Another year. Time goes so quickly now - I can barely keep up. It's funny isn't it? These days I never know when it's the weekend or a new month or even when it's time to go shopping or do the laundry
But I wanted to tell you that it's over. Really, this time. It's been a long romance - and you have left me with a lump in my throat and maybe a hole in my heart. You are always there waiting for me I know but you're killing me and each kiss leaves me gasping for breath. There is hardly anywhere we can go together now anyway and without you they say things will be better. Serge Gainsbourg, Bill Hicks, Humphrey Bogart, every French film I ever saw, every 1940's film I ever saw will always remind me of you. Clerkenwell and London will never be the same. Post coital langour, the drinking dens, the end of the evenings, waterloo bridge, Paris will never be the same.
We took drugs together, made love together, sung together. we even managed to dance together. You kept time through all those conversations about life, love, lust, longing. I shared you with friends, took you to business meetings, introduced your guest appearances on stage. I hid you from my family for so long but you forgave me. You always forgave me. You were always there waiting.
You are long and pale and slim. I have unwrapped you so many times. You make me burn. I can catch your scent - right here, right now
Will you forgive me this? For I am leaving you. Will i miss you? I hope so and I hope not.....
Yes, i really must give you up
with love
Stephen
Death of the British Bohemian
It's nearly Christmas, nowhere near Easter and yet, somehow, I feel like I have been resurrected. I wonder why? It has been a very strange year - what with Stephen disappearing /dying and all that. Still, soon it will be done and then there will be another one......
Last week I met up with a very nice chap called Nathan Larson in Patisserie Valerie in Soho. Now don't get me started on Patisserie Valerie - or Maison Bertaux - or The French House- or The Coach and Horses for that matter - or else I'll get overly sentimental and embarassing. Suffice to say that, if you know it, you will know that - along with places like Jerry's , the Piccadilly Cafe and the Colony Rooms, it's one of the few bits of old Soho left. Now I don't want to sound too retro or whatever but in the ghastly homogenity and suffocating cafe-latte niceness of Blair's Britain, it's a relief to be able to passive smoke in peace somewhere. I know that there isn't anything particularly beat or bohemian about some of those sad, pissed-up old lags in the Coach but at least it looks like a pub - or rather, should I say, it IS a pub - there are plenty of places that look like pubs - but aren't, aren't there? It's amazing no? A few years ago, they ripped the guts out of all the old places and either tried to make them look like they were in New York, or did the gastro thing, or gave them that hideous new 'media' look.......and now, they have decided to change them again and are trying to make them look like ......pubs.....(I was in the Coach the other day with a friend - who was torn up over a girl and wondering if he does some work on a hardcore porno it might help get his rather wonderful non-porno films a chance - and he told me that the place will soon be sold - to a member of Madness - let's pray he's sane enough to leave it exactly like it is).
Anyway, so I met up with Nathan who kindly gave me the benefit of some of his laconic wisdom. He's a very modest, talented dude who has done a load of cool film music and other things (see www.nathanlarson.com) and who is working on the new Stephen Frears film about the late, not-so-great Princess Di. We left and I blew what's left of MY cool by not being able to find the key to my bicycle lock. I spent thirty minutes or so repeatedly ransacking my pockets, my bag and the cafe, and swearing in a blind rage - only to find it - still in the lock on my bike. Now, what this means is that either Londoners have become a lot less observant - or a lot more honest. I mean they could have nicked my bike without seeming to and then been able to lock it up themselves TO PREVENT ME NICKING IT BACK! Later I went to see Mr Devandra Bernhardt play (rather underwhelming) and did a little show on the University of London radio station with the delightfully Dickensian Mr Sam Steddy.
Now I hear The Real Tuesday Weld are playing a little Christmas show as part of the Elefest at the Corsica Studios on December 2nd - It's free apparently. See www.corsicastudios.com
They are also aiming at a summer release for their next record - hopefully to coincide with The British Film Institute's DVD release of the Hans Richter film 'Dreams that Money Can Buy' containing the alternative soundtrack written and performed by the band (with the remarkable David Piper and Cibelle) for the Reality film production at the National Film theatre this year. The album features a number of VERY SPECIAL GUESTS in addition to the usual suspects I believe.
And oh yes, the recent Channel Four film 'Loving Ludmilla' exclusively featured music by band whilst the wonderfully wierd film 'Zerophilia' has a couple of tracks too (see: www.imdb.com/title/tt0421090/). Of course, there is also the new music for Alex's barking mad film: 'Return I will to old Brazil' (see: www.figlimigliproductions.com).
Speaking of returning, on Tuesday, it is the funeral of one of the last of the British Beats, Simon Watson Taylor at Kensal Rise cemetery. I only met Simon a few times - and fairly recently - at meetings of The Pataphysics Society. He was 82 years old when he died and had led an extraordinary life. George Melly wrote his obituary last week in The Independent where he was described as 'Surrealist turned anarchist, Pataphysician and hippie, Actor, Translator and ......Air Steward.' That kind of covers the bases pretty much doesn't it?
Now finally, I wanted to say thanks so much to another, still living, bohemian - my friend Jo Vella who has really helped me live in the Virtual World all this year. He is a real dude - a very creative, generous creature and, hey, he has his own blog too where he showcases some truly wonderful old jazz (see http://jazzonline.blogspot.com/). Apparently he wears flares, has an afro and a medallion too - what more do you want man?
love and history to you wherever you are..........
