raved on with all my usual stuff, but also was wondering about Melbourne. I suppose that on my grand return to the homeland (whenever that is), it'll be back to the city by the bay, and I started thinking about how it would all be - eating my pasta at Mario's, taking my coffee from Lygon St Food Store, dodgy Latin gigs north and south, get some band together (finally) of my own and do weirdo electronica gigs on Brunnie Street, find some teaching - have my nice little Melbourne muso life.
The place is gonna seem like a VILLAGE compared to this grumbling grimy urban maelstrom I live in now!
No, not just yet, my friends. I've got almost a year to go here, and I'm not bailing without a fight. I went through so much just to get here and set myself up, turn it around from a disaster to a success, and London wouldn' t expect anything less from me. And if it doesn't work out, then probably some more travel, maybe another cruise ship before hitting the places I really want to go (New York, Havana, Brazil), before the great return.
Funny that all that whingeing I did about this place in previous blog entries, that all now seems to be drifting away....
Seeing Primrose Hill for the first time was yet another reminder of all the stuff there is to do here that I haven't done yet (art galleries, museums, walks etc). But that's the common thread through all the opinions of everyone I've talked to about this place - there's so much to do, and you'll never see all of it. If I only have eleven months to go here, then I definitely intend to make the most of it....
05 April 2006
Sun is Shining....
....the weather is sweet man / Makes you wanna move your dancin' feet...
Just learnt the other day that Bob Marley started his career here in London, used to live down in Brixton somewhere, fancy that....
It won't be two jackets every day for long, my friends! Still a distinct chill in the air, but that pale white light is growing stronger by the hour....
In other random news, we got someone to fill the room from (gasp) the general public who (bigger gasp) is not crazy and (even bigger gasp) is actually a great person...female, a little older than I, super-easygoing, from Hungary (so international element, always good), and lots of fun to be around. We didn't get many calls from the ad and my friends fell through, but then on Thursday I get the call and by that evening it was all sorted - nice one, if I do say so myself!
The first stage of my little musical project was completed last Friday. While it may not come to fruition, it was SOOO good working on my own thing, first time ever I think, and not be some frustrated lapdog to maniacs.
Speaking of which, in other music news, the diary is looking a little spare in the next few weeks, but I did the first Brazilian band with the dancing girls the other night...had my head buried in the charts, but I know now I gotta learn them quick, for a couple of reasons! Got three or four coming up with them soon, which should be a trip....
Just started looking into staying here beyond my visa (expiring in February next year). At first glance, it's looking pretty tricky given various aspects of my situation, so if anyone out there in Cyberland has any bright ideas (and I'm not talking about ancestry or marriage/de facto, although the thought of walking down Oxford St wearing a sandwich board with 'Pleeze Marry Me English Birds' spraypainted on it hasn't escaped my mind)...
I gotta couple of 'editorials' on the way, so if there's not much h'exciting happening then I'll launch them your way....back to the sun I suppose!....
Just learnt the other day that Bob Marley started his career here in London, used to live down in Brixton somewhere, fancy that....
It won't be two jackets every day for long, my friends! Still a distinct chill in the air, but that pale white light is growing stronger by the hour....
In other random news, we got someone to fill the room from (gasp) the general public who (bigger gasp) is not crazy and (even bigger gasp) is actually a great person...female, a little older than I, super-easygoing, from Hungary (so international element, always good), and lots of fun to be around. We didn't get many calls from the ad and my friends fell through, but then on Thursday I get the call and by that evening it was all sorted - nice one, if I do say so myself!
The first stage of my little musical project was completed last Friday. While it may not come to fruition, it was SOOO good working on my own thing, first time ever I think, and not be some frustrated lapdog to maniacs.
Speaking of which, in other music news, the diary is looking a little spare in the next few weeks, but I did the first Brazilian band with the dancing girls the other night...had my head buried in the charts, but I know now I gotta learn them quick, for a couple of reasons! Got three or four coming up with them soon, which should be a trip....
Just started looking into staying here beyond my visa (expiring in February next year). At first glance, it's looking pretty tricky given various aspects of my situation, so if anyone out there in Cyberland has any bright ideas (and I'm not talking about ancestry or marriage/de facto, although the thought of walking down Oxford St wearing a sandwich board with 'Pleeze Marry Me English Birds' spraypainted on it hasn't escaped my mind)...
I gotta couple of 'editorials' on the way, so if there's not much h'exciting happening then I'll launch them your way....back to the sun I suppose!....
29 March 2006
Spring Is Here
The weather is changing. Got the last minute call for Oxo Tower last Friday, and on the walk from Waterloo to the gig, I knew from the moment I passed that dodgy duo on Southbank singing 'Corcovado' that something was up. There was too much light in the sky, people looked too happy....
From the brasserie it was amazing! It was that extra half hour of light at the end of the day, before the gig started, before the backdrop to this incredible place slunk back quickly into the usual black-green gloom. But it was there all right, and you could feel it in the audience.
So yeah, it's Spring here in Western Europe, and although it's sometimes one day nice, two days crap, there's still that optimism that at least you know it's changing, for the better....
