Of Picking Up Again

As promised, I said I would see you in Iceland.  That was my route home from the USA.  I have wanted to see Iceland for real for many years and I am delighted I can now claim to have been, even if that only amounted to spending a total of just three hours in Reykjavik Airport.  It did mean, though, that I could explore their gift shop, one of the more interesting of the species, as well as buy a pot of Skyr (an Icelandic set yogurt) from the café, which tastes deliciously creamy but does not really enhance an iPhone when tipped over on to said appliance.  I would have liked to have bought some of their winter clothes with beautiful designs, but I think that will have to wait until I can make a proper visit specifically to the island when I can sample non-airport prices.    And who knew there was such a thing as Icelandic chocolate?  Although I was there during the hours of darkness I did not get to see an aurora borealis, although I did see one on a news report that apparently happened that night.  Having not encountered any postcards in Colorado's shops to send to P I sent him one from Reykjavik.  They consisted of views that were far more interesting than our little town in the Rockies, although I know that not too far away there were views that were equally, albeit differently, spectacular.  I hope P enjoys his postcard of Northern Lights.

Mannequins, Icelandic style. 

When the gate opened for the flight back to Gatwick I assumed we would queue and get on the aeroplane as in almost every other flight I have taken.  I forgot that when we used this same gate to travel to Denver the passengers were herded on to a bus and driven to the plane.  The Gatwick-bound 757 was in a far corner of the airfield.  That just seemed weird.

Now after twenty hours of travelling I am home.  As usual, though, while I was away I could not help worrying about my unattended boat.  I'm good at worrying.  There are the usual things that everyone worries about, security and stuff like that, but for me, I was just hoping my home would be where I left it.  I had read some articles online about severe weather, gales fierce enough to carry women's names and so on.  I had tied an extra rope from the boat to the bank before I left, but had I left enough slack in the four mooring ropes, or had I left too much?  The water authority often lets water in and out of the system.  After heavy rain the water level here invariably falls, sometimes leaving a boat sitting in the mud of the river bed.  There is never any prior warning, it just happens and we get on with it.  If my ropes are too short the boat can be left hanging.  If too long the boat can crash about in fierce winds and may break loose.  The question then is what happens when the river level rises?  If it rises too much the boat may become trapped under the staging of the jetty and forced to keel over and maybe go under.  Fortunately none of these disasters befell me - this time.  Unfortunately, it did happen to one of the smaller boats moored nearby.  The river level dropped three feet and, as it rose again, the farmer noticed one of the boats (not a live aboard) jammed under the staging.  He and two other burley men tried to free it, but it was jammed solid. As the river level rose the boat took on water and is now lying half submerged and awaiting rescue.  The mooring ropes that were attached are the only things that have stopped it disappearing completely under water.  Although very relieved it wasn't my boat I am sorry for the owner.  I sent him a message as soon as I saw it.  He was working 200 miles away and cannot get back before the weekend.  The outboard will need looking at having been submerged for who knows how many days.  Fortunately he has the skills to deal with it.  He has been taking engines to pieces and rebuilding them since he was a teenager and he installed my refurbished engine before I bought the boat ... you know, the engine I've been having so much trouble with - did I just say that out loud?

A neighbour''s cruiser left hanging by a thread (or two).

During the recent storms the farmer did keep an eye on all the boats moored to his bank.  He had to slacken the ropes on the dustcart driver's floating shed.  Mine were apparently okay, but the poor old cruiser ...

So, after a fortnight's wandering and exploring some hitherto unexplored airports I am back in The Fens.  I've had a great time visiting family and experienced incredible generosity.  Now it is time to pick up where I left off.  I tried to time my sleeping as I approached my departure date to fit more closely with the destination time.  That strategy has served me well before and seems to have been okay this time too.  I had a music workshop to run in one of my regular schools just hours after arriving back in the UK.  I thought I had timed my return to give myself a day clear before I hit the boards again, but like an idiot, I didn't account for the seven-hour time difference.  I don't feel jet -lagged and have managed to sleep at night more or less as I was before my trip.  Today is a day for domestic stuff as well as getting back into a practice routine for the Marshlander gig I have coming up at Norwich Arts Centre in a couple of weeks.  I have a ceilidh on Saturday with one of the "other" bands.  That should be straightforward enough, hopefully.  I don't even have to provide the p.a.

