ON THE SCENT OF SOMETHING OR OTHER

Whilst on the subject of body parts, I thought it might be worth drawing attention to one of London's lesser known features. I am sure most people are aware of the London Eye - the giant ferris wheel on the South Bank of the Thames in Westminster. But did you ever hear of another of the capital's facial features - The London Nose? No I thought not. Well, here it is - high up on a wall within Admirality Arch - so high in fact that it could only really be reached by a man on horseback. A man in the cavalry say who may pass it on his way to war with Napoleon and touch it as a good luck totem.

Interesting right? But I am very pleased to be able to announce that this isn't the only London Nose. There are in fact six other much lesser known noses whose purpose is entirely obscure. I did read the other day that London is the 'cocaine capital of Europe', so perhaps this nose is a monument to the practice of ingesting that illegal substance- Stiff upper lip powder as we used to call it. They are certainly in the right part of town.

Or perhaps they are there in recognition of the fact that until fairly recently one of the most significant things a visitor or new arrival to the city would have noticed was the smell. Talking with Catherine Arnold, it became clear to me that until the first world war, the place would have absolutely stank - of death, disease, rotting food, raw sewage and unwashed bodies. Nice.

Sniff.

FURTHER ADDITION 11 OCTOBER 2009..
I thought I would add three further noses. (one courtesy of David Wright - thanks). I intended to sniff out the other two soon.

Yesterday at Cafe Koha with Joe, I found myself sitting next to someone with a very fine nose indeed - Ms Jerry Hall. Nice to see an American Actor / model / whatever smoking Camels. I have given up myself but it's become so unpopular and un-PC that I have been reconsidering - especially when seeing smoke exhaled from such elegant lips. We did however then bump into the actor who played Dot Cotton in East-Enders and my resolution was strengthened.

Another fellow with a fine figure of a nose is the English musician Stephen Duffy. At the Raindance Festival on Friday, we saw the film 'Memory and Desire' a documentary about his career. Much of it was filmed in hand held close up - in fact, I thought the camera may be about to actually go up one of his nostrils at one point. Despite that, he has a wonderful and extraordinary time of it and had written some of my favourite tunes so it was a pleasure to see him so lauded.

I"M READY FOR MY CLOSE UP MR DE MILLE

I've been zipping around the freeways of Los Angeles in a hire car. This was a fairly terrifying experience - mainly for the citizens of Los Angeles. I know that Americans use the right side of the road (the wrong side we would say) but on all previous visits, my driving has been of the back seat variety.

The geography of the city became somewhat clearer to me as a result of my time on the roads - at least in that I understood much more clearly how radically different it is than European cities - first of all it is seemingly limitless and secondly, there is no centre. I liked it much more this time than previously - not difficult I suppose when you are sipping a cold drink by the pool of a house in the Hollywood hills or of a sea-front hotel in Santa Monica. I was of course there to work - but still.

Now on the other hand the psychogeography of the the place remains quite novel to someone used to the Dickensian labyrinths of London life. It's easy to assume that absolutely everyone is involved in the film business in some way or to fall back on easy cliches regarding superficiality, low carb diets and cosmetic surgery.

However, regarding the latter, I must point you at this delightfully spiteful piece of moving imagery by our old friend and colleague Alex De Campi for the Marcella and The Forget Me Nots song "What have you done to your Face?" produced by yours truly..

Quite put me off having any work done myself - even if I will be spending more time near the camera and musing on the words 'cut', 'score' and 'feature'.

EEL HEART LOVE

Yesterday to Broadway market to drink cocktails for Joe's birthday. He has reached the ancient age of 30 and therefore will not be able to drink there much longer as it now seems to be entirely the preserve of young hipsters.

I was reflecting on how much this part of the city has changed although as you will see below, a few fragments of the past still remain:

I am not particularly interested in Eels (hot or jellied) myself as I don't eat meat and they cannot be easily used for taxidermy purposes but I was glad to see that enough people - and possibly even some of the hipsters - still care enough to keep this shop in business

On the way home, we gave Rosie Cooper a lift to London Bridge. She is working on a very interesting project about The Dead - or what happens to us after we die - not in a metaphysical sense but in a mortuary sense. As we had earlier been to visit the wonderful but gruesome show Exquisite Bodies at the Wellcome Trust and what with the birthday and the eels and all, it felt rather a visceral day somehow.