Got the last minute call again for Oxo this Monday just passed, and it improved some more. I could almost feel it in my chest, almost a physical feeling, of excitement at the warmer months ahead...this is definitely part of the UK experience, something we don't get back home.
My compatriot and employer for that evening, CL, was loverly as ever. I can't believe how chilled out she is about London, music agency work, doing gigs, running a family - everything! It chills me out as a result - a perfect person to work with. And such a rarity too - why aren't there ten more of her out there?
CL is one of these people where the interpersonal skills on the gig are totally smooth. One of these people that seemingly by accident gets into other people's conversations, makes the contact, gets the gig, and makes it appear effortless. Maybe because for her it is effortless....
From the brasserie it was amazing! It was that extra half hour of light at the end of the day, before the gig started, before the backdrop to this incredible place slunk back quickly into the usual black-green gloom. But it was there all right, and you could feel it in the audience.
So yeah, it's Spring here in Western Europe, and although it's sometimes one day nice, two days crap, there's still that optimism that at least you know it's changing, for the better....
Got the last minute call again for Oxo this Monday just passed, and it improved some more. I could almost feel it in my chest, almost a physical feeling, of excitement at the warmer months ahead...this is definitely part of the UK experience, something we don't get back home.
My compatriot and employer for that evening, CL, was loverly as ever. I can't believe how chilled out she is about London, music agency work, doing gigs, running a family - everything! It chills me out as a result - a perfect person to work with. And such a rarity too - why aren't there ten more of her out there?
CL is one of these people where the interpersonal skills on the gig are totally smooth. One of these people that seemingly by accident gets into other people's conversations, makes the contact, gets the gig, and makes it appear effortless. Maybe because for her it is effortless....
27 March 2006
Lately
Wow, has it really been a whole week since I wrote last? When my friends ask me how it's all going, I enjoy tellling them that it's madness, because it usually is, but it's not usually quite as busy as it has been this last week, or indeed in this one just started. Tonight is gig four of six in five days, something which hasn't happened for a while...plus the teaching, which thankfully is in it's last week before three weeks off (can't wait).....PLUS my silly deskjob which enables me to rant and rave at y'all like this....PLUS the search for a new housemate.....DOUBLEPLUS a little musical project on the side which reaches some sort of zenith at the end of this week. I'm waiting to see how this one turns out, but if it does then it will result in a whole other musical adventure. If it does come off, then to add to the runaround which I'm in the thick of at the moment, it will be a new musical experience, indeed one which I have some reservation about, but at the same time am working diligently towards completing. Funny old business, this....
Anyhoo, on little sleep and growing exhaustion, I decided to burn off another precious free night last night and venture down to one of London's better venues, having been prompted by a friend currently in town from Melbs, a great singer here for a vocal competition. Tonight's gig was for the winner and finalists of the competition, and the grapevine yielded to me earlier in the week that the Oz muso mafia struck again (three singers no less reaching the finals), so this was definitely a hang worth hanging at.
The place I was travelling to totally lives up to all the cliches....I had to catch a bus, change for the tube, and then walk for 20 mins down an industrial back lane to an un-signposted metal grill off the street. As you peer down a yawning open brick stairwell lit by one yellow light, you push a buzzer (sometimes twice or three times) until you hear the sound and a guy sticks his head around at the bottom of the stairs to let you in.
And this is the real doozy...you get to the bottom of the stairs and there's two doors, one which leads directly to the back of the piano on to the 'stage' (on the floor), and one which leads into the mixing desk room/coat room/cash register room. I found myself bustled into holding a door open for numerous grey-haired couples who had pre-booked, before being remembered and shown through the full room to a table.
Okay, so I'm all for this music being viewed by a discerning, selective audience, but I gotta say I'm feeling a touch alienated here!
On the way, brushed past abovementioned friend...kiss and hug...see you later on....can't drink here without eating, and in a moment of weakness was duped by the pushy Kiwi waitress into ordering a main instead of just a starter, which of course wasn't the case last time (sigh) but I guess I can afford it. Most of the first set later I am presented with something I paid eight quid for which wasn't as good as I could have made myself. At least the wine was quick I suppose. Strange vibe from this girl all night - it's her turf, and I daren't mess with that!
The early survey of the room upon being seated registered a large number of what I correctly guessed to be Phillipinos. Asian people are something of a minority in this town, so to see two table loads in a Jazz club was pretty unusual. Friend gets up to perform and tells us all that it was a Phillipino guy who won the competition! and at first I'm surprised, but then, I realised it kind of figures - cue yet another one of Mike's lengthy reminiscences (wavy vision, harp music ensues)....
For those of you who might not have known, I spent September 04 to January 05 aboard the good ship MS Zuiderdam, weekly touring various ports in the Caribbean. It was a professional engagement, playing piano, doing what I love most to do in the world and getting to travel as a result, and despite my reservations about the whole ordeal...er, I mean experience, there were parts of it that were quite amazing.
