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[anewinternational]

Good news for the damned

I've heard it said that kisses are a better fate than wisdom. I wouldn't know. All I know is that kisses are very lovely.  

I never found much joy with the girls at my own school. Perhaps familiarity had forever bred contempt. But the school over the hill was another matter. At the school over the hill were the Catholic girls and the Catholic girls were a revelation; positively ravenous with lust they were.  As was I.  Conditions, you might say, were highly favourable for my entrée into this new realm. Furthermore, I, being something of an unknown quantity on that side of the hill, was perhaps considered a novelty, a blank slate and, maybe even more importantly, a heathen.  A heathen, fallen far from god and filled to the brim with delectable sin. In some rare, niche areas of life, damnation to eternal hellfire confers a certain outlaw cachet. It felt unearned in my case but I took it anyway and, regardless of whatever dark workings of repressed unconsciousness were at play on this other side of the hill, I knew enough not to question my new found good fortune and was content to accept such suddenly favourable circumstances at face value.  

Sometimes success is clinched by saying nothing and doing even less. Less was, back then, and perhaps still is, the new more, and so, all that being so, I found myself in the blessed position of being called upon to perform services of, shall we say, deconsecration.  In return, I was initiated into secret passageways of the sacred heart and was further enlightened by rumours of the nuns at the over the hill school who, in between acts of faith, hope and charity, mercy, peace and love, still found time to preach tolerance, instructing their charges not to hate, never to hate. We must never give in to hate, they said.  And, above all, they said, let us not hate the Proddy children.  The poor little Proddy children huddled over there on the wrong, Proddy side of the hill.  The unchosen ones.  It is not their Proddy fault, preached the nuns. They do not know any better.  We must feel sorry for them.  

Now, I must admit, even though I was only Proddy by default, and barely aware of the fact at that, still, I bridled a little at that one.  I foolishly forgot to keep saying nothing.

"Are you fucking me because you feel sorry for me?" I asked, feeling sorry for myself.

"No", you said, "I'm fucking you because I like your dick".

And that was, of course, more than fair enough. For each and every job there is the correct tool and I was only too happy to be the handyman, honourably employed to perform services required.

Opportunity comes, if it comes at all, very much on its own terms.  I remember a balmy, summer evening bus shelter, long after the last bus had come and gone. All hallelujahs and hosannas I was.  And you were too. That much is true.

All hallelujahs and hosannas were we.  And you once made a believer out of me.

BS

26/4/23

[anewinternational]

A Traveller’s Guide to Lost and Later Songs

For those who may appreciate some background detail, I offer below my workings.

All audio references refer to recordings from the secret playlist, “Lost and Later, Early Days”- here 

#1 - Loverboy (19/01/13) 

On the cusp of lost and later, this song is something of both.  Written in the months before the revolution (earliest demo in the files is dated 19th January 2013), I was imagining something like Gene Pitney sings Misirlou, produced by Joe Meek.  I remember Loverboy getting its debut at a Hogmanay show in Glasgow’s Old Hairdressers.  Halfway through the song, a jolly fellow in high spirits took to the dancefloor and did “the dance of the two ales” (a self-explanatory dance which requires no partner).  I took that as a positive sign: the booze equivalent of two thumbs good. Loverboy retained its place in our live set until the Fabulon pre-production rehearsals.  Then, at a summit in the Laurieston bar with producer-in-chief Colin Elliot, the Politburo decided that Loverboy’s face didn’t quite fit the new regime (see also “Ghost Light”).  The song committed the youthful folly of trying to say everything and be everything to all people, rather than seeing a world in Blake’s grain of sand.  Its sprawling structure didn’t quite hang together and forgot the golden rule of pop music: get to the chorus, get to it already and get there by yesterday (people are busy you know and we don’t have time for your three-minute instrumental breakdown).  Compared to “Valentino”, its more popular elder sibling, Loverboy looked like the scruffier black sheep of the family who, perhaps if freed from the burden of fitting in with its peers and trying to impress, may yet come good.  It needed time; time that we didn’t have back then.   These days, well, it often feels like there’s nothing but time, even as it ebbs away until, all at once, the day has gone, a little like that line in Hemingway’s “The Sun Also Rises”– “How did you go bankrupt?" Two ways. Gradually, then suddenly.” Anyway, whether we realise it or not, time is, and always will be, pressing.  So, Loverboy come in, come in from the cold and tell all the others too, for now is the hour of the outcast. Pariahs of the world unite. Tonight, we run with the underdogs.  I still remember where all the bodies were buried and there is going to be a reckoning

#2 Ghost Light (14/04/10)  