Tomorrow, though, I have a BSS inspection.  Every four years boat owners have to have their vessels inspected by a qualified person to make sure the services on the boat are safe.  The Boat Safety Scheme certificate is a requirement of most, if not all insurance companies.  I think I'm ready for this inspection but who knows what the inspector's eyes and meters will reveal?    I have heard that they have to find something wrong, however small.  Wish me luck.

Of Going Home

I love seeing new places.  I enjoy meeting new people.  Mostly I enjoy trying out new experiences.  I can't say that I'm a big fan of adventure.  If I were I would have enjoyed the occasions when the boat broke down much more.  So, here I am at Denver International Airport awaiting my flight to Iceland.  I don't think life gets more exotic.  I have had a lovely time with my son and his family. My gums are still bearing witness to the nine hours I spent in his dentist chair last week.  Anyone reading this may ask to check out his work.  We can go somewhere private ...

I am not a big sports fan.  Every sporting event I have attended has been unpleasant for some reason. At school it was obligatory to support a football team.  I didn't know which team to support so I chose one that was pretty close to where I was born, or so I thought at the time and bought a royal blue and white Chelsea scarf.  I wore it to school where it was promptly stolen from my desk.  My friend, "Mouse" declared I couldn't be a Chelsea fan if I had never seen them play.  On the coldest day of the latter half of the twentieth century (at least that's what it felt like like) I was standing in the Shed at Stamford Bridge watching Chelsea play Wolves.  Apart from the cold, the only thing I can remember about the game is the brilliance of the colors - the blue and orange of the teams contracted against the green of the field. I survived the sub-zero temperatures just about, but I never felt the need to go to another game.  The Chelsea loyalty faded away, as had my scarf.  

The next football game I attended was not a choice.  I was attending an interesting music education conference in the NW when my boss and his deputy decided the entire Norfolk team - all three of us - were going into Manchester to support Norwich as they beat Manchester City.  I had no choice because they frog-marched me out of the conference centre and into the car.  I was rendered against my will.  Again I have no memory of the game, but I do remember that I was the only one of the party who was stopped and searched at the turnstile, while my boss and his right hand man stood and laughed.  

The next big game I attended was at Yankee Stadium in New York to watch what I assumed was supposed to be a night of baseball.  I'm sure it would have been more interesting had I understood what was going on, but I was still fuming from the indignity of being searched (again) and of having some of the young French people we were accompanying on the trip prevented from getting through security because they had ... cameras!  Dangerous things, cameras.  Paranoia is rarely attractive, specially in others.  As to the game itself it is not like rounders, which is actually a lot more fun.  It seemed to be random succession of long tedious and ridiculously overblown rants by someone with a microphone, huge gurning faces on a massive display screen, appallingly unhealthy and very aromatic food with the majority of the action on the field involving men in baseball outfits bimbling about walking on and off the field, with only the very occasional throw, catch or attempt to hit the ball with a baseball bat to try and justify the crucifying entry fee.  It was even more tedious than cricket.

It was, therefore, with some trepidation that I approached yesterday's Super Bowl. The local team, the Denver Broncos, were playing the Carolina Panthers ( I think I've got that right). The Panthers were the favorites to win, but the Broncos were the favorites in the house and in the neighborhood.  We were to be part of the several millions of people to to out spectating from the comforts of our own (warm) homes.  Outside the house, the snow that fell before Christmas was still piled high. My daughter-in-law had prepared lots of delicious food and informed me that more food was consumed on Super Bowl Sunday than on any other day in the United States, except for Thanksgiving.  My son provided explanations of the various rituals and moves.  I asked why it was called, "football" when the game clearly resembled more a game of British Bulldog among grown men.  There was indeed ritual, there was also pagentry.  There was even Coldplay, Beyoncé and Bruno Mars (which moved me on to safer territory).    I rather like this photograph I saw on Facebook even if it is a little unfair  ...

I surprised myself by watching the game all the way through, although it may be a once in a lifetime event.  Despite the rule that clearly states that any team I pretend to prefer has to lose, the Denver  Broncos won.  Apparently there were fireworks going off all over Denver last night that were the rival of any Fourth of July celebration.  Sitting in the airport today it seems that every other person is wearing Denver Broncos attire.  This kind, if slightly bemused man allowed me to take a photograph of him wearing his hat as we were boarding the plane.  Apparently season tickets can cost fans about $5,000 a year ...

I am going to try and sleep on this flight because, even though it leaves at 4:15pm it will arrive in Reykjavik at about 5.45 am.

See you in Iceland.

