My Auntie Gertie comes to mind whenever snow falls. She was childless. She was my dad’s older sister, one of several, and maybe 15 years older. Dad is the youngest of 9 survivors. Two now survive, Uncle Cyril and dad. Auntie Gertie was a favourite. Childless, she was, but a kind nanny to me and a sibling or so of my own.
Somebody hacked into Van Morrison’s website and uploaded a story announcing the birth of George Ivan Morrison 111, the mother allegedly one Gigi Lee. All a fraud, of course. But 64 ain’t exactly past it, so the possibility did exist that the story, at least until officially denied, could have the ring of truth about it. The cynic in me stirs: maybe Van has a new record out? Damn it – never!
Back in Suffolk. Dunnocks, a pair, are feeding from the cobbles under the ancient yew tree, which is certainly older than the house, possibly even 500 years old. Great tits are fly-hopping between nut-holder hanging from the pergola entrance and the yew from which another hangs.
Stranger Comes To Town - on the home run. Three days remain held at Leeders Farm and it should all be wrapped by Wednesday night. But I am not sure. Feels like so much to do still; too much for the time remaining. May need more time, even before Christmas.
My dear mate Drew McAdam suggests I concentrate my next tour of research in Helmand Province or somewhere equally perilous, as then the tax inspector couldn’t possibly deduce that I was on holiday. Drew is not a man without wit and wisdom, so he must be taken seriously. On second thoughts.......
Portugal. Five days in the sun. Walking on the sand, the ever-present notebook and pen in pocket. Lyrics to complete. Comes to mind that while I was writing The Coast Of Amalfi and a couple of other songs for The Quality Of Mercy, I travelled to – wait for it – Amalfi. Believed at the time that I was on a research trip. So I researched. Crossed to Ischia and trekked up to Pompeii. Sailed the bay to Positano, so I could know what these places felt like, how they smelt, what gave them life. Got that 5 minutes song from those excursions. Gathered inspiration for much of Journey’s End and The Last Goodbye, too.
The pointer towards Daniel Johnston by Graeme is indeed welcome. Had all but forgotten the self-proclaimed “rejected unknown”. Maybe too many have covered the beautiful, poignant “Story Of An Artist” – irresistible, as it is – for me to attack it so late in its life. Maybe. But “True Love Will Find You In The End” is less exposed. Maybe that one. The YouTube archives are fascinating.
Tickets on sale, and a new record occupies my waking hours to a massive degree. I feel certain that what I am creating in the studio, and out of it, is good work. But then I am not so sure. And I realise, once, and for the first time, that you need to have both, in equal measure, a sense of certainty and a sense of doubt.
Balance.
Humility.
Feels good to see a new list of Live dates published. Pity the right halls in a few cities were not available for the times we could have been there. Rehearsal time is booked and, besides, with a new album out there in the spring, doing its bit for the cause, anything could happen later in the year. We never know.
Armistice Day.
Got a call last week inviting me to Abbey Road Studios to sing on a record to honour our troops and their fallen comrades. Couldn’t accept; had my own studio time booked that same weekend, 150 miles from London. Was sorry and said so. But, after getting back from Germany, it was vital I did not let it go.
Jim Cregan it was who called. He produced the track, brilliantly. Written by Robert Hart.
See it being recorded via the link below.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ektQbe-dOU
Looking through the list of six favourite books I offered to the Daily Express recently, it occurs to me that those few represent about 100th of the actual number I’d need if dumped on a desert island. I use the internet, of course, but still reach for the reference books that crowd my study shelves when I want it absolutely right. That Wikipaedia, how poor is that! They get so much wrong (yes, there is irony in there...somewhere). How many times am I going to read that I was Christened Steven, with a V? The Wiki-people actually get that bit right, oddly enough. But where did it all start, the misspelling of a simple first name?
If you were one of those million with a ticket for the Michael Jackson marathon at the O2, I am now doubly, trebly sorry for you. His death was a shocking tragedy and, now I’m home after seeing the This Is It movie, I can tell you that you would have had the night of your life. The detail MJ attends to is astonishing. It is tough being leader of a band and crew and all others around you, on the team. At that level, MJ was sensational. See it if you can, and if you care at all about great Live music. The band – all from the top drawer, as you’d expect (check out the young white English girl guitarist, Greek surname, but maybe from London?), and no sign of a mime or click-track or tape to these experienced eyes.