A synth-pop devotional in praise of the light, 14th April 2010 at 9.50am is the earliest noted record in the archives for this one.  It sounds uncharacteristically early in the morning for me but, as the politicians like to tell you, statistics don’t lie. The night before, I had been out drinking with my friend Paul Tasker of the Doghouse Roses.  We decided to round off a very enjoyable evening with whisky and tunes back at Paul’s flat during which I remember Paul modelling a beautifully made Swedish Army greatcoat which he’d picked up somewhere or another on the internet.  He cut quite a dash as he marched smartly up and down his living room, swaying his whisky to and fro with a martial air.  Among various other pressing issues up for discussion that evening, Paul mentioned that he had an old synthesiser he was looking to get rid of and did I want it?  That sounds like a laugh, I thought, and we settled on the princely sum of £20. The next morning, I woke to find I was now the proud owner of a Yamaha SK10 Symphonic Ensemble.  There it was, propped against the wall of my bedroom.  Oh well, I thought, I had certainly woken up to worse.   I plugged it in, switched it on and quickly realised that I had got lucky here. What a lovely noise.  I thought of arcades and 1980s computer games, John Hughes movies, pastel-coloured leg warmers....  There was a string setting that sounded just like Phil Oakey and Giorgio Moroder’s “Together in Electric Dreams”.  I was instantly transported to a childhood kitchen scene - my sister and I doing the Sunday dinner dishes whilst we listened to the Top 40 on a state-of-the-art Sanyo transistor radio and singing along to “Electric Dreams”.  Then, light speed forward 20 years and dancing to the very same song with my friend Dan Mutch in an empty and just about closing Edinburgh bar after stopping in for one last drink, two children trying to stay up past their bedtime.  Like happy news, unexpected and unlooked for, the song soared euphorically out of the bar’s massive speakers as Dan and I pushed our drinks aside in shared joy to find that the dancefloor was there all along, like the yellow brick road, right underneath our feet and we didn’t even notice it. Music is time travel. I’ve often thought that the synth pop wizards were really piano balladeers, heirs to a grand tradition but operating under different conditions, in different times.  Pop by other means.  Pop, of course, must always be by any means necessary, or at least by any means available, but I wonder what Vince Clarke would have created if he found himself behind a baby grand in 1920s Broadway, or if Cole Porter was given a Moog to fool around with. A lovely sound can in itself be an inspiration.  The SK10’s string setting made me feel like it was hard to go wrong.  A riff seemed to present itself immediately to me; then it was just a question of which chords sounded good beneath that riff.  Being something of a musical illiterate, I often play wrong chords.  But sometimes the wrong notes sound better than the right ones.  It can, at times, be hard to keep up with my mistakes. I tend to be a music first writer.  I travel lightly and assume the lyrics will meet up with me later on, somewhere further down the road.  In the meantime, my notes-to-self include: - make a joyful noise along to the music   - which words does this noise sound like?   - what does the music make me think of and/or feel?   This one made me think about disco lights.  Yes, that’s what I’d do.  I’d write a song about disco lights.  And so, the song began travelling under the name “Gold Silver”. “Gold Silver” made it as far as the “Come to the Fabulon” studio demos, recorded in Red Eye Studios, Clydebank in 2012-13.  Although there was a variety of styles among these demos there is, you might say, a fine line between variety and anomaly.  In this context “Gold Silver” sounded like a completely different band and, much as that in itself appealed to me, the song was, by majority decision, disappeared around the time of the Fabulon album rehearsals of 2013.  During a band meeting in the Laurieston Bar with producer-in-chief Colin Elliot (see also “Loverboy”), I distinctly remember “Gold Silver” being given its marching orders, packed off to the Siberia of Song.  I believe the term “Eurovision reject” was used.   But remember: we throw nothing away.  And another thing, while we’re here; I really like Eurovision.   I remember Drew Barrymore’s lines in “Donnie Darko”, about how the words “cellar door” were considered by many to be the most beautiful in the English language.  A matter of taste, of course.  For me, as a Eurovision fan, the most beautiful words I ever heard were “Come in Helsinki”. So, “Gold Silver”, a song out of time and place, found itself banished to the margins, perhaps until some future time, maybe our Eurovision entry.  Or our lockdown album.   Come the lockdown, the band’s campaign shifted to the home front.  With the mobilisation of all able-bodied songs – past, present and future - I found myself dusting off “Gold Silver” only to notice I hadn’t quite gotten around to finishing the lyrics (so much of life is about managing disrepair).  This was around the time of the closing of the theatres when the image of the ghost light, a tradition I’d never heard of until then, began to do the rounds.  The image and idea of the ghost light made me think that the lights in the song needn’t only be on the dancefloor; a thought which gave the song its final title and helped me to finally finish that thing I started on a bargain £20 synthesiser one hungover morning, 10 years previously.   I think the ghost light is a noble tradition, an arresting image and an eerie reminder that there will be times when there is no light other than that which we create for ourselves: in the empty theatres, clubs and bars; in song, in dance and in every whistle that tries to charm the darkness.