Of Being The Guy On The Desk

Have you ever encountered an aggressive and grumpy sound engineer?  I've met a few and have often thought their behaviour unnecessary.  I believe I have discovered why some sound engineers resort to grump and rudeness.

Recently some dear friends were booked to play for an event organised to raise some funds for an organic gardening project. There were several bands and soloists as well as some circus performer friends booked for a most-of-the-day event at a secret location. A week or so before the gig the organisers realised they were one p.a. short of a gig.  Whoops! My mate from my own band put out a Facebook S.O.S. so I thought "what the hell". It seemed like a worthy project so I volunteered to provide the rig and look after the sound at the gig in exchange for good, organic, free food.  The workload would amount to about thirteen hours' work for a project with which I had no particular connection or affiliation. I have a small, but rather nice system and I generally only use it for my own projects - although there are plenty of those. Flying the desk while performing is a juggling act and I always feel like I haven't done justice to the sound, so I was looking forward to an opportunity to use my rig without having to panic about all the stuff I usually fret about when I'm performing. I could just focus on getting the best sound for the audience and for the performers. The only downside I could see was that I was not so much looking forward to being in this particular venue. In the past, when I've played there, I have found it presents some acoustic challenges. 

The requirements of each act were unknown.  I only knew that half of my friend's band plus a depping drummer were playing and would require two vocal mics along with d.i. boxes for bass and keys.  I thought there would be several acoustic acts ranging from soloists to four or five piece bands.  I didn't really know what instruments would need mic'ing up.  I decided minimal would be best - vocal mics along with and d.i. boxes for guitars and keyboards - and for bazouki, mandolin, mandola, accordion and loop station as well as it happened.

I was rather pleased to be told by some of the performers that I was giving them some of the best sound they had ever had and one man in the audience came to ask for my details because his band often needs a dep sound man and he liked what I was doing.

As it happened I knew a quite a few of the people who turned up. There was more than a smattering of dreads and ethnic threads. Lots of home-schooled kids, lots of delicious food mostly created from beautiful locally-grown organic produce. In my innocence I thought that such an audience would be discerning enough to be interested in the creative efforts of the performers and that together we could make a joyful day.

The reality was that it was like one of many awful pub gigs I've been to where people seem to go to ignore the musicians, hold loud conversations and send deputations demanding the music be turned down. The audience also reminded me of the very worst of parent audiences I have experienced at children's performances here in the UK as well as in France.  To be honest I don't like overly-loud live music (and I have had to walk out of some painful gigs when my ears have had enough (Public Image in Norwich a few weeks ago, anyone?), but I firmly believe the music does need to be clear and audible to those who have paid to come to an advertised music gig. 

In any room there are acoustic variables that affect the perception of level and, especially with a basic system, there are often  compromises that have to be made. Getting the levels right for each band took time, especially given my relative inexperience in this work, but I did what I could to keep the performers happy.  I was rather shocked, though, to be on the receiving end of demands from members of this "right-on" group to turn the sound down.  The musicians were disturbing their conversations.  From where I was sitting i could hear the conversations perfectly well.  This audience had talked all the way through the first performer, a somewhat delicate performance by a female singer/songwriter.  She had a very good voice and wrote some interesting, slightly quirky, songs - at least I thought the substantially pastoral subject matter of the songs would have interested this audience, but no, the audience wouldn't know because they didn't hear it.  This woman, like the rest of us, was giving up her afternoon for free and I thought the audience was very discourteous not to give her some attention.  I gave her as much sound as I could, but it was difficult finding a satisfactory e.q. setting for her unusual guitar, so I gave her the best I could.  

One of the bands was an electric band with a full drum kit.  The drummer played acoustically.  To have full control over the drums I would have needed to close-mic his kit, but I had neither the microphones nor the time to oblige.  After the first number I told him not to hold back too much because the sound needed to carry to the back of the long, narrow room.  That meant that everything else in that set needed to be balanced against the drums, with the vocals being to the fore.  These songs had messages and it was important they were heard.  "I've been asked to ask you to turn it down," said a man from across the room.  To his credit he did look slightly uneasy about it.  I looked over and saw several ladies in earnest conversation near one of the front of house speakers.  I wondered why they needed to be in the same room as the music since there were other rooms and spaces in this village hall in which less musical types could be free to congregate.  And why sit under one of the main p.a. speakers?  Puzzling.  I brought the faders down to show willing and immediately started pushing them up a little at a time to avoid the sound being completely compromised.  

Hush!  Sound engineer at work.

