Hair by Maurice

Out cycling today I couldn’t resist snapping what could quite possibly one of the most fashionable horses around…

There’s a certain 80’s vibe going on there but, as us fashionistas know, the 80’s are coming back. Look out for the Iron Lady and Reagan look coming to shops near you.

But the horse had me thinking. Do you think he was in the salon, leaning back on a faux leatherette chair with other horses in a line either side, leafing through ‘Pony’ and ‘Horse and Hounds’ when suddenly he saw an article on Wham! and said, “that’s the one for me”. He’s clearly fashion conscious, he posed for the camera…

Cool Britannia

I really do believe there’s only one country in the world where people would turn up for a concert in a car park at the end of 3 weeks of unseasonably cold and wet weather to watch an evening of music from a brass band and a symphony orchestra. In fact it’s a testament to their national pride that not only do they turn up in their thousands, they bring champagne, cool boxes (the temperature has barely dared above 17 celcius for the last month or so), patio furniture and wigs, waving small union jack flags.

For the last few years now the newspapers, and I’m excluding The Daily Mail here, have been asking where “the peoples'” sense if national identity and national pride have gone. Where everyone who holds bulldogs, stiff upper-lips and bowler hats in high esteem is hiding. Now I can answer that question. They’re all in car parks on Saturday evenings roused into a standing regimental posture from their teak patio chairs belting out Land of Hope and Glory whilst clutching little plastic union jack flags.

People say that the the country is now too polite to boast its successes, and that political correctness has made us embarrassed to show our national pride, but nobody told these people. With picnic rugs spread across the grass and wearing enough layers to restock their local Primark store, it was like middle-england’s answer to the Gay Pride parade. Sure, they listened politely to music by Wagner, classical music’s closest ally to Hitler, and Nessum Dorma briefly reminded us of past World Cup losses, but it was just a polite nod to other countries before the main attraction. The British Sea songs and music from local hero Elgar, and man whose mustache was reportedly the inspiration for both the set-square and the spirit level.

Then we reached Rule Britannia and they began to come out of their shells. I have no doubt that everyone was aware that they were in the middle of a field, but we had the spirit of the front lines of World War One. It’s a song which has lost much of it’s meaning. We no longer rule the waves, as we have a navy of sailors who cry if someone takes away their Ipods. We’ve also been nice to our Scottish friends by removing the verse about them. But in the light of recent attempts at creating public anxiety and fear there was a heightened sentiment as they sang ‘Britains never ever ever shall be slaves’. I defy even those most floppy-haired liberal to sit in front of thousands of people singing that and not at least feel a small wibble deep in the cockles of their hearts and a tiny quiver down their spine.

And then it occurred to me. American children pledge allegiance to the flag every morning at school. I think I can cure teenage delinquency, stop those people whose week reaches a pinnacle as they urinate on public statues every Friday. It’s very simple – everyone must sing Rule Britannia once a week. It doesn’t have to be public. We could open football matches with it. It could be piped out in lifts. Radio 2 could play it every day before Jeremy Vine comes on to talk about religious unease with his usual editorial slant based on the ramblings of the Daily Mail.

There’s only one possible drawback I can see. Ultimately, we’ll all be standing out in fields waving plastic flags and drinking champagne from plastic cups off of plastic furniture and I have a feeling the rest of the world will be watching thinking we’ve all gone cuckoo…

Hello Winchcombe

It’s everyone’s childhood dream to step out on stage, Steve Tyler style with legs apart, confident posture, arms raised in a V (small homage to Eddi Vedder there), and welcome an entire town to your show. Your show.

For some it’s Kylie, for others it’s Jethro Tull, most people (and at this point I’m leaving out the unfathomable few who claim to never listen to music) spend their informative years idolising some rock star or another. For me it was and still is The Who. I’m sat here now, for example, still wanting to be Pete Townshend as I watch him work his thing on-stage at Glastonbury. I’m not actually there, it’s not happening live, but even on a small TV screen I still get that tingle down my spine and the current passes from the guitar, through the amp and straight into your nervous system. It’s something every musician understands. Unless, perhaps, they’re Baroque players, but I guess even they get a bit of electrical current through those tweed jackets with leather patches on the elbows from time to time.