#3 Drunk is a holiday  (1996-2021) 

“Ought we to be drunk every night?" Sebastian asked one morning.   "Yes, I think so."   "I think so too.”   ― Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited   The chorus melody for “Drunk is a Holiday” came to me, perhaps fittingly enough, in the middle of a hangover. I would date that hangover at around 1996, back when I was living in a bedsit in the Southside of Glasgow. The TV series of “Brideshead Revisited” was being repeated on Saturday evenings around then and I remember staying in to watch it over the course of several weeks. It helped to keep me off the booze. My favourite scene was the one with Sebastian and Charles, lounging by a fountain and sipping champagne in a decidedly louche manner. After their minimal, yet solemn exchange, as quoted above, which felt like a pact or vow, Sebastian falls into the fountain with his bottle of champagne. I remember applauding the telly at that bit. I, too, wanted to fall into fountains with bottles of champagne. Unfortunately, I was unemployed at the time and my limited means meant opportunities for such indulgence were few and far between.   But picking up the guitar, the songs and all that - that was free.   I often have musical ideas far beyond my capabilities of actually realising them. Sometimes it takes me years to catch up. Although the chorus melody came easily enough, I had no idea what to do with it. I tried marrying it off to all manner of unlikely suitors but nothing lasted. Then, other, easier songs came along and the melody was set aside until some later time, to be confirmed.   The next recorded sighting was 2006 on a home demo. By this time, my circumstances had improved so that I had managed to upgrade my humble abode to a hovel in Partick. I was, more or less, gainfully employed to the point where I could even, should I choose, buy my own bottle of champagne, if not quite my own fountain. One evening, whilst buttering a slice of toast in the kitchen, a stray verse suggested itself to me which carried echoes of that chorus from what you might ironically call my Brideshead Days. I dusted down the old chorus, tentatively placing it next to this new verse and felt a little shiver as they clicked snugly together like missing jigsaw pieces, lost to one another all these years. It was good news from a former life, music as time travel. A more advanced demo in 2008- including bass, drums, guitars and early lyrics- shows that we had begun working on the song as a band and it was by then travelling under the name “Drunk is a Holiday”, perhaps in reference to its origins. But after this, the trail goes cold once more. I presume the song must have been deemed too cheerful for the last Starlets album in 2009. Soon afterwards came ANI’s Year Zero and in the post-revolutionary era which followed, songs about champagne and fountains would have been dimly viewed as irredeemably bourgeois. And so, the song was lost again.   Or not lost, perhaps never really lost at all, rather searching. Or waiting. Waiting for its time to come, for the world to change once more and a reappraisal of all that was previously taken for granted; when we, not spoiled for resources, would once again find a virtue and a new aesthetic in making the best out of what we have. Mend and make new.   Nowadays, I navigate my way through our strange new world by bicycle. I finally finished writing “Drunk is a Holiday” when the last of the lyrics came to me in the Summer of 2020 whilst cycling through the Dovecote country, somewhere between Yoker and Whiteinch and approximately 24 years after watching Brideshead Revisited.   “The calm, beguiling   Until you’re smiling   Our little slice of forever* to be whiling”   All of the above is not necessarily to say that the song itself is worth the wait. That is not, of course, for me to say. 24 years in the making is, after all, a fair bit to live up to and perhaps its origins will prove more interesting than its arrival. But it was worth my wait and I’ll go as far as to say that, yes, I am fond of it. If forced to describe the song for publicity purposes, I’d maybe offer something along the lines of “Music Hall as Synth Pop”. Whatever “Drunk is a Holiday” may or may not be, lyrically it is very much in the tradition of “write about what you know”, so if it all sounds a little woozy here and there, well, I’m afraid that’s because so do I.   As a final point, if there are any time-travellers reading this, may I ask a small favour? Should you happen to be passing through 1996 any time soon, could you please pass on a message to my former self, if he’ll listen? Please tell him that future Biff asks that he be of good cheer. Tell him he finally finishes that song that he started. Tell him that he hasn’t given up, that he’s still trying to keep his promise.   *This line is a nod and tip of the hat to Jenny Lindsay’s spoken word show “This Script” from which the line is “borrowed”.  Other significant nods, tips and borrowings (although I prefer the term “references”) include to and from Warren Zevon’s “Carmelita”, a favourite at family sing-songs when I was growing up. Originally posted in December 2020

#4 Yesterday’s Already Light Years Away  (No demo exists.  Approximately 1997)

One from the analogue years, there was no demo recorded of this song at the time, or after.   From around 1996 until 1999, the band rented a rehearsal room in the Maryhill Burgh Halls.  From the studio next door, we inherited an unwieldy electric piano (affectionately christened “The Coffin” by Craig) and on which I stumbled across the song’s tinkly melody.  My bus home from rehearsals crossed Jamaica Bridge, over the Clyde and out to the occasionally sunlit uplands of Glasgow’s Southside.  Gazing out of the top deck window, I used to see blankets tidied away neatly underneath one of the bridge arches and wonder who slept there.  The lyrics began with that thought.   I remember clunkily playing through the song a couple of times in band rehearsals.  When I looked around the room afterwards, all band members’ faces seemed to communicate the same reaction, namely, “Whit are we meant to dae wi that?”.  A fair question.  Some songs are not suited to the rough and tumble of the rehearsal room.  Too much bang and crash.  In this case, a slide rule and calculator may have been more useful.     There’s a bit of an unusual structure to this one and I can hear echoes of my obsession (still current and ongoing) with Prefab Sprout’s “Steve McQueen” album.  As stated above, there was no demo recorded at the time, but the song hung around awkwardly for a while, like a wallflower at a dance, before quietly slipping away into the shadows, lost down the lesser travelled corridors of my mind.  Once in a while I would catch a glimpse of it out of the corner of my eye but when I turned around it was gone again. After 25 years of rattling around in my head and without even a demo to its name, “Yesterday” can stake a fair claim as the unlikeliest character on this unlikeliest of records. A shy one, strange and a little awkward, this song may well be no one’s idea of the belle of the ball and, I would say, it is all the better for that.  It is one of my favourites on the record.  Some songs, and people, are not easy to know but, given the chance, will dance a dance all of their own.