TCK
Last week I met up with a very nice chap called Nathan Larson in Patisserie Valerie in Soho. Now don't get me started on Patisserie Valerie - or Maison Bertaux - or The French House- or The Coach and Horses for that matter - or else I'll get overly sentimental and embarassing. Suffice to say that, if you know it, you will know that - along with places like Jerry's , the Piccadilly Cafe and the Colony Rooms, it's one of the few bits of old Soho left. Now I don't want to sound too retro or whatever but in the ghastly homogenity and suffocating cafe-latte niceness of Blair's Britain, it's a relief to be able to passive smoke in peace somewhere. I know that there isn't anything particularly beat or bohemian about some of those sad, pissed-up old lags in the Coach but at least it looks like a pub - or rather, should I say, it IS a pub - there are plenty of places that look like pubs - but aren't, aren't there? It's amazing no? A few years ago, they ripped the guts out of all the old places and either tried to make them look like they were in New York, or did the gastro thing, or gave them that hideous new 'media' look.......and now, they have decided to change them again and are trying to make them look like ......pubs.....(I was in the Coach the other day with a friend - who was torn up over a girl and wondering if he does some work on a hardcore porno it might help get his rather wonderful non-porno films a chance - and he told me that the place will soon be sold - to a member of Madness - let's pray he's sane enough to leave it exactly like it is).
Anyway, so I met up with Nathan who kindly gave me the benefit of some of his laconic wisdom. He's a very modest, talented dude who has done a load of cool film music and other things (see www.nathanlarson.com) and who is working on the new Stephen Frears film about the late, not-so-great Princess Di. We left and I blew what's left of MY cool by not being able to find the key to my bicycle lock. I spent thirty minutes or so repeatedly ransacking my pockets, my bag and the cafe, and swearing in a blind rage - only to find it - still in the lock on my bike. Now, what this means is that either Londoners have become a lot less observant - or a lot more honest. I mean they could have nicked my bike without seeming to and then been able to lock it up themselves TO PREVENT ME NICKING IT BACK! Later I went to see Mr Devandra Bernhardt play (rather underwhelming) and did a little show on the University of London radio station with the delightfully Dickensian Mr Sam Steddy.
Now I hear The Real Tuesday Weld are playing a little Christmas show as part of the Elefest at the Corsica Studios on December 2nd - It's free apparently. See www.corsicastudios.com
They are also aiming at a summer release for their next record - hopefully to coincide with The British Film Institute's DVD release of the Hans Richter film 'Dreams that Money Can Buy' containing the alternative soundtrack written and performed by the band (with the remarkable David Piper and Cibelle) for the Reality film production at the National Film theatre this year. The album features a number of VERY SPECIAL GUESTS in addition to the usual suspects I believe.
And oh yes, the recent Channel Four film 'Loving Ludmilla' exclusively featured music by band whilst the wonderfully wierd film 'Zerophilia' has a couple of tracks too (see: www.imdb.com/title/tt0421090/). Of course, there is also the new music for Alex's barking mad film: 'Return I will to old Brazil' (see: www.figlimigliproductions.com).
Speaking of returning, on Tuesday, it is the funeral of one of the last of the British Beats, Simon Watson Taylor at Kensal Rise cemetery. I only met Simon a few times - and fairly recently - at meetings of The Pataphysics Society. He was 82 years old when he died and had led an extraordinary life. George Melly wrote his obituary last week in The Independent where he was described as 'Surrealist turned anarchist, Pataphysician and hippie, Actor, Translator and ......Air Steward.' That kind of covers the bases pretty much doesn't it?
Now finally, I wanted to say thanks so much to another, still living, bohemian - my friend Jo Vella who has really helped me live in the Virtual World all this year. He is a real dude - a very creative, generous creature and, hey, he has his own blog too where he showcases some truly wonderful old jazz (see http://jazzonline.blogspot.com/). Apparently he wears flares, has an afro and a medallion too - what more do you want man?
love and history to you wherever you are..........
TCK
The End
You step from the jetty onto the boat. There are lights everywhere. In the saloon, a full-blown party is in swing. Couples are dancing to a small jazz band on a tiny red stage at the end. "I'm your guardian angel, down from heaven to take you....."The crooner is whispering the words into the big radio city style microphone. He is looking over toward the door where you stand.
You walk to the bar, squeezing through the pirouetting dancers who turn and smile as you pass. The barman waltzes toward you with a glass in each hand. He takes a deep swig from one and passes you the other. It is Dr. Logos, in a high black tuxedo.
“My dear boy” he says, “you’ve made it - I’m so glad!”
You take the glass and drink and wonder if he is drunk. You turn and look out across the dance floor. Everyone looks familiar but you don't actually know who any of them are. Over in the corner you can see a couple sitting at a table with a candle. As soon as you look at them, they stand up, wave and beckon you to join them. You try to move toward them but, as you go, people take you by the hand and embrace you. Women kiss you and pull you into the dance, men shake your hand. You are laughing and crying at the same time although you have absolutely no idea why. You no longer feel unhappy but then you don't feel especially happy either. You finally make it to the table. The couple stands to greet you. The woman is holding a baby. She is dressed in simple, elegant evening clothes and her hair is tied back in a neat in a neat bun. It's Amina. She holds the baby out for you to see.
'Isn't he lovely?' She laughs.
You look down at the bundle in her arms. The baby's just like any other baby but a strange feeling comes over you - although whether for the baby, or for Amina, you cannot tell. You look up at Amina and try to speak but the words don't come. She smiles and puts her finger to your lips:
“I know, I know, don't you worry, it's ok!”
You turn to the father, who had seemed like an ordinary Jo with slicked back blonde hair, a slight quiff and smart, slightly military style clothes.
“Hello old sport,” he says “fancy seeing you here!” He winks at you
You are shocked into the sudden realization that it's him. It's the Clerkenwell Kid. It's Valentine. Why couldn't you see before? You embrace rather awkwardly.
“Congratulations” you say, “I, I never expected....”
Valentine looks at Amina and winks again. They grin.
“No, old sport, we didn't either. We didn't either”.
You stand for a few moments in silence, smiling at each other and it’s almost like old times. Suddenly the baby gurgles and they look down. You wait for a few moments and then leave them and begin to squeeze back across the dance floor.
The crooner is tapping his microphone:
“Everybody, please! This one 's for Stephen:……. When somebody loves you, its no good unless they love you all the way…”
The old, old words float out. You are crying and laughing again and you still don't know why. The singer beckons you up onto the stage. He passes you the microphone and you start to sing without hesitation
“Deeper than the deep blue sea, that's how deep it is - if its real......”