For no obvious reason apart from the fact that this all made me think of it, here is the mash up of Blood Sugar Love and the Feist song 'How my Heart Behaves' all set to another of the amazing Catherine Anyango's lovely and mysterious films..

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TUESDAY

It was 66 years ago today.

I watched 'Once Upon a Time in America' the other night. How wonderful.
And each time I see the Cinncinati Kid, I just..
Anyway, I hope she's having a wonderful day.

Image by Peter Blake.

Tate Gallery London

CRAZY IN (AND OUT OF) LOVE

'Be careful what you wish for because it might just come true' - as someone or other said and indeed things have been so crazy of late, I barely know what to say.

Still, that has never stopped me before. Amongst other things, I have been working with the crazy Ms Puppini on her project 'The Forget Me Nots' - more on that and on the lure of Hollywood soon - but in the meatime I thought I would leave this - Eyal's crazy mash up for that crazy remix for The Puppini Sisters - and the last thing that crazy cat did before he left us for Berlin.

OUT OF THE BLUE AND INTO THE BLACK

I turned the corner and there before my eyes was a vast chamber with four massive cast iron valves high up on the wall. There was the constant sound of rushing water and the air was hot and damp with a heavy metallic odour.

I felt as though the walls were beginning to close in, my breath clogged in bloodied lungs, a white hot fear pierced into freezing black coldness within me.

He sat lounging in a giant chair with lavishly dressed men and girls on either side, a lizard on hs shoulder. Moths flew about - or were they butterflies? He was smiling, almost to himself, with a slightly puzzled look - not concerned, but interested in a cruel uncaring way like a cat with prey. The people around him were all looking at me.

I felt myself led forward. There was laughter and whispering but as he straightened a silence fell and his companions looked toward him.

Hello pilgrim

I'm in hell

Not yet

Who are you?

Don't you know?

I don't know anything. I know that I'm done with this - I'm out of it. All of it - I'm going to tell the world about you

He raised an eyebrow.

And who would listen Pilgrim?

The police, priests, the authorities?

Another smile.

It's no good old sport - you know it's really no good

How can you be like this? It's me, me you're talking to. Me

And this is Me my dear

And in that moment, I suddenly saw him as he truly was: completely other, almost alien, capricious as they say the Olympians were - not evil, just entirely amoral.

I'm leaving

Oh?

I'm getting out of here - I'm going home

And where would that be then old sport?

I turned and walked back towards the entrance - but there was no entrance.

Let me go

But there's nowhere to go my dear. Don't you know?

Know what?

His companions were sniggering again, all looking at me and each other with exaggerated caricatured sympathetic expressions. He silenced them with a wave.

It's no good my dear. You really have to give it up

Give up what?

All this ... disbelief. It just won't do any more

What?

Do I really have to spell it out?

Laughter broke out again.

Spell what out?

He stopped smiling. Looked directly at me.

You're dead

The heat and coldness in me intensified to an unbearable pitch.

I'm not dead, I'm not dead

He was smiling again, shaking his head, mocking but almost gentle once more.

I'm afraid you are old sport

You've been dead for years..

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

My friend Pete Sollet sent me this photograph. Big deal right? But this isn't the central east side of London, it's the lower east side of Manhattan. I do look forward to eating there soon - but if you get chance to check it out, do let us know whether it's worthy of the name won't you?

Unfortunately due to circumstances rather beyond my control, I may not be in New York this summer as planned. Having been there every year for so long now, it will seem strange to miss it this time around. Until last year, I nearly always stayed with Pete and Eva and their dog Rae in their lower east side apartment (I shared with Rae). Their films: 'Five feet high and Rising' and 'Raising Victor Vargas' are kind of hymns to that particular part of the city - as of course in a way, is 'Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist' for which they moved to LA for Pete to direct.

I was pleased to be able to contribute some music to that film which I thoroughly enjoyed. Here is the instrumental of Last Words. I don't think it's available any where else and, despite having being written about walking around London in a daze wondering where it all went wrong, it will now always remind me of driving around New York in a yellow taxi wondering where it all went right.