#5 Ride the White Horses  (29/03/10)  

First demoed as an instrumental in a live home recording by Mark and I, dated 29/03/10 (see secret playlist)  In the spirit of Martin Mull’s “Writing about music is like dancing about architecture”, here’s a song about painting, partly inspired by James Guthrie’s “Hard At It” which can be found in the Kelvingrove Art Gallery.  I like to find inspiration in different artforms. One is less likely to be sued for plagiarism.     At the time of writing, this song has been played live once only, at a solo show in Arnhem on 22/10/2010, when it was still shiny new and I must have been keen to try it out.  After the last note, not one person applauded.  Not one.  Not even polite or pitying applause.  Nada.  Nil point.   Ha ha ha. Cue tumbleweed.  Character building.   I daresay I could have taken the hint there and then but I’ve always been a bit stubborn that way.  I am right and the world is wrong. Sooner or later the world will realise the error of its ways. Until then, if an idea is worth believing in, it is worth a world of indifference, worth all of the lean years for all of the meantime (even if it all turns out to be meantime).  So, here’s to another time and place yet to come; to some other night in some other room where some one person hearing the song may feel just glad enough to clap hands.  Then, at long last, from lost into later, the song will have found a home. NB. For further reference material (and dancing about architecture), please see Eduardo Chillada’s “The Comb of the Wind”

#6 What You Came For  (11/08/2018) 

The first of the Later songs.  The initial melody came to me whilst on a jolly through to Edinburgh for the festival, somewhere in between Kilderkin and the Waverley Bar.  As I recall, I was temporarily between drinks and loitering outside a newsagent whilst a friend bought tobacco. Ideas tend to come to me when my guard is down, maybe when drifting in or out of sleep, or sometimes, as in this case, when in a dreamlike state.    A cool summer breeze eased down the Royal Mile, calming my fevered brow.  I must have started singing to myself. Tum-te-tum.  Tourists milling by occasionally glanced at me, the singing jakey; perhaps thinking I was one of the local characters, a little bit random but harmless enough.  “Hey”, I wanted to say, “I’m a tourist here myself”.  There must have been some presence of mind still functioning as I recorded the tune on my phone with the title “Yeahyeahyeahs” (it reminded me a little, at the time, of their song “Turn Into”- I always liked that one).  The tune must have been rattling around in my head for a while after that as further developments of the song can be heard on subsequent phone recordings made, by the sounds of it, on trains, waiting on buses and first thing in the morning after dreaming about an idea for the middle eight- https://on.soundcloud.com/SAaj7 The last recorded sighting was 24/09/18; a live take of a rehearsal by the band but by then the Dark Carnival was rolling into town and everything went supernatural for a while.

#7 Something of the Night   (18/12/18) 

Our Hallowe’en number and another of the Later songs, the only previous recording of this was a live rehearsal dated 18/12/2018 - https://on.soundcloud.com/VNeEW   Clearly influenced by our imminent descent into the underworld, this one could well have ended up on the Dark Carnival album had it been a little less late.  Inspired by B-movies, Bela Lugosi, Vampira, Ed Wood, Nosferatu, “Monster Mash”, “Foul Owl on the Prowl” from “In the Heat of the Night” and, yes folks, the theme tune from “The Professionals”.   I wouldn’t imagine the lyrics require any elaboration, with one possible exception: for anyone unfamiliar with the Scots vernacular of “looking for a lumber”, this phrase is used to describe someone “out on the pull”.  Of course, the versatility/ambivalence of the word may well become all too apparent the morning after the night before, should last night’s “lumber” turn into this morning’s “lumbered with”.  It can be a confusing language, particularly nowadays when nuance has become so terribly unfashionable.  I looked up “lumber” in both Oxford and Cambridge English dictionaries but its use as a singular noun (e.g. “Did ye get a lumber last night?”) receives no mention.  That, of course, may well be a whole other story. This song is, I am proud to say, a thoroughly reprehensible character (although clearly somewhat ridiculous).   Like its fellow travellers, it was, at the time and for one reason or another, considered inappropriate.  Maybe so. Or maybe it is, to paraphrase Lloyd Cole, inappropriate but much more fun.   This will be the one they remember us for. Featuring bonus wolf howl.  

