Is life a series of bubbles? Or one big bubble with lots of smaller ones bouncing around inside? Each phase of your life is perhaps enclosed in the taut transparent skin in which it grew. All the materials for that phase that were there from the start are now used up; it's expanded as far as it can, and it's time to step outside and set it free.
I wrote songs for a while. Each one had a life of its own: a creative energy that forced it into being; emotion to give the inflation drive and direction; and an experience it was born to define. As it neared completion, the energy waned, raw materials expired, the bubble contracted a little as it sealed; then the story was told/the experience was exorcised/the emotion was expressed. Rainbows swirled on its surface as it floated before me exactly as I had imagined, yet beyond my expectations - it was complete.
Sitting here in my life's bubble, I see, herein, a floating 'songs bubble' full of little bubbles of its own. Each song is fragile, existing only as I made it; too delicate to touch, alter: too easy to spoil, destroy. No-one will cover them, few will play them. But for me who made them, there is a beauty hovering there which will always be a part of me and apart from me. I smile to hear the faint tinkling sounds within them as they float past, and, occasionally, I step through a membrane to relive a time and its soundtrack caught within.
I thought I was OK, but depression is lurking, ready to strike. I have a deep well of unhappiness that sinks right down to the core of me. Was it always, innately, there?. Or have experience and disappointment dug it for me? I put a lid on it most of the time, but almost everything I do reverberates around the damp and dripping walls down there in the dark, and the echoes colour my feelings and reactions on the surface.
So I'm starting to act like an unhappy person again - tetchy, cynical, short-tempered... at one time I could often blank it out/rise above it, but now it's a constant, though often still subtle, state. The soul-searching, re-appraisal, and mulling-over of old, mainly negative events take me only one way: down. My battered wooden-pail-on-a-rope dredges deeper with every clawing draw, bringing to the surface all manner of fragments of painful, broken, long-cast-away things. It's an up and down cycle that it would be better to stop, because thrown-away, buried, or drowned things should stay that way. But that's easier said than done, as those of you with wells of your own will know.
But visualising it thus - the classic well of a Grimm fairy tale - helps me to see the mechanical nature of the process: the casting down; the slow winding up; the fishing around in the murky container for another shard on which to cut myself; and down again... I can stop this at any stage. Think 'well'. Take the handle, turn the gears, release the coils, lower the bucket... stop. Put on the brake and leave it there; imagine it swinging, just out of sight, in the shadows - empty. An occasional drip leaves it at its apocheir and hangs in the dark, searching for any spark of light to fill it and give it life, before falling into the glassy treacle-black depths. Put on the lid. Walk away. Done.
Xmas is a sad
time (what are we celebrating exactly? He's not coming back now you silly buggers), and I wonder why all the world cannot see it for what it is. If you were
OK before, you may be totally depressed now... probably not... Sorry, either way. But (a problem shared and all that) you'll be pleased to know I feel much better.
Al x
Hi
It doesn't take a Shakespeare combined with a Mozart (imagine that on your band's CD case insert though: Written by Shakespeare/Mozart) to write a great song, but honestly, for one who: doesn't dance; go 'clubbing'; suffer from teenage relationship angst; is over 40 and is thus not fooled by a jaunty rhythm/well-executed loop/repeated expletive/juvenile chant as an excuse for song, there is very little in popular music culture to engage one's ears and brain. Is there a law that says adults must be exposed to teenage musical fare as a matter of course (pub/super-market/shopping precinct/advertising/lift)? Are we not allowed to grow out of it, in much the same way we left Baa Baa Black Sheep behind us? And why is it supposed that only someone of tender years has anything of value to expound? Why is popular music the only field where experience, skill and knowledge are seemingly not valued? Why are the incontinent ramblings/wailings of some drug-troubled young man or woman valued so highly? And why are they all pretty, doe-eyed, vulnerable little things; even the boys?
Because they sell? I think that's it: the more vulnerable/pretty/troubled the young person and hence the more internet/radio/tabloid/TV exposure they get, the more they sell. Sell, sell, bloody sell; to vulnerable, lovelorn, ostensibly troubled teenagers who have nothing better to do with their pocket-money and their time. The ability to sell is the only quality recognised these days it seems, mainly because the results (for the exploiters who filter what we receive) are so monetarily tangible. When sales numbers are the only criteria, the packaging is all we are left with; traditional concepts of quality and value are thrown in the land-fill instead.
What a bugger. And what a shame. And it gets worse, year on year... much like Xmas does. All packaging and glitter, with no meaning or substance. Maybe, as today roughly coincides with that time of year, that's what brought the subject to mind. Or is it just me? Yes, it probably is.