I came to realise that many demands to turn the music down appeared when the bands played an uptempo number. Strangely, I do not have a tempo fader on my mixer. If, when at a gig, I find the music too loud I use ear plugs or, as I mentioned above, I leave the immediate area.   Had I turned down the level for a jolly song I would have had to turn it up again for a more contemplative one thus completely ruining the dynamic contrasts in the band's set.

I consider myself a reasonably patient and passive person. I can probably count the number of times during my life I have been moved to contemplate violence on the fingers of one foot. This afternoon and evening I learned that it was possible to contemplate violence many times in a short space of time and my tongue is raw from where I was biting it to try and stop myself saying something I knew I would later regret.  

So what I learned about myself is that am not cut out to be a sound engineer and it has nothing to do with my ability to use a mixing desk. What I learned about other sound engineers is why many of them seem to be unapproachable.  There isn't time to deal with the demands of individual members of the audience.  It may be quite a different matter when the client approaches and asks for the levels to be reduced.  In this case she only came over after a deputation from others.  Who knew there were so many experts in the world?  Why book an amplified electric band and a p.a. system if that is not what you want?

I was very pleased to have an opportunity to test my sound engineering chops and I feel I pretty much passed the test.  I don't think I shall be volunteering for another event any time soon though.  At least with a paid gig there is a more obvious line of command.

Of Huskies And Scary Car Trips

I'm currently in Colorado visiting family. As an outing they had made plans for us to have have afternoon with some dogs up in the Rockies - Alaskan Huskies - we were going dog-sledding. Of course it was something I have never before experienced so I was curious. I also approached the activity with some trepidation because wasn't that a form of exploitation?

The journey up into The Rockies took a couple of hours. Most of the journey was straightforward, but we knew there were weather warnings in place for later. The weather started rather sooner than later. As we approached the ranch where the activity was to happen we found roads like this. 

The ski run some considered a road.

We had already been up and down steep mountain roads. They weren't the hairpin bend type I was used to in the Alps, but they were steep nonetheless.  Adding snow and ice made them more hazardous. We went on. 

We found the ranch, Rancho Escondido on the outskirts of Leadville.  It looked like a jumble of dilapidated wooden barns and shacks, but I was later assured it looked this way because it was one of the oldest ranches in the area and the buildings were being restored in keeping with their 1930s origins.  We found the office and signed in. Signing meant signing away any potential claims for compensation. I did not realise that what we were about to do was likely to be quite so dangerous. 

In the end, the experience was much more interesting and fun than I had anticipated. The three adults in the party were able to take turns driving the team of eight dogs while the four children took turns at riding in the sleigh.  The dogs were amazing. They were all very affectionate and we were encouraged to spend a little time making a fuss of them and getting to know them. It is only since being moored up at the farm that I have found dogs interesting. I wouldn't go as far as calling myself as dog lover, but I am willing to pet and talk to dogs these days, something I would not previously enjoyed. These dogs were delightful. They were also very keen to get on with the job. It appears these dogs love to run. Apparently given the chance they would run fifty to seventy miles a day. These dogs routinely run twenty miles every day - not the sort of undertaking the casual dog owner would want. Eight of the 140 or so dogs on the ranch were hitched to the sleigh (or sled?) and after some brief instruction we were off. 

The snow started falling again as we set off. The job of the driver was to stand on the back of the sled and hang on while the team hauled the cargo round a six mile track. These dogs rely on scent to find their way, which is one of the reasons they don't take visitors out on fresh, deep snow. With two children tucked up inside the sled and the rest of the party waiting their turns on a snow scooter-drawn sleigh that set off in front my only job as the driver was to keep the harness line taut and lean the sled round the bends. Braking is achieved through adding resistance to the sled - signalling the dogs to slow down is done by stepping with one foot on to a pad attached directly to the harness that adds the required  resistance.   To stop, the driver steps onto a different bar with both feet. This action drives spikes into the snow.  The parking brake is applied once stopped by driving four anchors into the snow. Older, more experienced, dogs lead the team while the remaining six dogs provide the rest of the engine power. The dogs are carefully paired up to suit their individual behaviours and personalities. 

A driver's eye view of the engine.

When working the dogs need eight thousand calories per day.  The meat bill was staggering.

But then ...