#8 Swirly  (04/03/2009) 

It’s swirly, man.

The first demo is dated 04/03/09 at 1653h, just in time for tea.  Around this time, I was beginning to collaborate with my friend Ally Kerr on his songs, working towards his album “Viva Melodia”. I’d say it was a productive time for both Ally and myself and I was enthused by his maverick, can-do attitude. I remember sauntering home from Ally’s one night after an evening of beer and songs and suddenly a melody began rattling around in my head.  In the spirit of creating a language out of whatever is inspiring us at the time, I began singing, as placeholder lyrics for the melody - “Ally’s good, Ally’s fine, Ally’s hot to let you know”.   As a placeholder title to match the lyrics, I thought “Swirly” suited its woozy, spiralling mood.  Last time I looked, the title was still there. The song felt promising up until the moment of truth in the rehearsal room, when it became sadly apparent that we, the band, couldn’t really play it very well. We tried a few times but it didn’t half plod where it should have swirled. It quickly became another of our songs to be shelved and filed under “Far too much like hard work”.   Some songs are contrary: you have to record them before you learn how to play them, odd as that may sound. At the time of recording, we had never played “Swirly” live. Instead, it was stitched together according to a vague but ambitious wish list sent to long-suffering producer Colin Elliot who was tasked with performing pop alchemy on our humble, home-made fare. Swirly was the first of the lockdown songs to make it out into the world, the first single and original Lost and Later Song #1.   After the initial morale boost, then came the challenge: if this is possible, then what else is?  The sensible thing would have been to say no.  Nice idea but walk away.  To say no is easier, quicker.  To say yes is harder to live up to, will take far longer.  Maybe even a lifetime.

#9 Everything’s Alright Fine    (31/12/2020)  

Second latest of the Later songs, born in a hangover and hummed into my phone, just in time for Hogmanay.  I was stumbling through the no man’s land between last night and the night to come, fighting a rear-guard action against a horde of demons calling me bad names.  Some hangovers can look so big they can pass themselves off as all sky, all horizon and all hereafter.  There is nothing but and nothing beyond this.  Abandon hope all ye who enter here.  It is important then to remember that this is only a temporary psychosis caused by lack of fluids.  Drink water, have some soup, take a nice, hot bath; back to basics, be humble, hit reset, switch off and on again, add in some calculated distractions.  All well and good in theory.  However.   Once upon a hangover, one penitent Sunday and a personal low point to date, I was unable to keep my fluids in place, so to speak.  Another test of character.  When even a humble glass of water is beyond us, we must accept this additional level of abasement and find our new level.  There is, of course, a fine line between humbling and humiliating but never mind.  One hasty rummage in a cupboard later and I emerged triumphant with a bathroom sponge.  Eureka.  I wet the sponge - not soaked, dampened only - and repaired to the sofa.  I began with wetting my lips only - so far, so good. I then built up to occasional discrete, tactical sucks on the sponge, hoping to take on fluids by stealth, under the radar.  I had in place a cunning strategy.  All I needed now was some covering fire, a decoy, a distraction.  I switched the TV on, hoping for a gentle Sunday matinee from a bygone age to gaze at longingly whilst sucking on my sponge.  The screen crackled into life with a brassy fanfare straight out of Hollywood’s golden era.  In a marvel of fortuitous timing, I was just in time to catch the opening credits to the Sunday matineé.  Perhaps my chances were, at last, beginning to take an upward turn.  Then, as I lay on the sofa, sucking cautiously on my sponge and still lamenting my terrible thirst, the screen announced the afternoon feature as- “Humphrey Bogart stars in…. “SAHARA!” You’ve got to laugh.  Humour is our short circuit, cutting off the path to insanity.  Or maybe, in the language of the movies, it heads us off at the pass. That hangover was from another time, a lion of its kind, whereas the hangover of 31/12/20 was a pussycat in comparison.  Damage was sustainable; fluids acceptable; soup, a dawning possibility.  A few minor demons were off on a toot but the mopping up operation was well underway. I would gather them all up like naughty numbskulls and put them back in the jar, until the next time the lid pops off. So, taking deep breaths, I repeated like a mantra – “Everything’s alright, everything’s alright..”.   Tell it ‘til it’s true.   “Everything’s alright”.   “Everything’s alright what?”, came the answer, one of the more stubborn demons.   “Everything’s alright fine”.   “Why two words when one would do?” said the demon. “You protest too much”.   The above processing of information and damage management often takes a musical form.  It is good to take notes throughout.  You never know what you might miss.  Humphrey Bogart won’t always be there to help you through your hangovers and some courses you’ll have to plot alone, making your own entertainment along the way.  Meantime, and remember, this may well all turn out to be meantime, everything’s alright fine.

#10 Intermission –   (Voice recording of initial idea recorded on 10/11/20) 

Transmissions from Planet Zoom- a melancholy android plays remembered sounds from Planet Earth; an ice cream van, a seaside organ, elevator muzak. Refreshments are available in the foyer.  