Anyway. All my vulnerability/prettiness/troubledom could be fitted onto this full-stop (.) with room for them to roam around for a long time before they as much as bumped into each other. So. This is my Xmas song; only it's an unpackaged, non profit-making, non-Xmas Xmas song. Christmas gets a mention, but that's all; it's not about Christmas at all. No Santas, reindeers, snowflakes, icicles; no stable, manger, baby Jesus; no 'goodwill to all mankind', no seraphs spaking, no shining throngs (only in Richard O'Brien's musical version of The Nativity it would be a 'shining thong'). Just me, me, me. Hope you enjoy it. Ho! Ho! Ho!
Al
...meanwhile, on Earth, things aren't quite going as planned...
God: "I know what to do! I'll send my amazing, meek, wise, brilliant, beloved son for them to berate, abuse and crucify. That'll show 'em who's boss!"
I could never, not even as a small child, connect the beatific Christmas baby to the tortured and broken young man of Easter. There is no celebration for me: a child born, loved and raised, with one sole divine purpose: to be sacrificed, in order to somehow free humanity from the 'sin' that was programmed into us by his supposedly unearthly 'father' - some faulty, vengeful, often petty, sometimes glorious, omnipotent deity? Come now, Western man, is this the best we can do for Sunday morning entertainment? I see a wonderful, brilliant, brave, insightful, ultimately tragic man, betrayed by a civilisation which, even now, is unable to accept the simple words that he spake: 'Be excellent to each other'. (Now, you zealots: turn the other cheek.)
My version counter-balances the decadence and debauchery of this tragic season by featuring just Fender Rhodes, a bell, and a vocal.
Verse 1
Away in a manger no crib for a bed,
The little Lord Jesus lays down his sweet head.
The stars in the bright sky look down where he lay,
The little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay.
Verse 2
The cattle are lowing the baby awakes,
He'll be raising the dead with the noise that he makes.
Strangers come and go all through the long winter's night;
Joseph gather up your family, slip away before light.
Middle8
Take the gold, ditch the frankincense,
Take the donkey, leave the myrrh.
Close your ears to all this mystical nonsense,
To archangels, prophecies and heavenly choir.
Take the boy and keep him safe
From misguided men and gods alike;
What sick mind could take this pure and perfect child
And turn him into a sacrifice?
Verse 3
You will watch him with wonder, he will learn, he will grow,
But the lessons he'll teach us we already know.
Mothers crying for dead children since the world was begun,
So Mary, whisper these words to your beautiful son -
Verse 4
'In 30 short years you'll be nailed to a tree,
And although you will suffer no reason there'll be;
Two millennia in the future things will still be as bad,
So grow old, be a carpenter just like your dad.'
Tacet final verse
(You're not like me, O Father, and I'll tell you why:
Sit there safely in heav'n, send your sole son to die.
So this is the best plan your great mind can make:
Crucify this poor boy to make good your mistake?)
So he never existed... not really, as a real person. He made himself up one day in 1969 and lived a dual existence: half of him surviving on dead-end jobs, the other half believing that one day he would write at least one song that the world would remember. Now half of him is dead, and, as with all conjoined twins (without major surgery), that sentences both of them. It would be sad if it wasn't so pathetic. Fairy-tales always end this way... well not always, rarely... and this was rarely a fairy-tale; so there the similarities end: the ending was neither sad nor happy - it just... was.
The enigmatic and tragic Jackson C Frank was a hero of his... now he emulates that frail and failed soul. Maybe in 40 years people will still say 'Al who?', much as they do today. That would be both a great epitaph, and a fitting legacy.
Above - the last crackling, hissing recording found among his meagre belongings; below - his blog as he inexplicably and hurriedly left it: hot meal still on the table; knife and fork still in place and at the ready; the drink untouched in the paper cup...
It strikes me that a person's success as an original artist, in any genre, is directly proportional to how good they are at
I like this song. It's exactly the sort of thing I would buy. And so it should be, because it's all me, and why would I write something I don't like? It took me 51 years, both to recognise my preferences and needs, and to be able, just in this instance, to fill them.
But maybe pride comes before a falling apart...
Chorus1
I'm falling apart, coming unsewn,
Unstitched, unhinged, to bits;
It takes all of my strength and time
To keep body and mind together.
Tag
I'm in pieces,
I'm in pieces,
I'm in pieces.
Verse 1
You drive me to the edge
And you push me through the pain,
'Til the grating teeth of grinding gears
Of a love that should have lasted years
Finally give in:
Ok, you win, you win!
Old panels and parts for broken hearts
As I turn to scrap again... oh oh oh
Chorus2
I'm falling apart, coming unsewn,
Unstitched, unhinged, to bits;
It takes all of my strength and time
To keep body and mind together.
I'm falling apart, flaking like rust
Into dust, brush up all the bits;
It's taking all my strength and time
To keep body and mind together -
Hope I have the strength this time
To keep body and mind together...
Tag
I'm in pieces,
I'm in pieces,
I'm in pieces...
Verse 2
You burn me with your eyes
And you cut me with your tongue,
Undo me with your lies
And you break me up for fun
As you beat me with his name;
I see the world in shades of grey.