It was a ship, and so of course there was quite a hierarchy involved - captain at the top, usually from the Antipodes or Europe, then officers, largely Dutch, then crew and us musos, usually from Canada/US/Oz...and then the two largest groups on board were the Indonesians (hotel staff) and Phillipinos (bar staff). Goes without saying of course that the hierarchy continued in terms of pay.....certain days we would be skimming across the glassy, waveless fields of the Doldrums, but the boat would still be rocking around becuase the stabilisers were off, which would conserve fuel. Why? Word on the ship was that if the captain saved fuel by the time we got back to home port then he received some stupid $US10,000 bonus, to accompany what he already must have been getting for lunching in the ports and giving the odd command to steer a ferry of oldies around the equatorial baby pool of the Americas.
Let's drop way down the pay scale to the Indonesians and the Phillipinos. These guys were working twelve hours a day, six or seven days a week, sometimes for half and less of what I was getting sitting around drinking myself into a stupor every night in the officers bar playing guest shows three (sometimes two) times a week for US$350 (which any professional muso will tell you is not much).
And yet the Phillipinos were some of the most good-natured, fun-loving people I met on the whole thing, with this amazing musicality and passion I hadn't quite seen before. In the first two months of the contract I played solo piano in one of the bars, and Jesus was one of the local waiters. So one quiet night he ditches his tray, walks straight up to me, and we end up doing 'Lately' (Stevie Wonder), with him belting out from his heart, at nobody! Extraordinary!
About every three weeks, despite working long hours, these guys would get together the traditional costumes and dances and put on the Philipino crew show. Musically quite dodgy, but they were so into it. They'd split up the program between bamboo dancing and belting out these huge passionate aria-like ballads! showing a musicality far greater than some of my fellow musicians. Harking back to another ethnic group I've had some musical dealings with over the years, I'm guessing it was the Latino in them.
So snapping back to the reality of where I was last night, this guy who won the competition, he was all that! Totally into every word and phrase, a crooner from way back.
A word must be said here for the Indonesians on board the ship as well. Presumably on the same or possibly a lower pay scale than the Philipinos, it came time for the Christmas concert, which involved four different choirs assembled from the different countries on the ship, and due to some technical fault in the raising stage platform, I was the sole accompanist, for everybody!
Most of the Indo's on board were obviously Muslim, but the Christian minority on board got a choir together.....undoubtedly the best musical experience I had on the high seas was staying up late with these guys, backstage after the main rehersal, running through their two part arrangement of my favourite christmas carol, 'O Holy Night'. They sang their hearts out.
True enough, I hadn't slept in a week, and was totally disillusioned with my fellow band members and the whole thing, but after they left I stayed up for another two hours working on my accompaniment. It felt like the right thing to do, something I could actually put my time and energy into that I would get something out of.
And so the concert came together, with choirs from the Dutch (bloody horrible, couldn't sing to save their lives), American/Canadian/Australian (all mushed up into one), Philipino, and my faves, the Indonesians, all accompanied by Your Humble Correspondent on the Steinway. The majority of passengers on that week were Jewish, who (word had it) would ditch the mainland that time of year in droves to escape Christmas. Presumably they weren't out there in the darkness, so I suppose the concert was put on for the remaining masses of white-haired Floridian retirees, you know, to show the oldies that the world really was a ethnically harmonic, brotherly-loving place after all.
Yeah, right.
Coming back in from that extraordinary tangent, the Philipino comp winner was great, and so was Friend! I hadn't heard her in a long time, but I knew she'd still have the goods and she did...ripped the roof off of the place!
Whole thing was accompanied by this jumpy looking piano guy with great stage presence and charisma, accompanied by two silver haired veterans (you know, guys who look like to do the gig they've had to take time off a busy schedule of making those little ships that stand up inside glass bottles on your mantlepiece! But then of course I think, is that me in 40 years!?). Got to hear the other two Aussie finalists as well, a bloke who's good mates with Uncle Dave and this extraordinary young singer from Sydney, currently living in New York.
The whole night had been truckloads of showbiz, especially from Phillipino winner guy, and I'm up for all that, but this girl got up and just sang the song. The song just...happened, no big 'sell', and because of that, it actually drew my attention into her and her performance so much more.
Great stuff, and gorgeous to hang with after - others were great to talk with too, as well as another friend who dropped by who I knew would be there - lots of fun had by all.
Anyhoo, on little sleep and growing exhaustion, I decided to burn off another precious free night last night and venture down to one of London's better venues, having been prompted by a friend currently in town from Melbs, a great singer here for a vocal competition. Tonight's gig was for the winner and finalists of the competition, and the grapevine yielded to me earlier in the week that the Oz muso mafia struck again (three singers no less reaching the finals), so this was definitely a hang worth hanging at.
The place I was travelling to totally lives up to all the cliches....I had to catch a bus, change for the tube, and then walk for 20 mins down an industrial back lane to an un-signposted metal grill off the street. As you peer down a yawning open brick stairwell lit by one yellow light, you push a buzzer (sometimes twice or three times) until you hear the sound and a guy sticks his head around at the bottom of the stairs to let you in.