He puts his arm around you and you realize that it's Sonny Blake - but then you knew that it would be didn’t you? The song ends and the dancers start to clap and cheer. You bow and Sonny takes back the mike
“Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls. Even though it’s been difficult at times, I’d just like to say: you've been a wonderful audience!”
You climb down from the stage as he is warming up for another number and walk out across the floor and up the stairs out onto the deck. People pat you on the back and raise their glasses to you as you go. At the front of the boat you can see the pilot in his glass cabin. He turns and gives you the thumbs up. It is a beautiful warm night. There are a million stars above you and all around are the city lights spinning up into the sky. The shore seems far away but you can see that it is lined with people waving and pointing. You feel a great love pouring from you towards them, towards the river and towards the city. Fireworks explode somewhere. Are they outside you or inside you? You can’t tell now and it doesn't matter anyway. You stand at the prow and you can see that the boat is cutting through the water at an incredible speed - leaving sparks and little comet trails of gold and silver behind it. Huge soft lights are pulsing in the sky like giant heads above you. You remember your mother, lovely as she looked when you were small, leaning over you and laughing and then, there's your father in check shirt and boots, strong and dark and tall like he used to be. And there's a girl on some mountainside somewhere, smiling back over her shoulder at you and mouthing words you can’t quite hear. And the images come thick and fast now and the boat no longer seems like a boat but more like a ship and the people on the shore seem further away and you can feel that you’re leaving the city behind and you can feel the tide coming in and going out through the river and through the ship and through your body in great thick washes of warm, deep red sensation and you’re traveling at a tremendous speed outwards now and there is no more shore and no more leaving and you’re alone and yet not alone, full of longing but empty of desire and then suddenly, all that there is, is just the great….wide………… deep …………..sea.
You walk to the bar, squeezing through the pirouetting dancers who turn and smile as you pass. The barman waltzes toward you with a glass in each hand. He takes a deep swig from one and passes you the other. It is Dr. Logos, in a high black tuxedo.
“My dear boy” he says, “you’ve made it - I’m so glad!”
You take the glass and drink and wonder if he is drunk. You turn and look out across the dance floor. Everyone looks familiar but you don't actually know who any of them are. Over in the corner you can see a couple sitting at a table with a candle. As soon as you look at them, they stand up, wave and beckon you to join them. You try to move toward them but, as you go, people take you by the hand and embrace you. Women kiss you and pull you into the dance, men shake your hand. You are laughing and crying at the same time although you have absolutely no idea why. You no longer feel unhappy but then you don't feel especially happy either. You finally make it to the table. The couple stands to greet you. The woman is holding a baby. She is dressed in simple, elegant evening clothes and her hair is tied back in a neat in a neat bun. It's Amina. She holds the baby out for you to see.
'Isn't he lovely?' She laughs.
You look down at the bundle in her arms. The baby's just like any other baby but a strange feeling comes over you - although whether for the baby, or for Amina, you cannot tell. You look up at Amina and try to speak but the words don't come. She smiles and puts her finger to your lips:
“I know, I know, don't you worry, it's ok!”
You turn to the father, who had seemed like an ordinary Jo with slicked back blonde hair, a slight quiff and smart, slightly military style clothes.
“Hello old sport,” he says “fancy seeing you here!” He winks at you
You are shocked into the sudden realization that it's him. It's the Clerkenwell Kid. It's Valentine. Why couldn't you see before? You embrace rather awkwardly.
“Congratulations” you say, “I, I never expected....”
Valentine looks at Amina and winks again. They grin.
“No, old sport, we didn't either. We didn't either”.
You stand for a few moments in silence, smiling at each other and it’s almost like old times. Suddenly the baby gurgles and they look down. You wait for a few moments and then leave them and begin to squeeze back across the dance floor.
The crooner is tapping his microphone:
“Everybody, please! This one 's for Stephen:……. When somebody loves you, its no good unless they love you all the way…”
The old, old words float out. You are crying and laughing again and you still don't know why. The singer beckons you up onto the stage. He passes you the microphone and you start to sing without hesitation
“Deeper than the deep blue sea, that's how deep it is - if its real......”
He puts his arm around you and you realize that it's Sonny Blake - but then you knew that it would be didn’t you? The song ends and the dancers start to clap and cheer. You bow and Sonny takes back the mike
“Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls. Even though it’s been difficult at times, I’d just like to say: you've been a wonderful audience!”
You climb down from the stage as he is warming up for another number and walk out across the floor and up the stairs out onto the deck. People pat you on the back and raise their glasses to you as you go. At the front of the boat you can see the pilot in his glass cabin. He turns and gives you the thumbs up. It is a beautiful warm night. There are a million stars above you and all around are the city lights spinning up into the sky. The shore seems far away but you can see that it is lined with people waving and pointing. You feel a great love pouring from you towards them, towards the river and towards the city. Fireworks explode somewhere. Are they outside you or inside you? You can’t tell now and it doesn't matter anyway. You stand at the prow and you can see that the boat is cutting through the water at an incredible speed - leaving sparks and little comet trails of gold and silver behind it. Huge soft lights are pulsing in the sky like giant heads above you. You remember your mother, lovely as she looked when you were small, leaning over you and laughing and then, there's your father in check shirt and boots, strong and dark and tall like he used to be. And there's a girl on some mountainside somewhere, smiling back over her shoulder at you and mouthing words you can’t quite hear. And the images come thick and fast now and the boat no longer seems like a boat but more like a ship and the people on the shore seem further away and you can feel that you’re leaving the city behind and you can feel the tide coming in and going out through the river and through the ship and through your body in great thick washes of warm, deep red sensation and you’re traveling at a tremendous speed outwards now and there is no more shore and no more leaving and you’re alone and yet not alone, full of longing but empty of desire and then suddenly, all that there is, is just the great….wide………… deep …………..sea.