The journey home was all we needed to take the enjoyment out of the day.  By now the snow was falling steadily and settling.  We had mountain roads to negotiate (both the up and the down versions) and the one we needed was showing up on flashing road signs as closed.  We had no choice, but to pull off the highway and try and find somewhere to stay overnight.  Finding accommodation for seven was not going to be easy.  With phone batteries fading we found lists of places to stay and started to call them as we crept along in nose to tail traffic.  There was no room at the inn, or any other inn unless we could afford between $1,200 and $5,000 for a night!  We stopped and spoke to several hoteliers to ask for advice and, of course, none was forthcoming.  My daughter-in-law put out a call on Facebook and someone suggested she phone the police to ask about emergency shelters.  Surely, in this part of the world this was not the first time heavy snow had interfered with traffic!

The police said that the I-70 had been reopened, so we crept our way back towards the road, stopping first at a garage to refuel, fill up on garage food and set off.  Six hours after leaving Rancho Escondido we arrived back home, fortunately still in the same number of pieces in which we set out.  I have to come clean and say the journey was one of the scariest I have ever undertaken and that I do not wish ever to have to do that again.  Still, the dogs were great.

Of Wondering Who I Am

Who am I?  What do I do?  These questions seem to come up when I am required to "write a little" about myself, provide a bio for a promoter or, in the past when I engaged with such things, prepare a CV.  I always struggle with these questions, but I take the responsibility seriously so as not to deceive or to misrepresent.  At the foot of this blog is the self-description I wrote to put these essays in some kind of context.  I think it covers most useful information about me without going into the too boring or the sordid.

Being introduced to someone new by a third party is interesting and sometimes revealing.  Of course, if introduced by one's children, "this is my dad" is acceptable because everyone knows a father is more than a sperm donor.  I was brought up short last week though by one of my closest friends who introduced me to someone with, "this is Derek, he calls for ceilidhs".  That surprised me.  We were at a gig.  One of his bands were playing.  Yes I do call for ceilidhs not just with my own band, but also with several other smaller bands led by various members of the parent ensemble.  Everyone else around the table knew that already.  Three-quarters of tonight's band also play in my ceilidh band.  Calling for ceilidhs, though, accounts, most years for about eighteen hours.  So who am I for the remaining 8,742 hours?  

We are often defined, outside of our families, by the job we do.  For years that was easy.  I used to be a lorry driver and labourer.  Then for three years I was a student.  Then I became a teacher.  This became more difficult to describe when I moved away from the classroom and into advisory work.  Everyone has experienced teachers, but who knows what advisory teachers do?  When I was made redundant after fifteen years of this kind of work and became self-employed I didn't know how to describe myself.  I was doing far more than working as a peripatetic class music teacher and, as the years went on I did less of the teaching.  Presently one morning a week is the extent of my work in schools.  I took my cue around the turn of the millennium from the director of a music charity for whom I ran a series of workshops and some interesting projects for a few years.  "You're a musician now, mate," he said and I liked that.  I didn't feel like a bona fide musician though.  I hadn't been through a conservatoire education, I wasn't in a touring or full-time gigging band.  My income was acquired through doing lots of bits of different musical activities.  Most of what I did musically did not earn me money.  There are days when I don't spend a couple of hours practising.  I don't specialise in one musical discipline.  I am not a "guitarist", or a "percussionist", a "singer", a "composer", or a "songwriter" or even a "dancer" and yet I do all of these and more as part of my professional life.  I don't spend much time playing the instrument for which I have gained my "letters" so I cannot call myself a recorder player with any degree of authenticity.

I don't really know why it shook me to hear myself introduced as a ceilidh caller.  I'm trying to work out if there could be some kind of snobbery involved; perhaps a hierarchy of activities.  I guess I may even officially now be a musician.  When I renewed my van insurance recently they decided to change my occupation from "music teacher" to "musician".  I'm happy with that ... Specially since it actually brought up a quote that came out to cost less.  I was not expecting that.  I'm happy with it too because it fits more comfortably and means I don't have to try and rationalise that I am not being dishonest at such times.  Music teachers may not be the people who drive round the country at 3am with a van full of p.a. equipment and instruments.  They are, however, the people who manage to sustain, week after week, a dedication to improving the confidence and standards of their pupils.  I could not do that.  I've tried it and I'm not really good enough to know how to address problems that pupils encounter when playing instruments.  Unless we are talking about playing the recorder I can only take them so far, barely beyond the beginner stage.  As for ceilidh caller, there is no implication that I have to be musical at all.  I would be proud to be introduced as a composer. After all I do have more than a hundred compositions registered under my name with the PRS and playing them adds a small annual sum to my income.  Perhaps had I been introduced as an activist campaigner I would have questioned the description less.  