And this is the real doozy...you get to the bottom of the stairs and there's two doors, one which leads directly to the back of the piano on to the 'stage' (on the floor), and one which leads into the mixing desk room/coat room/cash register room. I found myself bustled into holding a door open for numerous grey-haired couples who had pre-booked, before being remembered and shown through the full room to a table.
Okay, so I'm all for this music being viewed by a discerning, selective audience, but I gotta say I'm feeling a touch alienated here!
On the way, brushed past abovementioned friend...kiss and hug...see you later on....can't drink here without eating, and in a moment of weakness was duped by the pushy Kiwi waitress into ordering a main instead of just a starter, which of course wasn't the case last time (sigh) but I guess I can afford it. Most of the first set later I am presented with something I paid eight quid for which wasn't as good as I could have made myself. At least the wine was quick I suppose. Strange vibe from this girl all night - it's her turf, and I daren't mess with that!
The early survey of the room upon being seated registered a large number of what I correctly guessed to be Phillipinos. Asian people are something of a minority in this town, so to see two table loads in a Jazz club was pretty unusual. Friend gets up to perform and tells us all that it was a Phillipino guy who won the competition! and at first I'm surprised, but then, I realised it kind of figures - cue yet another one of Mike's lengthy reminiscences (wavy vision, harp music ensues)....
For those of you who might not have known, I spent September 04 to January 05 aboard the good ship MS Zuiderdam, weekly touring various ports in the Caribbean. It was a professional engagement, playing piano, doing what I love most to do in the world and getting to travel as a result, and despite my reservations about the whole ordeal...er, I mean experience, there were parts of it that were quite amazing.
It was a ship, and so of course there was quite a hierarchy involved - captain at the top, usually from the Antipodes or Europe, then officers, largely Dutch, then crew and us musos, usually from Canada/US/Oz...and then the two largest groups on board were the Indonesians (hotel staff) and Phillipinos (bar staff). Goes without saying of course that the hierarchy continued in terms of pay.....certain days we would be skimming across the glassy, waveless fields of the Doldrums, but the boat would still be rocking around becuase the stabilisers were off, which would conserve fuel. Why? Word on the ship was that if the captain saved fuel by the time we got back to home port then he received some stupid $US10,000 bonus, to accompany what he already must have been getting for lunching in the ports and giving the odd command to steer a ferry of oldies around the equatorial baby pool of the Americas.
Let's drop way down the pay scale to the Indonesians and the Phillipinos. These guys were working twelve hours a day, six or seven days a week, sometimes for half and less of what I was getting sitting around drinking myself into a stupor every night in the officers bar playing guest shows three (sometimes two) times a week for US$350 (which any professional muso will tell you is not much).
And yet the Phillipinos were some of the most good-natured, fun-loving people I met on the whole thing, with this amazing musicality and passion I hadn't quite seen before. In the first two months of the contract I played solo piano in one of the bars, and Jesus was one of the local waiters. So one quiet night he ditches his tray, walks straight up to me, and we end up doing 'Lately' (Stevie Wonder), with him belting out from his heart, at nobody! Extraordinary!
About every three weeks, despite working long hours, these guys would get together the traditional costumes and dances and put on the Philipino crew show. Musically quite dodgy, but they were so into it. They'd split up the program between bamboo dancing and belting out these huge passionate aria-like ballads! showing a musicality far greater than some of my fellow musicians. Harking back to another ethnic group I've had some musical dealings with over the years, I'm guessing it was the Latino in them.
So snapping back to the reality of where I was last night, this guy who won the competition, he was all that! Totally into every word and phrase, a crooner from way back.
A word must be said here for the Indonesians on board the ship as well. Presumably on the same or possibly a lower pay scale than the Philipinos, it came time for the Christmas concert, which involved four different choirs assembled from the different countries on the ship, and due to some technical fault in the raising stage platform, I was the sole accompanist, for everybody!
Most of the Indo's on board were obviously Muslim, but the Christian minority on board got a choir together.....undoubtedly the best musical experience I had on the high seas was staying up late with these guys, backstage after the main rehersal, running through their two part arrangement of my favourite christmas carol, 'O Holy Night'. They sang their hearts out.
True enough, I hadn't slept in a week, and was totally disillusioned with my fellow band members and the whole thing, but after they left I stayed up for another two hours working on my accompaniment. It felt like the right thing to do, something I could actually put my time and energy into that I would get something out of.
And so the concert came together, with choirs from the Dutch (bloody horrible, couldn't sing to save their lives), American/Canadian/Australian (all mushed up into one), Philipino, and my faves, the Indonesians, all accompanied by Your Humble Correspondent on the Steinway. The majority of passengers on that week were Jewish, who (word had it) would ditch the mainland that time of year in droves to escape Christmas. Presumably they weren't out there in the darkness, so I suppose the concert was put on for the remaining masses of white-haired Floridian retirees, you know, to show the oldies that the world really was a ethnically harmonic, brotherly-loving place after all.
Yeah, right.
Coming back in from that extraordinary tangent, the Philipino comp winner was great, and so was Friend! I hadn't heard her in a long time, but I knew she'd still have the goods and she did...ripped the roof off of the place!