My hands are numb, my lips are dumb
And my tears wash me away... oh oh oh
Chorus3
I'm falling apart, coming unsewn,
Unstitched, unhinged, to bits;
It takes all of my strength and time
To keep body and mind together.
Hope I have the strength this time
To keep body and mind together...
Tag
I'm in pieces,
I'm in pieces,
I'm in pieces...
I wrote this when I was 50. I'm 51 now, so it doesn't exactly apply, though the same feelings of anti-climax and slow, steady drudgery still pervade my days. It's a cricketing allegory, as the title suggests. Cricket, for the uninitiated, is a wonderfully simple yet complex and intelligent sport played by 2 teams of 11 people. It has a long tradition of 'gentlemanly conduct', fair play, and 'may the best team win'. Oh... and Australians play it too.
50 n.o.
Bat held high, I salute then bow
To the mere handful in attendance now;
Not quite as I imagined the occasion or ovation
(Guard down, eyes down, I tamp down another imperfection).
So far: no evidence of Fiery Freddie's flare
Or Geoffrey's jaw-jutting indomitable air;
I scrape each apologetic singleton
My way: one by one by sorry one.
Unadventurous strokes begat not a chance,
Not a lofty six, nor even a third man-wise glance;
So a forest grew by the boundary
'Til you couldn't see the ashen me for trees.
OK. Celebration over, bat back to the crease
To await the next pounding charge, the ball's release:
Slash! Whack! A chance! Do I stand still, amazed
By the umpire's index finger(s) raised?
Or duck! Pray! Leave it! Hope it's wide?
You (who know me best), you decide.
Hi!
If you have:
half an hour (cooking time: 12 minutes approx);
an oven;
a few everyday ingredients;
a sweet tooth;
a decadent side -
try these delicious cookies: crispy round the outside, soft in the middle, chocolate through and through.
Ingredients (makes 8 good-size biscuits). If you work in ounces, divide by 25 to get approx measurements.
125g fat (I use butter - you decide)
70g caster sugar
Half an egg yolk or equivalent amount of milk
125g plain flour
25g cocoa powder
100g chocolate chips
Idiot's Directions
Turn oven on to 160 degrees C (320 F or Gas Mark 3)
Cream the fat and sugar together in a mixing bowl with the back of a spoon.
Add the half egg yolk and mix that in.
Now add the flour (sieve it in) and cocoa powder (that too) and choc chips.
Mix it all up. I use a table knife for this bit... works for me.
The mixture should be 'dry' i.e. not sticky. Add a bit more flour if it's too moist... and a bit more... go on, nearly there. Gather it all up with your hands (shouldn't stick to them... if it does, add more flour) and work into a ball.
Roll it out into a sausage and divide into 8 even-sized lumps.
Shape these into balls and place on a baking tray.
Flatten then down into circles or whatever takes your fancy.
Put them in the pre-heated oven (see above).
This is the hard bit... ovens vary and this bit is crucial if you want the 'soft middle, crunchy edge' effect. I have an electric oven with a fan. 12 minutes is enough with this... any more and they go too hard. after 11 minutes, press one lightly with a finger tip... if it springs back up they are probably ready. Don't burn yourself and sue me; press with something else if you have sensitive skin! Similarly, if you are doing Weight Watchers or have been told to lose weight for health reasons, don't make them. You can't make these and not eat them. It's impossible. Take responsibility! If you are fat, it's your fault! ... sorry... Take them out when you think they are ready (it really is hard to tell), let them cool a minute, then remove with a spatula and place on a cooling rack for 10 minutes (if you can wait that long). Wash-up while you wait... anything to fill the time.
Get comfortable, put your feet up and eat, preferably with a cup of tea or coffee - and enjoy!
That's better than writing songs, any day.
All the best
Al
Haiku
I never before
Heard the word; what's the meaning?
Found it with Google.
575 it says;
Can't see much about rhythm -
Thought I'd have a go:
Death's raven-black thread
Spun with life's brightest colours -
The tightrope I walk.
Hi
Have you noticed how 'Compose post' looks like 'compost'? It's a subliminal message that the clever people here at Vox have inserted to give the more astute of you a glimpse of the future. One may gaily 'compose post', but one should also expect that, by gradual settlement and degradation it will eventually reduce to the contraction 'compost'... sitting in the middle of your unread blog, next to the potato peelings and banana skins, waiting for Vox's giant hard-drives and back-ups to fail and return to the soil (for one day, either by accident or design my good friend, they will).
Anyway, before that day, please have a listen to this. It's all me, from the first inkling of a lyric to the last subtle guitar chord and dissonant string voicing. It's doing very well wherever I post it. If Sir Paul had written it, it would be No1 on 5 continents by now; but even his back-catalogue will fester in some rat-infested landfill one day, being munched by cute, head-bobbing, mop-top worms, so what difference would it make? And on that optimistic note I bid you 'happy listening'. Cheers for calling in - Al.