The Ugly & The Beautiful
We left Clerkenwell briefly a couple of weeks ago. Travelling out of town, we headed into the West - through the ugliness of Reading and Slough - to the beauty of mid Wales where the little literary town of Hay on Wye lies on the edge of the Black mountains. The event was a small, very special music festival called “The Green Man” held in the lovely grounds of a small stately home known as Baskerville Hall. It really was a delightful, languorous weekend spent lounging in the sun, lying on, the grass and ruminating on the strange nature of things. There were very a few minor celebs there, the odd discerning journalist and a lot of bands and musicians who fall vaguely into the category of ‘nu-folk’ or ‘folktronica’ or ‘alt-country’. There was no corporate sponsorship, very little security – you could have just leap frogged the fence – no Starbucks, cash dispensers or franchised extortion. Apart from that and the clear country air, sunshine and local provender, the most refreshing thing was too notice how bloody ugly most of the male musicians were. The women were generally a bit more attractive but then that’s often the way.
Now I like beauty – and beauty there was in abundance – but on the whole it was in the backdrop of the mountain landscape and, if human, in the mouths and instruments of the players rather than in their skin. That is to say, it was a property of the music rather than the way they looked. Take that remarkable wild man of the woods known sometimes as ‘Bonny Prince Billy’ - even his mother wouldn’t claim him as a conventional pretty picture - or take the down at heel accountant known as ’Malcolm Middleton’ - or that remarkable out of work painter and decorator “The Lone Pigeon’. Head-turners none of them but all making some heart-stoppingly lovely sounds. Perhaps it’s the rootsy nature of the genre that makes it possible – perhaps it’s because the ambulance chasing industry types are only just catching up – perhaps it’s because the people who enjoy the music are somewhat immune to the beauty regime that dominates everywhere else. Perhaps. But thank heavens there is some small green corner of the land and the culture where it still doesn’t actually matter what you look like.
Of course, none of this is really news and of course we expect gross superficiality, sexism and ageism from the mainstream big guys - and it’s understandable - if not forgiveable. But the invidious, creeping tyranny of having to be finger- looking good to be given an opportunity to give the world music seems to be spreading to some of the Indies too. I mean, didn’t they used to take pride in giving the most unattractive, nerdy, piss weak, chinless geeks record deals? Look at Belle and Sebastian – well you wouldn’t particularly want to would you? – but, it didn’t matter – because they sounded great (well, pretty good at any rate). Now, things seem to have changed – I mean an A+R friend (who loves music and has very good taste) recently told me that a label she knew rejected The Magic Numbers – because they were fat and hairy. Ouch. Oh dear….Still, it might be possible to justify that with the notion that having a fat and hairy band become successful is the exception that proves the rule - is a temporary blip, a novelty, an aberration before the comforting hegemony of the beauty rules are re-established. Maybe.
But don’t you feel like you are getting short changed? Like you are getting ripped off? It’s like bringing those Schwarzenigger sized pumped-up peppers home from the supermarket. They look AMAZING – but, oh dear, they don’t taste of anything – it’s like eating an idea. And it’s not just music – my dear friend Glen Duncan told me the other day that you are far more likely to get your first book deal if you’re gorgeous! I mean can someone tell me why?! No? Well, perhaps it’s because the people who make the final decisions are the bean-counters and the marketeers – and guess what – they quite often don’t particulary like food, reading or listening to music!
Now being beautiful doesn’t mean you can’t write beautiful literature or songs – look at Nick Drake, Kate Bush, Syd Barrett etc (although, funnily enough, in some ways it might make it less likely.) But we remember them mainly for their music right? And of course, being ugly doesn’t guarantee talent, but many of the people I admire are really not a pretty sight. Look at Gainsbourg – “cabbage head’ as he called himself – or all those old jazz dudes– fat, scarred, wrinkled, bald – and the men were even worse! They were all so stylish though weren’t they?
It’s a funny world and it’s true that there are many noble exceptions and a couple of bastions of non-aesthetic discrimination still fighting the trend – just look at the good old BBC – I mean, it seems you can’t seem to get a job as a political journalist there unless you have huge sticky out ears and a gob like a frog – but generally if you want to even work the door in the entertainment business you have to be drop dead gorgeous.
Now why am I naively banging on about this and boring you to death? You’ve heard it all before and I’m gorgeous myself of course - so what do I care? J Well, it’s just because I was sitting in that field in mid-Wales chewing an English apple and reading a book by some old fright and it seemed so sad to think of all those wonderful musicians that we never got to hear, like all those wonderful writers we won’t read and all those wonderful vegetables we’ll never eat – because they didn’t look right. And, also mainly, to be honest, because I was hoping that when I’m ancient and ugly, they’d let me carry on doing the only thing that I ever really wanted to do: - trying to make beautiful music.
Now I like beauty – and beauty there was in abundance – but on the whole it was in the backdrop of the mountain landscape and, if human, in the mouths and instruments of the players rather than in their skin. That is to say, it was a property of the music rather than the way they looked. Take that remarkable wild man of the woods known sometimes as ‘Bonny Prince Billy’ - even his mother wouldn’t claim him as a conventional pretty picture - or take the down at heel accountant known as ’Malcolm Middleton’ - or that remarkable out of work painter and decorator “The Lone Pigeon’. Head-turners none of them but all making some heart-stoppingly lovely sounds. Perhaps it’s the rootsy nature of the genre that makes it possible – perhaps it’s because the ambulance chasing industry types are only just catching up – perhaps it’s because the people who enjoy the music are somewhat immune to the beauty regime that dominates everywhere else. Perhaps. But thank heavens there is some small green corner of the land and the culture where it still doesn’t actually matter what you look like.
Of course, none of this is really news and of course we expect gross superficiality, sexism and ageism from the mainstream big guys - and it’s understandable - if not forgiveable. But the invidious, creeping tyranny of having to be finger- looking good to be given an opportunity to give the world music seems to be spreading to some of the Indies too. I mean, didn’t they used to take pride in giving the most unattractive, nerdy, piss weak, chinless geeks record deals? Look at Belle and Sebastian – well you wouldn’t particularly want to would you? – but, it didn’t matter – because they sounded great (well, pretty good at any rate). Now, things seem to have changed – I mean an A+R friend (who loves music and has very good taste) recently told me that a label she knew rejected The Magic Numbers – because they were fat and hairy. Ouch. Oh dear….Still, it might be possible to justify that with the notion that having a fat and hairy band become successful is the exception that proves the rule - is a temporary blip, a novelty, an aberration before the comforting hegemony of the beauty rules are re-established. Maybe.