Whole thing was accompanied by this jumpy looking piano guy with great stage presence and charisma, accompanied by two silver haired veterans (you know, guys who look like to do the gig they've had to take time off a busy schedule of making those little ships that stand up inside glass bottles on your mantlepiece! But then of course I think, is that me in 40 years!?). Got to hear the other two Aussie finalists as well, a bloke who's good mates with Uncle Dave and this extraordinary young singer from Sydney, currently living in New York.
The whole night had been truckloads of showbiz, especially from Phillipino winner guy, and I'm up for all that, but this girl got up and just sang the song. The song just...happened, no big 'sell', and because of that, it actually drew my attention into her and her performance so much more.
Great stuff, and gorgeous to hang with after - others were great to talk with too, as well as another friend who dropped by who I knew would be there - lots of fun had by all.
20 March 2006
Grand Tour
Sunday Arvo
Through all this sudden cold, London has brought us one golden spring Sunday as F and I drive down in the packed car from NW10 and into EC1. At this moment, I crave summer with every fibre of my being, more so than ever before! The pallid white English sunlight of the warmer months can never compare to the giant yellow flesh-cooking skyborne inferno of Down Under, but nevertheless it's more than welcome.
This afternoon's stop on Mike's Grand London Tour of Restaurant and Hotel Duo Gigs is at the end of Kingsway, the one big straight(ish) street running north-south from Euston Road to Aldwych. Our engagement is at the Bank Restaurant, a generic name for a generic place. Kind of reminded me of the ship a bit (ugh!) with its red plastic cushioned chairs and green glass ceiling, but it was a welcome contrast to the dreary grey of Bush House across the street.
Big windows, lots of mirrors - some light and air, and consequently quite a different crowd to the usual herds - families with little kids (some little toddler came up and gave us a £10 tip!), and thirty-something women out for lunch with friends, some of which may or may not have caught my eye as they passed by. Me, I was too busy trying to keep bass tumbao in the left, piano tumbao in the right and trying to sing unison lines in Spanish with F, so I probably looked a little confused - d'oh!
No grief from the management, a nice, free lunch, and we wrap up the three-setter no troubles. The diary is filling up with engagements of this sort, and I love all the work, but I need some other stuff now to counter it - some more band work, a hipper scene to hang on (maybe talk to some girls!?) - F and I talk of plans for maybe a night sometime down the track, proper advertising and all. Could be something....
Through all this sudden cold, London has brought us one golden spring Sunday as F and I drive down in the packed car from NW10 and into EC1. At this moment, I crave summer with every fibre of my being, more so than ever before! The pallid white English sunlight of the warmer months can never compare to the giant yellow flesh-cooking skyborne inferno of Down Under, but nevertheless it's more than welcome.
This afternoon's stop on Mike's Grand London Tour of Restaurant and Hotel Duo Gigs is at the end of Kingsway, the one big straight(ish) street running north-south from Euston Road to Aldwych. Our engagement is at the Bank Restaurant, a generic name for a generic place. Kind of reminded me of the ship a bit (ugh!) with its red plastic cushioned chairs and green glass ceiling, but it was a welcome contrast to the dreary grey of Bush House across the street.
Big windows, lots of mirrors - some light and air, and consequently quite a different crowd to the usual herds - families with little kids (some little toddler came up and gave us a £10 tip!), and thirty-something women out for lunch with friends, some of which may or may not have caught my eye as they passed by. Me, I was too busy trying to keep bass tumbao in the left, piano tumbao in the right and trying to sing unison lines in Spanish with F, so I probably looked a little confused - d'oh!
No grief from the management, a nice, free lunch, and we wrap up the three-setter no troubles. The diary is filling up with engagements of this sort, and I love all the work, but I need some other stuff now to counter it - some more band work, a hipper scene to hang on (maybe talk to some girls!?) - F and I talk of plans for maybe a night sometime down the track, proper advertising and all. Could be something....
17 March 2006
Snapshot - Blackfriars Bridge
It's Thursday evening, and I come right off Fleet Street and into the bridge approach. This cold snap hasn't left us yet, but I'm rugged up well enough. I get to the big intersection just before the bridge and a cyclist on the footpath approaches and passes me, travelling not much faster than walking speed. I firstly notice first his intent gaze, and secondly the roll of carpet sitting on his right shoulder, measuring at least five metres long! Had to do the double take on that one!
The breeze comes up and I'm at the river....in what's the usual case for me regarding this town, while I don't actually like the river, I do like being at the river, as the whole place opens up for a while. The panorama from the bridge is quite an awe-inspiring sight as I begin to cross, as from that view one can see how the city's history is openly reflected in it's buildings. I guess that's like any major city I suppose, but for this town it's a strikingly available cross-section.
Over my left shoulder is St Pauls, still just as amazing every time I see it, a timeless landmark of a city levelled by fire and flood, and also of it's architect Christopher Wren and his boys, enthralled in their 17th century Masonic conspiracy to transform the place into the new Jerusalem of the West. Just behind, the gloomy fingers of the Barbican, an incredible cultural centre, point defiantly into the grey green glow of the night sky. A little further along is St Mary's Axe, infamously known to Londoners as 'The Gherkin', a gleaming geometric wonder of upwardly sprialling steel and blue glass, a rocket ship that could take off at any second.