Welcome back folks.

#11 A Chemical Dream  (20/01/04 - 01/09/08) 

 Another of the lost souls, “A Chemical Dream” dates from around mid-late noughties and, woozy and anaesthetised as it may be, I imagine it must still have been deemed far too jolly for the last Starlets album.  Then, come the revolution and post Year-Zero, songs about chemicals would, of course, have been cancelled due to high levels of bourgeois decadence.   I picture “A Chemical Dream” as the sound of Sunday morning coming down; dawn is breaking and night’s spell of enchantment is slowly lifting, but maybe the imminent crash will be sustainable, a new beginning.   Song as dream sequence, through the highs and lows of hedonism, thematically we are, of course, in familiar territory here.  Never mind.  We must work with what we have.  Even when it feels like nothing.

#12 What Boys Do  (10/7/16) “And you know all our boys Are really girls at heart” -The Imposter, Elvis Costello

“What Boys Do” started life in 2016 with the working title of “The Replacements” (see link), as the initial idea reminded me a little of the brilliant band of that name (as an irrelevant aside here, I would like to boast that one of the treasures in my collection is a cigarette packet signed by Paul Westerberg).  I don’t remember too much about writing this but there are many things in my life that I don’t remember too much about and perhaps this is for the best.  If called upon to explain myself as regards the title, I would draw attention to the lyric - “All the big talk and then we’re through But that’s just what boys do” As a boy of a certain vintage, I grew up in an era when society’s expectation for its menfolk was to be strong, capable, uncomplaining, tough, undemonstrative, to never show weakness.  That’s a fair bit to live up to.  Hence the big talk.  And all that goes with it. The song itself sounded, once again, so unlike anything else we were doing at the time that I didn’t know where to put it (we are an anomaly even to ourselves) and so off it slipped, into obscurity, last seen in 2016.  A six-year sentence to the Lost and Later files is, of course, relatively lenient when compared with some of the other songs (see “Drunk is a Holiday”).  Then came the days of the new pestilence and lockdown during which, with nothing better to do, and having exhausted all other far more pleasant possibilities, I thought, oh dear, I might as well work.   In the early demos there were concerns that the heavy guitars could sound a bit ploddy and pub rock so we decided a healthy dollop of glam was required and during the recording of the song, I often asked myself -   “What would the New York Dolls do?” *. So, I added some “oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-ohs" and bought myself a feather boa.  I wore the feather boa whilst recording the vocal and that helped to get me in the mood.  Still, I had my doubts and, come the mixing, I expressed concern over my vocal performance in an email to our producer Colin Elliot, signing off with -   “My only worry is that it may not be camp enough”.   Colin was happy to reassure me on that point and replied-   “Don’t worry, it’s always camp enough” * “What would the New York Dolls do?”   I would strongly recommend we ask ourselves this question whenever facing difficult circumstances, in whatever walk of life and certainly never less than once a day... although probably not whilst driving or operating heavy machinery.

#13 Starlight International    16/10/18   @ 7.39 am 

This song arrived, more or less fully formed, in a dream.  On waking, rather than rolling over, perchance to dream once more, I had the wherewithal to grab my guitar and record it into my phone. There’s something about the state between sleep and waking that makes for fertile ground for the imagination. The mind is no longer on its best behaviour. Notions such as sensible, adult behaviour become a laughing stock.  Ha ha ha ha.  Fuck that.  Chaos creeps in, many-fingered and dancing to the beat of a different drum. We were in the middle of our Dark Carnival incarnation at the time and I found myself singing “Baby you’re a supernatural” at the chorus so this became the initial working title.  Later on, I thought the word “international” scanned a bit better and could also make for our signature tune.  Then “Starlight International” suggested itself.  It all sounded rather glam and, inspired by Bowie’s starman/spaceboy fantasies, I thought “Of course! A space ballad”. The band as cosmonauts, into the Great Unknown, to infirmity and beyond.  If I wasn’t afraid of heights, I wouldn’t mind signing up for the space game.  As long as I didn’t have to wake up too early and as long as I was home in time for tea or at least, last orders.

#14 Boom Boom Cannonball  (27/9/17) 

The riff idea came to me at a Slim Cessna’s Auto Club gig.  In days gone by I would have forgotten it with the next passing fancy but thankfully nowadays there are voice recorders on phones to help people like me along.  In the “boom idea” recording you can hear me singing the riff over the noisy chaos of the live gig in the background (foreground as background, sadly, is often the way at live gigs).  As noted previously, every recipe needs a healthy dash of chaos, this time provided by the noise and heat and sweat of a small club gig.  The band are bangin and I’m several beers in. Charge on.

It was never going to be pretty.  It demanded much huffing and puffing and a-panting and a-grunting, like Leonard Cohen sings the Army of Lovers or a surprise Eurovision entry by The Hormone Monster.  Cheesy, sleazy eurotrash with a honking, stonking dose of the horn.  Yes, yes, yes...it may all be considered thoroughly inappropriate, but I have no concerns.  In order to be cancelled, one has to be scheduled in the first place.