Today, though I am a traveller. Greetings to you all whatever you celebrate at this time of the year.

Of More Deliveries And Yet More Laundry

Dear Currys,

I am expecting the delivery of my new washing machine on Saturday.  I have been trying to find a way of giving you information so that your delivery driver does not end up in a shed, in a field, several miles away, on the wrong side of a river, which is where his satnav will probably try to lead him if he doesn’t know this address.  

When I placed the order I am afraid I did not see any option to give you a message with helpful instructions, but I was pleased to see a little chat box open and I was able to have a discussion with someone at a keyboard in your office which, unfortunately, proved in the end not to be so very edifying.  The typist in your online chat facility gave me a telephone number to ring.  I rang and ended up in a telephone-tree forest, punching in numbers and stars, before being referred back, eventually, to the website whereupon the automatic voice dismissed me with a rather overly familiar, “Goodbye”.  I looked (again) at your website and tried the order tracking information function, but neither of the two (two?) order numbers that appear on my confirmation e-mail seemed to be recognised … Yes, I tried both after typing in all the information again.  The system’s helpful message was,

"YOUR ITEM IS PROVING A LITTLE TRICKY TO FIND, BUT DON'T WORRY WE HAVE A FEW OTHER OPTIONS UP OUR SLEEVE YET.”

Some of the options up your corporate singular sleeve include more telephone numbers for which the customer pays a rate over and above that on his or her telephone plan.  I’m not quite sure I feel sufficiently motivated to pay you more money simply to be helpful and save your driver time and frustration.  I’m not feeling the love yet, hence this slightly bemused and ever-so-slightly-aggrieved e-mail.  Trying to contact you with helpful information should not be so difficult or time-consuming.  One is inclined to lose confidence.  Given my professional hourly rate I have now, regrettably, more than used up last weekend’s trumpeted special discount on my washing machine.

I live on a boat moored on the river adjacent to the farm at the delivery address.  I’m afraid I shall need to request a more accurate time of delivery than the twelve-hour window I have been given, since my boat engine is being repaired and I shall need to disconnect my mains electric hookup and haul my fifty-foot steel narrowboat singlehandedly, into a position to make the delivery and installation easier, probably inconveniencing the owner of the neighbouring mooring.  I hope it isn’t too windy on Saturday, or your delivery driver may need a raft if I lose the mooring rope (just joking … I hope).  I shall make sure the boat is firmly staked and tied before the delivery arrives, if you could just tell me when that is likely to be.  I can probably drag the boat back into position while the machine is being installed, so I can plug the electricity back in for when the machine will be ready to be tested.  I suggest that for maximum safety the delivery arrives well within the 7am to 7pm margins in order to take best advantage of available daylight.  I screwed all the steps leading down the riverbank to the jetty firmly back into place last week, so they are now safe, but the descent is still best done in the light.

The information your driver will need is my telephone number ************* and he will need to use his satnav only to find the road, “****** ****”.  Simply entering the postcode, **** *** will probably lead him astray as described above - I have no idea why, it just does.  The ghosts of lost delivery drivers haunt the Fens.  Once on ******* ******, he needs to keep the river on his left all the way down and into the farmyard.  Forget following any other roads, just keep the river on the left and phone me as he approaches so I can meet him in the farmyard.  It really is the end of the road.  Please could you make sure the delivery company passes this information on to the driver.  It is quite inconvenient for all when delivery drivers become lost in the Fens, or worse still, give up and try to find their way home.

I assume that, once my washing machine has been loaded on to your vehicle, there will be a way of tracking my order and the driver’s progress?  Twelve hours is a long time to be waiting in ignorance and I am sure that a company that specialises in selling high-tech equipment, as Currys does, has an efficient way of working this out.  Perhaps you could advise if there are any special secret codes I need in order to be able to do this from the order tracking information page on your website so that I don’t get the website's rather irritating “tricky to find” message again.

I hope this provides you with helpful information and I am very much looking forward to the delivery of my new washing machine.  I spent many hours at a laundrette in a nearby town last weekend, because I had almost run out of clean clothes.  I’m not altogether clear how the “next-day-delivery” banner on your website order page became seven days, but the discrepancy did mar my planned laundry schedule.  I’m sure you appreciate that storage for clothes is at a premium in a restricted living space.  I did, however, meet some very interesting people at the laundrette and there was plenty of time to chat given the long queue for the machines.