One's eyes sweep past the old City and across in the distance to Canary Wharf, the silvery eastern outpost of rampant commercialism, banking, finance, big business. Thoughts turn to a particular afternoon with D-Funk, sitting at the All Bar One on the other side of the square from the tube station, surrounded by hundreds of the work crowd, a sea of black and grey, all strapped in for the Thursday night booze up. Two musicians trapped in a horrible Orwellian nightmare of clocks and that big screen spewing out share prices, stock market figures, other such useless information - hemmed in on all sides by those buildings clustered in on each other, strangely fragile looking, like a big gust of wind could just blow them all away....so inhuman, so impersonal....
Couldn't help but look back at that dark area, between Canary Wharf and the City, to the area known as Tower Hamlets, one of the poorest areas of England sandwiched between historical glory and big business. Reminded me of the time I worked there, during my Temping Tour of Greater London, and a certain manic morning in July, just when I thought things couldn't get worse. Determined to get to my job, I walked for three hours past closed Tube stations and helicopters and thousands of confused people on the streets and endless sirens, and strangely never thought to ask anyone what was going on. And then, the next morning on the Tube, no-one, like Day of the Triffids or something.
Coming back round to Southbank ahead of me, my gaze crosses the bridge in front of me and to the right, and there's Oxo Tower, bastion of middle class consumer culture. There's a certain reminiscent charm in the Art Deco period - fronting the Thames, this particular building rather resembles a big white cake, complete with purple coloured icing (the lighting atop the restaurant and function centre) and one big fat candle with large red neon letters.
I can't help but smile. There's standing proof of how through a load of determination, a bit of luck and being a nice guy, things did turn around. My full time in the office world did wrap up, the gigs did come in, as well as the teaching....
The river winds back and the various bridges and railway stations pop up, with the tower of Westminster off in the distance, and I continue down into the South bank.
Is this a nice place? An inviting place? From this particular inhabitant, having lived here just over a year now, that's a categorical no on both counts. But I won't deny for a second that this is an incredible, awe-inspiring place that entirely captures one's focus and attention....
The breeze comes up and I'm at the river....in what's the usual case for me regarding this town, while I don't actually like the river, I do like being at the river, as the whole place opens up for a while. The panorama from the bridge is quite an awe-inspiring sight as I begin to cross, as from that view one can see how the city's history is openly reflected in it's buildings. I guess that's like any major city I suppose, but for this town it's a strikingly available cross-section.
Over my left shoulder is St Pauls, still just as amazing every time I see it, a timeless landmark of a city levelled by fire and flood, and also of it's architect Christopher Wren and his boys, enthralled in their 17th century Masonic conspiracy to transform the place into the new Jerusalem of the West. Just behind, the gloomy fingers of the Barbican, an incredible cultural centre, point defiantly into the grey green glow of the night sky. A little further along is St Mary's Axe, infamously known to Londoners as 'The Gherkin', a gleaming geometric wonder of upwardly sprialling steel and blue glass, a rocket ship that could take off at any second.
One's eyes sweep past the old City and across in the distance to Canary Wharf, the silvery eastern outpost of rampant commercialism, banking, finance, big business. Thoughts turn to a particular afternoon with D-Funk, sitting at the All Bar One on the other side of the square from the tube station, surrounded by hundreds of the work crowd, a sea of black and grey, all strapped in for the Thursday night booze up. Two musicians trapped in a horrible Orwellian nightmare of clocks and that big screen spewing out share prices, stock market figures, other such useless information - hemmed in on all sides by those buildings clustered in on each other, strangely fragile looking, like a big gust of wind could just blow them all away....so inhuman, so impersonal....
Couldn't help but look back at that dark area, between Canary Wharf and the City, to the area known as Tower Hamlets, one of the poorest areas of England sandwiched between historical glory and big business. Reminded me of the time I worked there, during my Temping Tour of Greater London, and a certain manic morning in July, just when I thought things couldn't get worse. Determined to get to my job, I walked for three hours past closed Tube stations and helicopters and thousands of confused people on the streets and endless sirens, and strangely never thought to ask anyone what was going on. And then, the next morning on the Tube, no-one, like Day of the Triffids or something.
Coming back round to Southbank ahead of me, my gaze crosses the bridge in front of me and to the right, and there's Oxo Tower, bastion of middle class consumer culture. There's a certain reminiscent charm in the Art Deco period - fronting the Thames, this particular building rather resembles a big white cake, complete with purple coloured icing (the lighting atop the restaurant and function centre) and one big fat candle with large red neon letters.
I can't help but smile. There's standing proof of how through a load of determination, a bit of luck and being a nice guy, things did turn around. My full time in the office world did wrap up, the gigs did come in, as well as the teaching....
The river winds back and the various bridges and railway stations pop up, with the tower of Westminster off in the distance, and I continue down into the South bank.
Is this a nice place? An inviting place? From this particular inhabitant, having lived here just over a year now, that's a categorical no on both counts. But I won't deny for a second that this is an incredible, awe-inspiring place that entirely captures one's focus and attention....