But don’t you feel like you are getting short changed? Like you are getting ripped off? It’s like bringing those Schwarzenigger sized pumped-up peppers home from the supermarket. They look AMAZING – but, oh dear, they don’t taste of anything – it’s like eating an idea. And it’s not just music – my dear friend Glen Duncan told me the other day that you are far more likely to get your first book deal if you’re gorgeous! I mean can someone tell me why?! No? Well, perhaps it’s because the people who make the final decisions are the bean-counters and the marketeers – and guess what – they quite often don’t particulary like food, reading or listening to music!
Now being beautiful doesn’t mean you can’t write beautiful literature or songs – look at Nick Drake, Kate Bush, Syd Barrett etc (although, funnily enough, in some ways it might make it less likely.) But we remember them mainly for their music right? And of course, being ugly doesn’t guarantee talent, but many of the people I admire are really not a pretty sight. Look at Gainsbourg – “cabbage head’ as he called himself – or all those old jazz dudes– fat, scarred, wrinkled, bald – and the men were even worse! They were all so stylish though weren’t they?
It’s a funny world and it’s true that there are many noble exceptions and a couple of bastions of non-aesthetic discrimination still fighting the trend – just look at the good old BBC – I mean, it seems you can’t seem to get a job as a political journalist there unless you have huge sticky out ears and a gob like a frog – but generally if you want to even work the door in the entertainment business you have to be drop dead gorgeous.
Now why am I naively banging on about this and boring you to death? You’ve heard it all before and I’m gorgeous myself of course - so what do I care? J Well, it’s just because I was sitting in that field in mid-Wales chewing an English apple and reading a book by some old fright and it seemed so sad to think of all those wonderful musicians that we never got to hear, like all those wonderful writers we won’t read and all those wonderful vegetables we’ll never eat – because they didn’t look right. And, also mainly, to be honest, because I was hoping that when I’m ancient and ugly, they’d let me carry on doing the only thing that I ever really wanted to do: - trying to make beautiful music.
Introducing the Band ...
It’s a funny thing being in a band, particularly being in a band like The Real Tuesday Weld because you aren’t really sure whether it is a band at all – and sometimes, it appears that nobody else is either. Now, I like confusion and complexity and ambiguity and, of course, ambivalence but sometimes, perhaps, it’s good to set the record straight.
You see, it was never the intention to have a band at all. I was quite happy working in the studio with The Clerkenwell Kid, never seen and only heard on record. We refused every offer, bribe and prayer to play that we ever received. After all, what would be the point? It was never going to sound like the records unless we bored everybody with huge amounts of equipment on stage and really, why bother? But certain people (Tracy Lee Jackson) kept pleading and promising and badgering and bullying until, very reluctantly, it was agreed that we would have a little party, not a gig mind you but a party, at that delightful odd venue in Bloomsbury called ‘The Horse Hospital’. (By the way, if you don’t know the place, it really is worth checking out – it actually was a hospital for horses – it has a big ramp for animals with big legs, a rubberised floor with drainage channels to catch all the messy stuff and now holds remarkable film and fashion events).
So, I ‘DJ ed’. But everybody is a DJ now aren’t they? (How did that happen by the way? It’s all part of the democratisation of art I suppose – now critics, gallery owners and djs are just as important as the work of those they use.). Basically, I put a few of my favourite 1930s / 1940s / Gainsbourg / Morricone / Chanson songs clumsily on the cd players. We showed Alex Budovsky’s films, Glen Duncan did some readings and we all grooved around a bit.
But, as a surprise, in Tracy’s honour, I had secretly prepared a very short live set with my old friends Jacques Van Rhijn (Dutch aristocrat, great, great, great, great grandson of Rembrandt) and David Guez (French Algerian and James Spader look alike). Another old friend, the remarkable recluse Clive Painter did the sonics. We had decided to dispense with any attempt to sound like the records and performed quiet, sweet acoustic versions of ‘Anything but Love’, ‘La bete et la belle’ and ‘Someday (never)’.
Well, blow me down with a feather but it actually went quite well and, even more remarkably, we all quite enjoyed ourselves. But that really was meant to be that - until a week or so later, we got an invite to travel over to Athens and be wined, dined, watered and fed in luxury surroundings if we would only play a radio show and a little concert. We thought about it for a few seconds, said ‘oh, ok then’, learned a few more songs, dragged in Clive to play bass, bought some sunscreen and duly flew over to that ancient classical city.
Then, no sooner were we back in Blighty than the inestimable Ms Gail O Hara of Chickfactor fame proposed yet another live show – but this time in the insanely glamorous and monstrously mad borough of Manhattan. And so it went on: A residency in Clerkenwell, dates and tours in the US, Europe, the UK and Ireland, a host of radio sessions, David moving back to France, the peculiar and handsome Don Brosnan joining us, the wonderful classical geezer Brian Lee joining us, the live soundtrack to the Hans Richter film: ‘Dreams that money can buy’ (with the immensely gifted Cibelle and David Piper narrating), the odd funeral and Bar Mitzvah and so on and so on
What have I done to deserve this? I honestly don’t know – I mean I can’t play very well myself and I am surrounded by all these amazingly talented people who can! It’s a very, very good deal I can assure you. Rather unfairly, I tend to get most of the credit because it has mainly been me and the Clerkenwell Kid on the records so far – (with various guests including the band of course) - but if you have seen us you play live will know that that really is only half the story. It has been an evolving, collective, oscillating, ovulating thing and I am as surprised by the wonderful sounds being made as much as anyone else!
So, Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls, thank you. You really have been a wonderful audience but now I would like you to put your hands together and give a warm welcome to the band:
Jacques Van Rhijn: Clarinet
Clive Painter: Guitars
Jeremy Woodhouse: Percussion
Don Brosnan: The bass
Brian Lee: The piano and the violin
And, lest we forget, the remarkable:
Eyal Burnstein Visual Projections
Alex Budovsky Animations
Goodbye
You see, it was never the intention to have a band at all. I was quite happy working in the studio with The Clerkenwell Kid, never seen and only heard on record. We refused every offer, bribe and prayer to play that we ever received. After all, what would be the point? It was never going to sound like the records unless we bored everybody with huge amounts of equipment on stage and really, why bother? But certain people (Tracy Lee Jackson) kept pleading and promising and badgering and bullying until, very reluctantly, it was agreed that we would have a little party, not a gig mind you but a party, at that delightful odd venue in Bloomsbury called ‘The Horse Hospital’. (By the way, if you don’t know the place, it really is worth checking out – it actually was a hospital for horses – it has a big ramp for animals with big legs, a rubberised floor with drainage channels to catch all the messy stuff and now holds remarkable film and fashion events).
So, I ‘DJ ed’. But everybody is a DJ now aren’t they? (How did that happen by the way? It’s all part of the democratisation of art I suppose – now critics, gallery owners and djs are just as important as the work of those they use.). Basically, I put a few of my favourite 1930s / 1940s / Gainsbourg / Morricone / Chanson songs clumsily on the cd players. We showed Alex Budovsky’s films, Glen Duncan did some readings and we all grooved around a bit.
But, as a surprise, in Tracy’s honour, I had secretly prepared a very short live set with my old friends Jacques Van Rhijn (Dutch aristocrat, great, great, great, great grandson of Rembrandt) and David Guez (French Algerian and James Spader look alike). Another old friend, the remarkable recluse Clive Painter did the sonics. We had decided to dispense with any attempt to sound like the records and performed quiet, sweet acoustic versions of ‘Anything but Love’, ‘La bete et la belle’ and ‘Someday (never)’.
Well, blow me down with a feather but it actually went quite well and, even more remarkably, we all quite enjoyed ourselves. But that really was meant to be that - until a week or so later, we got an invite to travel over to Athens and be wined, dined, watered and fed in luxury surroundings if we would only play a radio show and a little concert. We thought about it for a few seconds, said ‘oh, ok then’, learned a few more songs, dragged in Clive to play bass, bought some sunscreen and duly flew over to that ancient classical city.
Then, no sooner were we back in Blighty than the inestimable Ms Gail O Hara of Chickfactor fame proposed yet another live show – but this time in the insanely glamorous and monstrously mad borough of Manhattan. And so it went on: A residency in Clerkenwell, dates and tours in the US, Europe, the UK and Ireland, a host of radio sessions, David moving back to France, the peculiar and handsome Don Brosnan joining us, the wonderful classical geezer Brian Lee joining us, the live soundtrack to the Hans Richter film: ‘Dreams that money can buy’ (with the immensely gifted Cibelle and David Piper narrating), the odd funeral and Bar Mitzvah and so on and so on
What have I done to deserve this? I honestly don’t know – I mean I can’t play very well myself and I am surrounded by all these amazingly talented people who can! It’s a very, very good deal I can assure you. Rather unfairly, I tend to get most of the credit because it has mainly been me and the Clerkenwell Kid on the records so far – (with various guests including the band of course) - but if you have seen us you play live will know that that really is only half the story. It has been an evolving, collective, oscillating, ovulating thing and I am as surprised by the wonderful sounds being made as much as anyone else!
So, Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls, thank you. You really have been a wonderful audience but now I would like you to put your hands together and give a warm welcome to the band:
Jacques Van Rhijn: Clarinet
Clive Painter: Guitars
Jeremy Woodhouse: Percussion
Don Brosnan: The bass
Brian Lee: The piano and the violin
And, lest we forget, the remarkable:
Eyal Burnstein Visual Projections
Alex Budovsky Animations
Goodbye
I, Lucozade
You may have recently seen a commercial for a certain fizzy drink featuring a gang of mad cuckoos jumping around to some peculiar bouncy music (on the television and at cinemas in Europe at least). Well, the music was by The Real Tuesday Weld and the amazing animation was by a peculiar Russian friend of mine called Alex Budovsky. In fact both were developed from earlier films for tracks from the ‘I Lucifer’ album.
I am often asked how I know Alex – I mean he is an ex-pat Russian from St. Petersburg living in Brooklyn, New York and I am a pale-faced, down at heel ex-aristocrat who finds it difficult to leave my bit of London, England. Well, it all comes down to the wonders of this new fangled thing they call the Internet. You see, one day, I got an e-mail completely out of the blue which said in rather broken English: ‘Dear Mr Stephen, I am making a film to one of your tracks, do you mind?’ Very polite that ‘do you mind’ don’t you think? I like that. So, I wrote back in an equally polite manner: ‘no, of course not old sport. But you will let me see the results when it’s done won’t you?’
Now I don’t mind telling you, I fully expected to never hear anything about the matter again or, if I did, for it to be one of those computer generated affairs you can get software to do automatically plus a bit of monkeying around on top. So, you can imagine my surprise therefore, when less than a week later, I received a disc in the post from the United States of America with an absolutely remarkable animation choreographed to the track ‘(still) terminally ambivalent over you’. It had all sorts of malarkey going on between various people in strange hats, a prison, gramophones, a lavatory, a baguette and I don’t know what else. I was charmed and not a little blown away.
It turned out that Alex had discovered the track when he was round at another Russian friend’s apartment in Coney Island. This friend – Radik – had heard it himself in that peculiar and delightful shop: ‘Other Music’ in Manhattan. The very next time I visited that august and noble metropolis, we met for tea and I expressed my appreciation in no uncertain terms – I mean, after all, this was Alex’s very first film – and we discussed the possibilities of another collaboration. Well, that planning eventually bore fruit in the avian madness of the ‘Bathtime in Clerkenwell’ animation and the rest, as they say, is history – Alex went on to win a list of awards as long as both your arms – Sundance, Cannes, Krok, Aspen etc., etc., etc.. He gave up his job as an electrician at the port authority, travelled the world and ended up signing to Palm Pictures. Gosh it makes you think doesn’t it? But, you see, it could easily have been so different couldn’t it? – not just if Alex’s original e-mail had gone astray but if we had stuck to our original plan which didn’t involve birds at all.