My very best wishes to you and your fellow workers at Currys and, as the French would say, “I await my new washing machine with impatience”, which I feel has more of an emotional commitment than the English understatement I employed in the previous paragraph.

With kind regards,

etc etc

Of Having A Whole Evening

So the gig that was threatened with the post-cold laryngitis has been and gone. It was a good experience and there is a masochistic part of me that suggests I should simply do more of these to get used to playing in such situations.

It is not often I have a whole evening to myself. I don’t mean that in the sense of being alone and of having nothing else to do, but a solo gig with no support.  I played in the bar of a local theatre where, each month, a friend - the keyboard player - organises performances, mostly by local performers or performers with local connections.  The standard is always high for something so in danger of feeling parochial - which it never does.  Consequently, it was a privilege to be accepted for a booking.  This was one of those gigs I chased.  I asked if I could play.  The keyboard player seemed unsure but after he had heard me he was more at ease with the idea.

Beret with singer and guitar.

I don’t know if I am a natural performer or not.  I suspect not.  I know my children think I am a show-off and love to be in the glare of the spotlight, but little could be further from the truth.  Despite often finding myself the front man in a ceilidh, an event with large numbers of children, the organiser of a folk night or, in recent years, a solo songwriter and aspiring singer of songs, I don’t like being in the limelight.  I do what has to be done, but always heave a huge sigh of relief when the gig is over.  In the time leading up to a booking I wonder why I put myself through such torture.  I have many times arrived at the point where I may have practised a song more than two hundred times and am still making mistakes. As Marshlander, my performances are like a carefully lined up set of dominoes.  Should my brain decide to take a holiday in the middle of a song the whole lot is in danger of falling over.  I used to tremble with nerves before a performance, but that doesn’t happen so much these days.  Maybe it’s time to take out the recorder again and do some serious work on that Bach flute sonata I come back to every few years.  Trembling nerves for a recorder player are very unrewarding.  Trembling affects breath control and fingers.  The slightest nuance of breathing changes the sound dramatically and the cross-fingerings can be quite tricky in allegro passages.  At the beginning of a gig these days, rather than trembling, it more often feels that my hands, my feet or my voice do not belong to me.  I try to find chords with someone else’s clumsier fingers.  I know the fingers belong to someone else because they don’t feel like my fingers.  My voice forgets all the useful things I have tried to get it to do through practice and to me sounds thin and feels strained.  The breathing goes and, frequently, my larynx feels tighter and will not allow me to sing in the lower keys in which I have practised.  During the middle of a song one foot or the other pings my brain with some unaccustomed nerve responses and I fall over the rhythm - even when I am certain I know what I am doing and should be able to do it on auto-pilot.  This is all very frustrating and can deliver embarrassing consequences.  The old adage that an amateur practises until he gets it right while a professional practises until he can’t get it wrong comes to mind every time.  the demons of doubt kick in - amateur, amateur, amateur, who do you think you are pretending to be a singer, a player, a songwriter?

There must be a reason why I put myself through this.  I’m not sure what it is, but firstly, I suspect the vanity I reference in “For Pete’s Sake" is involved.  Secondly, there is an element of challenging myself to see if I can do it - this time.  Thirdly, although I don’t want to feel like a man on a mission, I don’t know of any other people who tackle in song some of the subjects I try to explore.  There is a message that needs to be shared and if no one else will do it I suppose it has to be me - vanity again.  Conscience won't allow me just to let it go.  It intrigues me, but nearly every time I sing, for example, “Circumcision” at least one man will reveal his status to me.  I can think of few, if any other situations that might cause this subject to be raised.  Still fewer are the times a man might begin to explore how he feels about having been circumcised.  These can be people I have known for years or complete strangers.  If something I sing unlocks an idea for someone isn’t that what I set out to do?

Singer, guitar and foot drum kit.

I arrived at the venue, the charming Angles Theatre in Wisbech, in good time to unload my p.a. and go and park the van.  The Angles is not blessed with good get-in-ability.  There is an area in front of the building, which I am sure I recall once allowed sensible and safe access, which has now been blocked by concrete planters.  One is forced to park on a narrow road, which at night can be risky.  P. had cam he o’er frae France the day before to see the gig and to offer moral support so it was helpful to have someone to keep an eye on things at street level while I humped my heavy load into the building.  John the barman was as friendly and helpful as ever and indulged me in allowing P. and me to move the furniture around so I could set up the p.a along a wall where I wouldn’t have to peer round a structurally significant supporting pillar.