16 March 2006
Sharehousing Shenanigans
So it happens that we three at the House of Love, upon the Green, are looking for a fourth to join our merry bunch. I am of course preferring to get in a friend or a friend of a friend, but this could quite possibly not work out, and so we shall have to face the grim possibility of inviting someone to live with us from the FREAKSHOW that is the general public. So while putting up the advertisement on the net the other day, I suddenly recalled a little tale from the near ancient past. This didn't happen to me but to Mel, a former housemate of mine from my first place back in Melbourne.
So after the usual tedium and personality clashes, the terrace at old 322 Cardigan Street was nearing an end. We were all looking for places to go, and Mel dug up an ad in the papers that happened to be about half a block away, so one Saturday morning she walks up to this guy's apartment. Turns out it's on one of those little side lanes that come off the main street into the block (yet another European echo in Melbourne that I can now recall), and so it's got that nice off-street vibe.
Mel rings the door bell and is invited in by this 20-something business executive guy. She takes a seat in the living room nearby to a strangely non-caring Japanese housemate knitting in the corner, while the owner-landlord-executive-whatever guy is apparently tearing strips off a worried looking former tenant before his (the former tenant's) rapid departure. Mel's a little curious, but decides to stay.
Executive now starts talking to Mel, and it quickly becomes apparent that this is not one of those usual rent deals. The guy earns a truckload of money, and consequently owns or is paying off the place, while possibly doing copious amounts of recreational drugs. He's also got some sort of interest in being a film director, and suddenly produces a small white rectangular plastic sign that says, in large black print:
'No Junk Mail'
and then in smaller print below,
"The Junk Mail Watchdog Is Watching."
The unusual rent deal that this guy would like Mel to participate in is as follows; Executive does not want Mel to pay the $100 a week rent, instead he wants her to buy a hundred of these little signs at $1 a piece and sell 100 of them each week. Executive would follow Mel around with his film camera and make a documentary of said objective, and in doing so would possibly create and perpetuate some sort of mythical Junk Mail Watchdog.
Executive was quite enthusiastic about the prospect, and to assist the now comically perplexed Mel, he puts on a 'training video', which sounds like just some random DVD he's pulled off the shelf, and disappears back off into the apartment, while Mel watches on in amazement.
She turns to Japanese girl, who through the whole time hasn't moved or said anything.
"Is this how you pay your rent?"
Japanese girl looks up, shrugs her shoulders, sighs:
"I don't have the time."
Executive emerges, and Mel decides to leave. She'll get back to him, stay in contact (which she might have actually meant for a time), see how the project goes.....
The concoction of the plan alone astounds me. Also, Mel's a professional actress, so whenever she tells stories in the flesh (like this one), they're always ten times funnier.
Speaking of local 'rent deals', here's a link that old mate J-Sax clued me up to yesterday, an equally bizarre situation that might amuse you all....
More soon...
So after the usual tedium and personality clashes, the terrace at old 322 Cardigan Street was nearing an end. We were all looking for places to go, and Mel dug up an ad in the papers that happened to be about half a block away, so one Saturday morning she walks up to this guy's apartment. Turns out it's on one of those little side lanes that come off the main street into the block (yet another European echo in Melbourne that I can now recall), and so it's got that nice off-street vibe.
Mel rings the door bell and is invited in by this 20-something business executive guy. She takes a seat in the living room nearby to a strangely non-caring Japanese housemate knitting in the corner, while the owner-landlord-executive-whatever guy is apparently tearing strips off a worried looking former tenant before his (the former tenant's) rapid departure. Mel's a little curious, but decides to stay.
Executive now starts talking to Mel, and it quickly becomes apparent that this is not one of those usual rent deals. The guy earns a truckload of money, and consequently owns or is paying off the place, while possibly doing copious amounts of recreational drugs. He's also got some sort of interest in being a film director, and suddenly produces a small white rectangular plastic sign that says, in large black print:
'No Junk Mail'
and then in smaller print below,
"The Junk Mail Watchdog Is Watching."
The unusual rent deal that this guy would like Mel to participate in is as follows; Executive does not want Mel to pay the $100 a week rent, instead he wants her to buy a hundred of these little signs at $1 a piece and sell 100 of them each week. Executive would follow Mel around with his film camera and make a documentary of said objective, and in doing so would possibly create and perpetuate some sort of mythical Junk Mail Watchdog.
Executive was quite enthusiastic about the prospect, and to assist the now comically perplexed Mel, he puts on a 'training video', which sounds like just some random DVD he's pulled off the shelf, and disappears back off into the apartment, while Mel watches on in amazement.
She turns to Japanese girl, who through the whole time hasn't moved or said anything.
"Is this how you pay your rent?"
Japanese girl looks up, shrugs her shoulders, sighs:
"I don't have the time."
Executive emerges, and Mel decides to leave. She'll get back to him, stay in contact (which she might have actually meant for a time), see how the project goes.....
The concoction of the plan alone astounds me. Also, Mel's a professional actress, so whenever she tells stories in the flesh (like this one), they're always ten times funnier.