WILD GOOSE CHASE

I started this blog four years ago with an account of a visit I made to see the buried river Fleet far beneath the pavements of Clerkenwell. A lot has happened in the time since but I've remained fascinated by the city - both above and below ground. Here is a picture of the mouth of the river Effra which rises below St Marks church in Brixton and exits into the Thames on either side of Vauxhall bridge. It was taken at low tide when you can also see the mouth of the river Tyburn opposite and that of the river Westbourne farther up stream. There are various other out-falls along the northern bank reminding us that Westminster was once an island. The mouth of the Fleet is very difficult to see but it can be glimpsed from a westbound boat under Blackfriars bridge at low tide. The definitive work on the subject is Nicholas Barton's 'The Lost Rivers of London' and the incredible and intrepid guys at sub-urban have photographed many of the most dramatic underground waterways.

A friend asked me the other day what I would do if I were to be elected Mayor. I had no hesitation in telling her I would cancel the 2012 Olympics (does anyone really want them?) and spend the money on alienating a load of property owners by opening up the rivers again. Oh yes and by making the city vegetarian and it obligatory for everyone who lives here to record their dreams everyday. Ok, so my friend was a wild goose on the Thames foreshore but personally I think this would have a very remarkable and positive effect on us all.

I have been seeing Valentine again. Like Philemon, he has seemed at times to be a somewhat imaginary friend but nevertheless, like the rivers, constant.

To all friends - real or imagined - who have read this blog and listened, watched or commented over the years, much appreciation.

Here's to another four..

I LOOKED AROUND AND HE WAS GONE

We played at the Last Tuesday Society's Walpurgis Night on Friday. To my slight embarrassment, and possibly because of the German connection, until I saw Punchdrunk's extraordinary 'Faust' a couple of years back, I always thought Walpurgis Night was something to do with sausages.

Now we don't normally do club shows but we like Wynd and Suzette who run the society because they do interesting things. I suppose Walpurgis Night (which is actually at the end of April) is a kind of Norse Day of the Dead or Halloween and before the show I had the pleasure to meet and run the slides for Catherine Arnold who gave a talk on her: 'Necropolis: London and its Dead' (one of my favourite books about the city of recent times). Michael Nyman DJ-ed (yes, really) and Giles Abbott delivered a characteristically witty and potent story about Walpurgis. After the show a rather flamboyant Bacchanalia kicked in. My six months of sobriety have sometimes made such things a trifle difficult but these days they seem to lend an interesting, almost anthropological, perspective to the proceedings.

I liked the death-themed activities - particularly in a vault under London Bridge which always reminds me of the T S Eliot piece from 'the Wasteland":

"Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many"

I find it at least, if not more, appropriate to try to write about death as to write about love these days. I always thought it was a rather strangely neglected subject in modern music - apart from the Goth and Metal stuff - which is often just a bit silly. My favourite example is probably 'Abraham, Martin & John' by Marvin Gaye. That's absolutely glorious and generally gets eyes moist in these parts. Do let me know your own favourites.

In the meantime here is a little thing from a private little show I did in the vault of St Pancras church last summer. We've done a few things in vaults of late and a friend secretly recorded it and sent it to me. I generally don't approve of men over twenty five with acoustic guitars - but I'll make an exception in my own case.

ANYTHING BUT LOVE

I used to share an apartment with my friend the writer Glen Duncan in Notting Hill before we moved to Clerkenwell. At that time he had written three novels almost entirely concerned with the ins and outs of Love, Life and Relationships and he became regarded as rather an expert on the subject. We used to be visited by various friends or members of our circle (and sometimes by relative strangers) who were suffering from the punctures left by Cupid's arrows or from scars inflicted by other gods and who were seeking what psychotherapists would call 'the talking cure'. Now I claim no particular expertise in these areas (as, to be fair, neither did Glen) because in fact, we ourselves been rather bruised and both had a quite shoddy record in the field.

Anyway, come they did to our sky-high flat far above the city and Glen, or the 'Doctor of Love' as I referred to him, would listen carefully to the details of the various predicaments presented. My role primarily involved being sympathetic in the background and providing tea - and occasionally tissues - as required. After any particular situation had been described, discussed and deliberated, he would pause to consider then lean forward from his armchair with steepled fingers and confidently give his prognosis:

"I think you need to get laid"

His interlocutor would always leave with a definite slight spring in their step - albeit also with a slightly puzzled air at having had the complexities of their dilemma reduced to such a simple solution. On being subsequently questioned regarding the universal application of his panacea, The Doctor would assert, not unreasonably, that there were few human condiitons such medicine couldn't improve. I suppose he was right.

Anyway, here is the original version of a song from that period.

Hope it works for you.