You see, ‘I Lucifer’ is the soundtrack to the novel of the same name by Glen Duncan. The book is the story of the devil being given one last chance for salvation by having to live on earth – without sin - in the body of a failed writer in Clerkenwell. When I told Alex all about this, and particularly about the scene which has the devil waking up in the bath, we decided that this would be the story of the animation – actually it sounds quite good, no? So, I went about my business and Alex disappeared to Russia – to Siberia in fact – where he was undertaking an epic trip to a strange and mystical island in the far north. I heard from him by e-mail fairly regularly until unannounced there was a long silence. This continued for some time until one day I finally received a highly excited missive.
It turned out that, whilst our man was crossing the sea in a ramshackle boat piloted by a semi-inebriated captain, there had been a storm and the boat had suddenly and terrifyingly capsized. Plunged into almost freezing water, those on board managed to swim and drag each other to shore where they had to strip naked and light fires to dry themselves and their clothes before hypothermia set in. Fortunately, all’s well that end’s well and everybody survived unaffected – at least physically - by the experience.
But, as the e-mail went onto relate, whilst in the icy water, at this moment of existential crisis, Alex had looked up and had had what I would describe as ‘a white light’ experience as he floated there before he managed to get ashore. Things would never be the same for that Mr Budovsky:
“Stephen, there is no way, we can have the devil in this film, absolutely no way. I have seen the light. But it’s alright, everything’s going to be alright I promise you, everything all makes sense now man… I have had this idea about an army of cuckoos trying to take over London……….’
And so they did.
I am often asked how I know Alex – I mean he is an ex-pat Russian from St. Petersburg living in Brooklyn, New York and I am a pale-faced, down at heel ex-aristocrat who finds it difficult to leave my bit of London, England. Well, it all comes down to the wonders of this new fangled thing they call the Internet. You see, one day, I got an e-mail completely out of the blue which said in rather broken English: ‘Dear Mr Stephen, I am making a film to one of your tracks, do you mind?’ Very polite that ‘do you mind’ don’t you think? I like that. So, I wrote back in an equally polite manner: ‘no, of course not old sport. But you will let me see the results when it’s done won’t you?’
Now I don’t mind telling you, I fully expected to never hear anything about the matter again or, if I did, for it to be one of those computer generated affairs you can get software to do automatically plus a bit of monkeying around on top. So, you can imagine my surprise therefore, when less than a week later, I received a disc in the post from the United States of America with an absolutely remarkable animation choreographed to the track ‘(still) terminally ambivalent over you’. It had all sorts of malarkey going on between various people in strange hats, a prison, gramophones, a lavatory, a baguette and I don’t know what else. I was charmed and not a little blown away.
It turned out that Alex had discovered the track when he was round at another Russian friend’s apartment in Coney Island. This friend – Radik – had heard it himself in that peculiar and delightful shop: ‘Other Music’ in Manhattan. The very next time I visited that august and noble metropolis, we met for tea and I expressed my appreciation in no uncertain terms – I mean, after all, this was Alex’s very first film – and we discussed the possibilities of another collaboration. Well, that planning eventually bore fruit in the avian madness of the ‘Bathtime in Clerkenwell’ animation and the rest, as they say, is history – Alex went on to win a list of awards as long as both your arms – Sundance, Cannes, Krok, Aspen etc., etc., etc.. He gave up his job as an electrician at the port authority, travelled the world and ended up signing to Palm Pictures. Gosh it makes you think doesn’t it? But, you see, it could easily have been so different couldn’t it? – not just if Alex’s original e-mail had gone astray but if we had stuck to our original plan which didn’t involve birds at all.
You see, ‘I Lucifer’ is the soundtrack to the novel of the same name by Glen Duncan. The book is the story of the devil being given one last chance for salvation by having to live on earth – without sin - in the body of a failed writer in Clerkenwell. When I told Alex all about this, and particularly about the scene which has the devil waking up in the bath, we decided that this would be the story of the animation – actually it sounds quite good, no? So, I went about my business and Alex disappeared to Russia – to Siberia in fact – where he was undertaking an epic trip to a strange and mystical island in the far north. I heard from him by e-mail fairly regularly until unannounced there was a long silence. This continued for some time until one day I finally received a highly excited missive.
It turned out that, whilst our man was crossing the sea in a ramshackle boat piloted by a semi-inebriated captain, there had been a storm and the boat had suddenly and terrifyingly capsized. Plunged into almost freezing water, those on board managed to swim and drag each other to shore where they had to strip naked and light fires to dry themselves and their clothes before hypothermia set in. Fortunately, all’s well that end’s well and everybody survived unaffected – at least physically - by the experience.
But, as the e-mail went onto relate, whilst in the icy water, at this moment of existential crisis, Alex had looked up and had had what I would describe as ‘a white light’ experience as he floated there before he managed to get ashore. Things would never be the same for that Mr Budovsky:
“Stephen, there is no way, we can have the devil in this film, absolutely no way. I have seen the light. But it’s alright, everything’s going to be alright I promise you, everything all makes sense now man… I have had this idea about an army of cuckoos trying to take over London……….’
And so they did.
The Lucifer Connection
Well, the devil’s in the details so they say and, strangely, it seems to be so. For instance, when I first met Jacques (the wonderful clarinet player for the Real Tuesday Weld), he was dressed (or undressed as I should say) like the wicked one himself.