Speaking of local 'rent deals', here's a link that old mate J-Sax clued me up to yesterday, an equally bizarre situation that might amuse you all....
More soon...
15 March 2006
A Day In The Life - Tuesday
Today I am celebrating Purim, the orthodox Jewish version of Halloween. Why, you may ask? Today the orthodox Jewish boys primary school, at which I teach keyboard classes, is closed, providing some respite from sixteen loud and rowdy little boys who never do their practice and talk Hebrew amongst themselves while I am trying to explain to them the beauty and wonder of a C major arpeggio.
Back at Chancery Lane, while ruffling through a folded up 'Metro' I found on a seat somewhere, I come across a highly amusing article in the entertainment section on 'Hebe Hop' - this is worth an out-loud laugh - it lists artists like 50 Shekel, Dr Dreidel, Ice Berg, and offers a lyric quote: "My nose is so large so you know I'm in charge." Hilarous!
Conga player F comes around in the afternoon and we run a couple of things for the gig this Sunday, main focus being singing some coro's together, sometimes unison, sometimes harmony. "We'll just sing quietly to ourselves," says the eternally-cool F, "just so we can get it together - maybe no-one will be listening." For now, that suits me just fine! I'm getting into this singing thing...long overdue.
Trooper that I am, I pack up the keys and put in the usual Herculean effort in lugging down to the overland station for my next rehersal with 'Yes Brazil', this new showband I've just joined. Originally it was 'No Brazil' for me, but after much tedium it looks like I'm back in. I'm doing lots of restaurant gigs at the moment, but I'm hanging to get back into more band work (and that scene, strangely enough). That being said, the main reason why I've joined this band is not for the the music but for the troop of ABSOLUTELY GORGEOUS dancing girls that we do most of these corporate gigs with. Seems funny that after ten years of being a professional musician, this is the first band I've ever joined for non-musical reasons!
As requested, I get to Acton Town bang on 7pm, but thanks to cars and delayed trains and lifts and stuff, we don't start until 8.30. Somehow, most of the rest of the band all bailed today, leaving over-energetic singer (currently running the band), bass player, tired hungry disgruntled Oz keyboard player slumped in the corner, and nice older woman saxophone player, who can't read any of the charts because she's an alto player and they're all for tenor.....
AAARRRRGHH!!!
A Day In The Life - Monday
It's just not my day today.
My three teaching groups this morning are not responsive. We had lots of fun last week, but today I am ill-prepared and they aren't doing their practice. Leaving the Bakerloo at Oxford Circus to change for the Central Line, I enter the platform to find loads of people, an unmoving train, and no announcements. No-one knows what's going on - bad vibe, time to bail. I come back out to find a bus, but as I get on my Oyster card suddenly has no money on it, and these buses on Oxford Street don't take money.
Sighing the Londoner's sigh of frustration at this whole place, I cut through the crowds to the next Central Line station, Tottenham Court Road. Waiting behind one person at the Oyster top-up machine, I go to present my card and the machine closes in front of me. In the middle of a weekday. In central London.
Aaaarrrgh!
Back up into Oxford Street, I walk past my bank to deposit a cheque. The queue is as long as forever, and the one machine that takes cheques is, strangely enough, not working. I press on, walking the length of Oxford Street, past Holborn, and finally to Chancery Lane, my turn. I get into my desk job a little late, to be expected, and crackly crazy Kath, my co-worker, probably in the midst of yet another panicky afternoon, starts with:
"Right, now, first things first...you're meant to be here at 1.30."
There is little work to do and she's not my boss.
"The tube was delayed," I mutter frustratedly.
"Yes yes, I know, not having a go at you, it's okay, these things happen...but try to be on time, okay?"
AAAARRRRGH!!!!
My three teaching groups this morning are not responsive. We had lots of fun last week, but today I am ill-prepared and they aren't doing their practice. Leaving the Bakerloo at Oxford Circus to change for the Central Line, I enter the platform to find loads of people, an unmoving train, and no announcements. No-one knows what's going on - bad vibe, time to bail. I come back out to find a bus, but as I get on my Oyster card suddenly has no money on it, and these buses on Oxford Street don't take money.
Sighing the Londoner's sigh of frustration at this whole place, I cut through the crowds to the next Central Line station, Tottenham Court Road. Waiting behind one person at the Oyster top-up machine, I go to present my card and the machine closes in front of me. In the middle of a weekday. In central London.
Aaaarrrgh!
Back up into Oxford Street, I walk past my bank to deposit a cheque. The queue is as long as forever, and the one machine that takes cheques is, strangely enough, not working. I press on, walking the length of Oxford Street, past Holborn, and finally to Chancery Lane, my turn. I get into my desk job a little late, to be expected, and crackly crazy Kath, my co-worker, probably in the midst of yet another panicky afternoon, starts with:
"Right, now, first things first...you're meant to be here at 1.30."
There is little work to do and she's not my boss.
"The tube was delayed," I mutter frustratedly.
"Yes yes, I know, not having a go at you, it's okay, these things happen...but try to be on time, okay?"
AAAARRRRGH!!!!
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