The “Angles Whatever” evenings, of which this was one, are interesting.  As mentioned, the performances are generally excellent quality fare which, for almost inexplicable reasons fail to attract audiences in any significant numbers.  Even for someone with as much of a cult following as Dan Donovan, last month’s event did not fill the bar. I have played there in the past with a five-piece band and we have outnumbered the audience by more than two to one.  It is not just the Whatever evenings that have audiences smaller than they should be, but for many years a local farmer (himself a serious rock music fan) has put on a weekly performance in Elme Hall Hotel at his Sunday Rock and Blues events.  Once again he somehow finds acts of excellent quality, often a band will be on their way back from a Saturday night gig somewhere in the area and a Sunday afternoon fits the itinerary perfectly.  The acoustics and ambience in the Elme Hall ballroom may not be your typical sweaty rock dungeon (I’m thinking of Stamford’s excellent Voodoo Lounge or any number of places in London), but really one might have hoped for greater audience interest.  As the Facebook page might have it - Wisbech, oh dear!  I was really hoping I would not outnumber the audience.  I was off to a good start, though - the presence of my boyfriend made the numbers start out even and if I counted John the barman ...

The keyboard player - the criminally underestimated Ivan Garford - arrived.  While he may organise the evenings, he usually has a gig of his own somewhere else and hasn’t been able to attend a Whatever for months.  Tonight he had sacrificed a school concert featuring his son - a sacrifice indeed.  Other friends began to drift in too including Neil Cousin - singer/songwriter, Dan Donovan - singer/songwriter/cult status musician/photographer/film-maker/renaissance man; three members of The John Preston Tribute Band (including John himself - songwriter/singer/visionary/activist; Mark Fawcett - singer/songwriter/guitarist of great talent/sound engineer; Les Chappell - songwriter/ lifelong musician having a cult following of his own and sound engineer); percussionist Martin Bright …  I knew everyone in the audience and have made music with them all except one.  I don’t know what it means that there was no one else there.  All men, no women - it was another boys' night out.  I suppose many people find it tougher to play to other musicians, but these were also people I count among my dearest friends and I was moved almost to tears to see them there.  It was very intimate and I just had to hope that I could deliver the goods.  Had P. arrived a few days earlier he would have supervised my rehearsal schedule and made sure I was ready.  Instead of P. I only had laryngitis for company.

So, the performance?  The biggest problem (apart from rehearsing efficiently) was in deciding which songs to leave out.  It may not sound much of an achievement, but I am pleased that in the five years I have been writing again I have composed a repertoire that is more than enough for a two-hour performance.  The audience was wonderful.  They clapped and vocalised with enthusiastic support and everyone listened intently.  I couldn't have asked for better.  It all felt very intimate.  Afterwards comments were positive and Les in particular with his decades of musical experience of performing on stages and televisions all over the world made some kind and helpful observations.  It is good to know I can manage a two-hour show on my own and now I know I want to get better at doing this performing thing.  This would be more possible if the opportunities were there more often.  I don't feel enthusiastic about organising them though, so I suppose I will have to rely on more open-mic events and bothering people for some playing time.  The intimacy of this gig reminded me of when, a few years ago, several of us got together to do a living-room tour to promote a cd we had recorded to raise funds for, and awareness of, a local environmental campaign.  Since then I have been of the opinion that living room gigs are my favourite milieu.  In order to make them anything like viable I think I need a cd to sell.  I guess I shall have to get round to recording something.  Recording is a subject for a whole different blog post.  I always put it off because I find the enormity of the task so daunting.  I think I recorded percussion parts for Neil Cousin's latest cd a couple of years ago and his cd is still not finished.  He has been recording that at the wonderful Grange Farm Studio with the assistance of talented and watchful engineer, Isi Clarke.  I know I could use the studio myself, but I think I would probably want to record on my boat - just to see if I can.  That means a lot of reorganisation.  Plenty of excuses for procrastination.  I have bought a new studio microphone though.  Maybe the cogs are grinding.

For the sake of completeness the set list for the Whatever gig was:

Feeling Disordered

Be Home Soon

For Pete’s Sake

The Ballad of Thomas Lewis

Mina

In Soho

Say I’m Sexy

Downham Market Monday Morning Blues

Pansy Potter

Grey

Blame It On Me

Cruiser

Fighting For Me

Never Say Never

Circumcision

Flying

Dear Mr Carter

In Your Place

Obstacle Race