It’s like a drug. You start out with a few friends as an audience, then a few dozen. Eventually you’re seeking the higher doses, the stronger fix. Soon you’re up to the prescription level stuff, up to a hundred, a few hundred. You get hungry for more and more until you reach the ultimate high – the festival crowd. Every member of the audience feeds the habit, sending the blood coursing through your veins. It’s not a happy feeling, but it makes you feel alive. It’s that same adrenalin rush that Friday-night fighters get at chucking out time. It’s that confidence thing that the Grim Reaper himself could walk up alongside you and tap you on the shoulder and there’d be no chance. You’re indestructible.

My ultimate goal is to walk out on stage at a major festival. I remember winding my way to the very front of the stage at the Reading Festival as a teenager to get an unfettered view of the cellist in Irish moshers Therapy and wanting to be up there.

And tomorrow that sort out happens. A Prom complete with Spitfire fly past and a pyrotechnic depiction of apocalyptic proportions.

Actually, I take it back, Roger Daltrey has just walked back on with a mug of steaming tea and is singing some whimpish thing about tea and the theatre. What was that smashing sound? Oh, just my illusions…

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Wired for sound

Not so much for sound, as blog.

I’m entering a new age of blogging. Long tired of reading blogs written in airport lounges whilst tied relentlessly to my desktop computer, or struggling to format text via my mobile, this is my first post from a laptop.

Mini-Pooter (see my previous post of my amazing need to name everything and ascribe it a character) is our new faithful friend. The only problem – I’m currently sat 1 foot away from the desktop computer, tied to the Earth by a modem cable. Here’s looking at you amazing future technology…

Lapping it up

After a weekend spent largely in front of wealthy, well-to-do types, I’ve come back to my working week on a mission – to find a new laptop.

Yes I’d much rather have a Mac. Lonely nights using ProTools in recording studios persevering with one-eyed mice give me a warm glow for the Mac. I’m also ashamed to say I’d rather think of myself as the thick-plastic rimmed, Gap wearing, Toni and Guy groomed, annual holidaying Mac user.

Sadly the necessity to use it as a second computer and synch it to websites and music composition programmes require me to hide in shame as a grey-suited M&S PC type.

But here’s the dilemma. I’ve always had this thing for giving objects names. It’s actually more than that – they have personalities. My car gets hungry not empty, and ill not broken. My phone is a chirpy, well-educated chap dressed in a smart black Ericsson’s suit. And the computer is called ‘Pooter’. So what will he make of his new friend? Will he be glad to pass on some of his heavy workload (and believe me, we do pile the stress onto him), or will he be jealous? Will he start to sulk and misbehave? Will he pass on a nasty infection so that we gently caress his keys rather than those of the laptop?

I can’t help thinking if I got a Mac there’d at least be a language barrier between them, and Pooter would see that it wasn’t a replacement, just an alternative…

Today is a good day

In the words of Seattle Grunge-pop-ers Mudhoney’s Mark Arm, ‘Today is a good day’.

Sure, there were many reasons why today was a bad day, but like positive thinking and the advice to focus handed to us by ‘life gurus’, I have decided it was a good day.

In one foul swoop I gained a number of positive mana. First there was the Gap jumper that was exactly what I wanted but would never have paid it’s full price for, but today was on sale for barely over £10. Then there was the 6-dvd box set for £15 which allows me to watch Eddi Izzard in all sorts of fantastic attire rantic and raving about cows, monkeys and other animals in a vast array of European languages. Finally there was Starbucks. To be honest a vanilla latte is enough to make me happy on the worst of days were it not for the pang of righteous indignation I feel about stepping foot in the helix of corporate hell that is that green demon. But today I was given a free upgrade from the economy ‘tall’ to the club class executive lounge-wielding ‘Grande’.

Then it was revealed the world had saved the best ’til last as I heard, over the mall’s address system, ‘Would parents please be advised that heelies are banned within the mall. We take no responsibility for accident or injury’. WTF? What has the world come to, when parents have to be told that children barely of an age to control a bicycle without stabilisers might not be safe roller-skating around a busy shopping centre with shiny floors. Not only that, but just for those parents who say to their kids ’10 points for a pensioner, 20 for a pregnant lady’, they feel there may be just the slightest possibility a parent might sue them. Excellent.