It had been a rather peculiar day. At that time, I was working in Fitzrovia a couple of days a week for someone who did a lot of refurbishment work for The Salvation Army. I was actually designing a twelve-foot high replacement crucifix for a Sally Army hall in Whitstable on the Kent coast. (Whitstable is quite nice by the way – good for oysters I believe). I was bored. I had been out all night and frankly, I felt terrible. It was one of those days when, you know, you somehow how manage to get in to work because you have to and you need the money and if you miss another day it’s over and you keep telling yourself: ‘just get through this, get through this, then we can get home and get straight into bed and everything’s going to be alright’.
I was nodding off and I couldn’t focus. I mean it's not that hard to design a cross right? I mean all the work’s already been done for you hasn’t it? Well, I was making a terrible pig’s ear of it and I could sense the combination of concern and puzzlement / distaste of the other people who were around. (Thankfully, the one Christian present was being very nice to me.)
Anyway, there I was doodling over this crucifix and thinking about the cross in St. Joseph’s when I was small and thinking about my mother (ex-nun) and wondering ‘where did it all go wrong?’ when the phone rang and it was for me:
‘Stephen, will you be my Jesus?”
“Sorry?”
“Will you be my Jesus?”
This was said in a heavily accented French female voice which, although I don’t know how to represent in writing, was unmistakeably that of Sophie Seashell, manager of the crazed castrati band The Tiger Lillies, an old friend of mine and, at that time, co-founder of the wonderful art-cabaret club ‘Nux Vomica’.
Apparently, there was a Nux Vomica show on that very evening and Sophie had decided to do a ‘piece’ around Mary Magdalene. She needed some extras. She had somebody who was going to play the Devil and was calling to see if I would take the part of the Son of God. Having had a very strict Catholic upbringing, I was understandably rather superstitious about it…and then there was the matter of the hangover and that promised early night in. I refused. Point blank. And I felt proud.
But anyway, you know how it is. The day goes on. You go out for lunch, wander round Soho a bit, think about life, come back to work, think: ‘I can’t fucking stand doing this for much longer”, the Ibuprofen and the metabolism kick in a bit and you start to feel just a bit perkier. The prospect of an early night now seems rather depressing. Everyone else will be out having fun, you're only young once, you are becoming bourgeoisie, what about Dylan Thomas? etc., etc..
So, I rang Sophie back:
‘Ok, I’ll do it”…
Four hours later, I entered an upstairs room in a pub in Islington and was directed to the ‘dressing room’. This, I kid you not, was the size of a saloon car. Already in it were Sophie, who was wearing nothing but three carefully placed seashells, and a friend of hers' who was wearing nothing but a pair of horns (and a grin). Sophie introduced us:
‘Stephen this is Jacques”
‘Er, oh, hello’
I wasn’t quite sure what to shake.
It had been a rather peculiar day. At that time, I was working in Fitzrovia a couple of days a week for someone who did a lot of refurbishment work for The Salvation Army. I was actually designing a twelve-foot high replacement crucifix for a Sally Army hall in Whitstable on the Kent coast. (Whitstable is quite nice by the way – good for oysters I believe). I was bored. I had been out all night and frankly, I felt terrible. It was one of those days when, you know, you somehow how manage to get in to work because you have to and you need the money and if you miss another day it’s over and you keep telling yourself: ‘just get through this, get through this, then we can get home and get straight into bed and everything’s going to be alright’.
I was nodding off and I couldn’t focus. I mean it's not that hard to design a cross right? I mean all the work’s already been done for you hasn’t it? Well, I was making a terrible pig’s ear of it and I could sense the combination of concern and puzzlement / distaste of the other people who were around. (Thankfully, the one Christian present was being very nice to me.)
Anyway, there I was doodling over this crucifix and thinking about the cross in St. Joseph’s when I was small and thinking about my mother (ex-nun) and wondering ‘where did it all go wrong?’ when the phone rang and it was for me:
‘Stephen, will you be my Jesus?”
“Sorry?”
“Will you be my Jesus?”
This was said in a heavily accented French female voice which, although I don’t know how to represent in writing, was unmistakeably that of Sophie Seashell, manager of the crazed castrati band The Tiger Lillies, an old friend of mine and, at that time, co-founder of the wonderful art-cabaret club ‘Nux Vomica’.
Apparently, there was a Nux Vomica show on that very evening and Sophie had decided to do a ‘piece’ around Mary Magdalene. She needed some extras. She had somebody who was going to play the Devil and was calling to see if I would take the part of the Son of God. Having had a very strict Catholic upbringing, I was understandably rather superstitious about it…and then there was the matter of the hangover and that promised early night in. I refused. Point blank. And I felt proud.
But anyway, you know how it is. The day goes on. You go out for lunch, wander round Soho a bit, think about life, come back to work, think: ‘I can’t fucking stand doing this for much longer”, the Ibuprofen and the metabolism kick in a bit and you start to feel just a bit perkier. The prospect of an early night now seems rather depressing. Everyone else will be out having fun, you're only young once, you are becoming bourgeoisie, what about Dylan Thomas? etc., etc..
So, I rang Sophie back:
‘Ok, I’ll do it”…
Four hours later, I entered an upstairs room in a pub in Islington and was directed to the ‘dressing room’. This, I kid you not, was the size of a saloon car. Already in it were Sophie, who was wearing nothing but three carefully placed seashells, and a friend of hers' who was wearing nothing but a pair of horns (and a grin). Sophie introduced us:
‘Stephen this is Jacques”
‘Er, oh, hello’
I wasn’t quite sure what to shake.
Where Sleeping Pigs lie
Carefully, deliberately, I leaned forward and stubbed my cigarette out on the back of the neck of the fat man. The skin sizzled as though melting and opened around and closed around the butt so that when I pulled my fingers away, it stayed there as if in a plate of food. I stepped back and waited for the onslaught thinking: “I’ll get one good hard kick in his bollocks and then make a run for it”. But the fat man didn’t turn. He didn’t even flinch. Terrifyingly, the burn seemed to have had no effect on him whatsoever. Carefully, cautiously, I edged around him until I came into an exact line with the piggy profile resting heavily on the pork-sausage fingered hands. His eyelids were slack and there was a dribble of gob hanging from his lower lip.
He was insensible.
He was insensible.
In fact, he was dead.
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