#15 The Strangest Thing   (1/3/21)

Latest of the later songs and yet another to come in a dream.  I seem to spend half my life in a dream, the other half in denial.  In this dream I found myself running through the dimly lit labyrinth of a post-apocalyptic Venice whilst battling some strangely attractive zombies.  I didn’t know whether I wanted to fight the Zombies or....well, you get the idea.  It was all a bit Lara Croft meets Sigmund Freud.  The end of the dream felt like completing a level. I outran the zombies only to find myself running down a dark alleyway into a dead end, at the end of which was a drinking fountain.  As I approached the fountain, I saw there was a secret button in the middle of the fountainhead. Ooh.  I pressed a secret button and the fountain began to sink into the ground whilst playing the doorbell melody you hear at the beginning of the song.  That was the dream.  Pure spooky man.  My dreams are rarely light-hearted.  Never mind.  I try to see them as free entertainment, the brain’s bonus section.     Lockdown recording felt like a clean slate, like we could sound like anything we wanted.  It liberated us from the bang and crash of the rehearsal room (fond as I am of that).  I suspect “The Strangest Thing” would never have blossomed in that environment.  I should be grateful it wasn’t written 25 years ago. If you are in a hurry, I would say this is not the song for you.  If you are not in a hurry....may I suggest you make yourself comfortable, maybe with a glass of something lovely.  Let us take time out from the world.  The chaos will still be there tomorrow.  Just not the way we left it.

#16 There’s Barely Enough Time to Breathe  (no demo exists)

Another one from the analogue years, approximately 1997-8, around the same time as “Yesterday’s Already Light Years Away” and similarly born out of my obsession (current and ongoing) with Prefab Sprout’s “Steve McQueen” album.  This was another one which didn’t suit the rough and tumble of the rehearsal room.  Quite simply, we didn’t have a clue what to do with the song and so we stood around looking at it for a while, somewhat vacantly, like dogs watching a card trick.  So, no demo for this one.  You can’t record what you can’t play, or so we thought until making this album.  Never let a lack of technical ability get in the way of a musical idea.  Music is too important to be left to musicians.  That’s what I always say. Lyrically, this one was in part inspired by the line “Another lifetime is the least you’ll need” from Jonathan Coe’s “The House of Sleep”.  I loved the book and the character Sarah, a narcoleptic who can’t tell the difference between her dreams and her waking state and so talks to people about her dreams as though they were widely known world events.  How marvellous. I used to think I might be narcoleptic until it dawned on me that I just find much of life terribly dull.  As a younger man, I was sacked from jobs for falling asleep.  Fortunately, I wasn’t a bus driver.  Or anything important, really. I managed to blag a place at university purely as a way of avoiding work, only to then regularly fall asleep during lectures.  I remember falling asleep during a History lecture (the last words I remember hearing were something about “demography in the 18th century”) only to wake up some time later, startled to find I was surrounded by an entirely new group of students, all eagerly taking notes on a talk about tectonic plates and volcanic rock formations.  I was too embarrassed to get up and leave so I sat as inconspicuously as a recently snoring man in a room full of bright-eyed young Geology students could until I gradually found myself being drawn in by the subject, fascinated.  Wow.  What tumult and drama we walk above.  It’s amazing we can make it to the shops in one piece.  I failed History that year but I could probably tell you a thing or two about Mount Vesuvius.   So, anyway, getting back to the song, lyrically, I can hear the struggle to reconcile my world view with what then seemed to me the outrage upon my personal liberty that was working for a living.  Work, the foulest of all four-letter words and the enemy of sleep.  I have never been a morning person and wake up begrudgingly.  I then believe in due process as observed in the form of at least one hour of coffee and denial.  After an hour, I may then deign to talk to you, but it will probably be about the dream I just had.  I carried this song around in my head for 25 years.  I am beyond happy to see it finally set it free.  Thank you, dear band, thank you Colin Elliot. The more dreams I can make come true, the less there are to haunt me.

#17 Freediving   (1/3/12)

Another late developer, more lost than later, “Freediving” took 10 years to record.   Mark and I occasionally get together to work on the guitar arrangements, an activity which has come to be known as “The Biscuit Sessions” (these would be mid-week affairs, involving nothing stronger than ginger snaps and PG Tips).  The earliest documented recording of this was 1/3/12 at 1906h, a rough idea we must have bashed out in between biscuits.  A further demo from 22/12/12 (0020h) shows a more realised structure although it was still instrumental at the time (I didn’t yet know what I was writing about). The song felt subtle and elusive, never quite settling and I think back then, we made the mistake of trying to rush it, control it, rather than allow it to breathe and gradually reveal itself.  If you love something, set it free.  If it’s meant to be, it will come back to you.  And it did, around nine years later in the long, echoing days of lockdown when time all of a sudden felt like a surplus (a mirage, I know) and little pockets of hitherto unimaginable breathing space emerged, a coming up for air in the midst of all the horror.   The music itself made me think of water.  It felt fluid, tidal.  I thought of the intimacy of underwater where the above world becomes muffled and hushed and how, perhaps in that escape lay the appeal of freediving, not an activity I had given much thought to until watching the film “The Big Blue”. I remembered the scene from the film when the two central characters, friends and rivals for the crown of World Freediving Champion, become bored at a glitzy party and, aching to escape the inane cocktail chatter, decide to jump in their host’s swimming pool and hang out down at the bottom of the deep end.  I also thought of Kino the pearl diver from Steinbeck’s “The Pearl”, Kino bursting triumphantly from the depths as cupped and glistening in his hands was the oyster in which lay the pearl of the world.  Finally, I thought that whatever is or isn’t down there, pearls, tranquility or nothing at all, in the dive alone may be found a freedom which, if we never get our feet wet, we will only ever guess at.