Classic Rock Roll Of Honour, last night. What a shock. How did Dorothy keep her secret like that? Now I know she and the ChildLine Rocks and Classic Rock magazine people were conniving over this fantastic shock while I was in Germany.
We cover a lot of miles in this big country. Travelling is tiring. Get enough sleep at night, but still constantly weary. Come alive, as ever, once the light hits and the kick drum thumps time in my in-ear monitors.
Berlin. Always reassuring to see the Brandenburg Gate with open land each side. First saw it in the 70s, then again in ’89, the wall almost touching, west city, so little behind. Checkpoint Charlie, Cafe Adler (now part of the fine Einstein Coffee Shop chain), art nouveau par excellence. Rubbish tourist shops all around, but easy to ignore. I ignore very well when so minded. Trike ride, just like a proper tourist, rickshaw for a couple of exploratory hours. Einstein Under den Linden. Nowhere better for coffee and sustenance. It’s quite cold here. Colder than the UK. Really autumnal. Before tomorrow’s soundcheck and the real work begins, I plan to visit the Alte National Gallery. And the lyrics of new songs are in my pocket or my grasp at all and any time.
Zama, zama. Let’s go for it, in Zulu. Gone. Top right wisdom tooth, extracted. He froze the gum and pushed and tugged and wrenched for some time. Loosened this villain, rocked it and wobbled it and pulled and tugged again and again. I relax through pain and this sort of business. All muscles slump and I turn off my mind, until good thoughts emerge from the quiet darkness. I was taken dreamily through images and thoughts of a Southport hotel balcony where I was inspired at sunset and wrote two songs for the new album there and then, before, during and after dinner. And, more airily, I strolled on sandy beaches imagining painting my masterpiece. Now that is a dream. And the kids came by in this reverie, with jobs and a safe future. Now that really is a dream. Many thoughts passed by as he tugged and rocked and wrenched that wisdom tooth out of my head. Big, he said. Bizarre, too, he said. It’s got three roots instead of the usual one. Yes, it was infected recently and I ’ll be better off without it. Gone.
About that tooth. Check-up with dentist. The top-right wisdom is the problem. Lower two extracted many years ago, so the villain has grown a little longer than normal, much longer than had it been grinding down on another. Hence, it is loose and became infected last week with extraneous nonsense lodged in all the wrong places. Extraction today. And I have a horror of hypodermics. He swears I will hardly notice it being done. “A little pushing and pulling.....” Pain I can take. But needles. Needles I fear.
Slightly shattered. Ten tracks recorded, some sung, others waiting for lyrics. It’s like jet-lag. Coming down from the mad rushes of adrenalin that go with the producing/recording process. Been living-in at a residential recording studio. Odd to get up and share breakfast with the band. Odd, too, to share the dinner table each night, but they are all decent blokes and easy to get along with. I’m the one with the swimming head, tunes and words, production plans all juggled at the same time, so I’m the distant one over the boiled eggs and soldiers. Home for a few days, then to Germany, so the rush will re-start, and I’ll be all the better for it. Playing Live, that’s still number one for me. Berlin beckons and then on-the-road with the same decent blokes. Could be much worse, I know.
Read about Facebook unleashing freedom to steal identities, and how the Royal family had registered their names so no thieving cybersquatter could do so. Thought I’d best do same. Now I don’t have a clue what to do with it. I know I don’t want to twitter nonsense with near or complete strangers, so I imagine the site will lie there, dormant. Same with MySpace. The Imposter has been seen off , we’ve registered another and there it lies, dormant too. What do you do with Facebook? Has the word “friend” been somewhat devalued by tagging it to strangers who look you up?
Read somewhere, taking a late night pause from writing, trawling the web like a first-year student at a loose end, that someone (maybe in The Guardian?) was of the opinion that I was neither a cockney, nor a rebel. Occurred to me that Neil Young was neither crazy, nor a horse. Only wish I’d read the piece when it was printed.