Made me smile anyway…

I’m Viking this

When I was in Iceland last year I searched for Icelandic music to bring back home for some of my orchestras to play, but without success. But, thanks to Blogging Rekjavik I’ve been able to see what I missed out on.

Alternatively, for those of you unable to get to Glastonbury, I present The Levellers Tribute band.

Full Metal Handicap

The world has finally gone mad. I’m not sure when it happened. I imagine probably whilst Loose Women is on at lunchtimes on ITV. Most people find other things to do around then.

The usually liberal land of Sweden has surprised me today by being extra liberal. A man has officially been declared disabled due to addiction to Heavy Metal. So he pockets an additional £65 per week in benefits and time off work to a) go to concerts, b) buy cds, and c) rehearse with his band. Apparently the disability began by listening to Sabbath’s Paranoid in the early seventies.

I have a confession to make. It’s true. I’m addicted to fast cars and expensive gadgets. Now how do I get myself Swedish citizenship?

Throwing the (face)book at me

I’ve never been one for so-called ‘social networking’ sites. The title alone conjures various negative images. ‘Networking’ is something that goes on at office parties, launch do’s, and for musicians the concert hall. But it’s always had an element of 1980’s pale grey suits and the phrase ‘please, take a business card’ about it. Add the word ‘social’ to that and I’ve got an image of speed dating for computer geeks – ‘Meet 20 eligible bachelors/bachelorettes without ever having to log of from your Second Life avatar’.

But there I was signing up for a Facebook account. Not through choice so much as compulsion – someone had sent me an email saying I’d been added as a friend and now all I needed was an actual account. How could I refuse?

I’ve never been a school reunion type. Not through conscious effort, it’s just I’m hopelessly appalling at emailing people. Whilst the lovely Sarah recounts the latest ’round-robin’ email she’s had, or the latest pub meet-up she went to with her large group of school friends, I’ve continuously forgotten to keep in touch. Last year, for example, I made a conscious effort to get in touch with an old singer friend of mine from VI Form college. I lasted about a fortnight before my email replies started tailing away. Others I keep in touch with in a net-stalker type fashion – for example reading a blog a couple of times a week, I can’t remember the last time I emailed or met-up with a friend. The email addresses sit in that little bar down the side of Outlook Express, but the frame around them works like a force-field that deflects me off into other tasks rather than composing the message.

So Facebook. I hope this one lasts…

Baggy Trousers

I love reading the stranger news stories that slip under the radar during the week, and this week was no exception.

The Mayor of Louisiana signed a law this week to outlaw ‘saggy trousers’ in the US state this week. Not just this week. Forever, obviously. It was just that, you know, he signed the law this week.

I’m not sure what endeared the story to me more, the fact that in a country that advocates guns for all they’ve got time to ban those dangerous pesky jeans, or the fact that they guy calls them ‘saggy pants’. Therefore, over at BBC News online we have the caption, ‘White people wear sagging pants too – Mayor Carol Broussard’.

I’m not particularly against the saggy pants, but whilst we’re here, there are a few things I’ll be banning when I’m president*. Whilst I’m not overly afflicted at the sight of some guys grey CK underwear, can we have an automatic £80 fine for those thongs that are designed to be seen at least 3 inches higher than the waist? I’m also banning flip-flops – footwear of the level of engineering and comfort found safely in the sixteenth century – and t-shirts which make reference to a) previous decades and b) US states (unless you’re in the US).

It’s not just clothing that’ll fall by the wayside. Drinking those fluorescent alcopops must only be done in private residences under the strict supervision of a government inspector. Entry to pubs will only be granted to those who can answer a brief question on the correct use of apostrophes. Restaurants will only have those over 16 in them, and playgrounds are strictly for the under-14’s. Anyone caught in public with a phone which plays the Nokia ringtone will have their phone use restricted to weekends. People with walking sticks must walk on the right when walking down busy High Streets. Shopping malls will have a ‘Heelies-only lane’, and people will be forced to relieve themselves before entering public swimming pools.

Finally, there’ll be no more buses. Sorry everyone. They smell and create loads of pollution, and whenever I see one at the moment the people inside seem to be staring out of the window like they’re having some kind of fluid drained from their rear ends.

Vote me for president*.

* Obviously we don’t have a UK president, so I’m planning on starting my own republic. Look out for the recruitment ads.