#18 Those First Impressions (approximately 2007)

For Billy Mackenzie

#19 The Night Will Take You  (original demo dated 9/11/10) 

It’s the last song of the night folks.  If you don’t ask that beautiful stranger to dance now, the moment will be gone forever. We impersonate that which we admire, try it on for size in the hope that someday the outfit may suit us.  Back in Starlets days, we used to cover “Science Fiction/Double Feature” from The Rocky Horror Picture Show.  I still think it’s the most romantic song I’ve ever heard and one of the few songs that, whatever I’m doing, should I hear it playing, I have to stop and listen to it (I am not a man to be left in charge of a group of toddlers, or a combine harvester).   Travelling for many years under the nom de guerre “Glitterball”, in another world, or perhaps in yet another dream I once had, "The Night Will Take You" would soundtrack the closing credits of a John Hughes movie.  Preferably one with Molly Ringwald. Good triumphs over evil, love over death, and all those eternal human legends which settle our score with reality.   Some nights, when the lights are low and the music's right, I start believing all over again. So, if you’re dancing, I’m asking.  Always will be.

#20 Lost and Later Theme   (5/3/19) 

A street musician duets with a synthesiser.  Written on accordion, this early recording is more bum notes than melody but you can hear the tune gradually emerging - https://on.soundcloud.com/BrFXc It was partly influenced by a barrel organ street musician I once heard - (see “Rue Daguerre, Montparnasse” on the secret playlist).  I loved the song but never found out its name. It sounds like some old, jolly, French drinking song.  If anyone recognises it, please do let me know, thank you. Anyway, welcome to the end of the pier. Don’t jump off just yet.  You might miss something.  The view is lovely and on a clear day you can see, if not quite forever, at least as far as next Tuesday. To quote many a firm but fair barkeep at closing time, you don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here.  Actually, no, that’s not true. You can stay here.  You can live here.  I do.

[anewinternational]

The Box of Delights

Let this, above and before all else, be every band’s sworn and solemn duty: we must present to the audience a box of delights.  Or at least fail entertainingly in the attempt.  This can be the only justification for presuming upon the time, money and goodwill of others. It may be that this box will be as the festive chocolate boxes of my childhood in that a certain select few will be chosen before all others. For my sister and I, the most highly prized and fetishised was the strawberry cream. The orange cream sufficed as a quality consolation whilst, my Mum and Dad, having more refined, less impulsive tastes, professed a fondness for the coffee cream and the caramel, respectively. My sister and I would occasionally nibble at these subtle delicacies only to find them still somewhat beyond us, quickly reverting to the instant thrill of the strawberry. We tended to avoid the Turkish delight as a little too dangerously exotic whereas the cracknel was surely only for masochists. It may be that after all festivities have come and gone, there remain, unloved and unchosen, the prickly cracknel or the never-to-be-acquired taste of the marzipan, still gathering dust well into the new year until finally put out of their misery, into the dustbin they go come February. It may be that the selection is not to our taste. We will choose, arbitrarily and with extreme prejudice; according to taste, whim or caprice and with no justification or comeback. And that’s alright.   I will put one foot in front of the other. Maybe tomorrow I will fail better. Sometimes I fail so well, it almost feels like success.

[anewinternational]

Lost and Later Songs #9

Everything’s Alright Fine

31/12/2020

First of the Later songs so far, born in a hangover and just in time for Hogmanay.  I was stumbling through the no man’s land between last night and the night to come, fighting a rear-guard action against a horde of demons calling me bad names.  Some hangovers can look so big they can pass themselves off as all sky, all horizon and all hereafter.  There is nothing but and nothing beyond this.  Abandon hope all ye who enter here.  It is important then to remember that this is only a temporary psychosis caused by lack of fluids.  Drink water, have some soup, take a nice, hot bath; back to basics, be humble, hit reset, switch off and on again, add in some calculated distractions.  All well and good in theory.  However.

Once upon a hangover, one penitent Sunday and a personal low point to date, I was unable to keep my fluids in place, so to speak.  Another test of character.  When even a humble glass of water is beyond us, then we must accept this additional level of abasement and find our new level.  There is, of course, a fine line between humble and humiliating but never mind. One hasty rummage in a cupboard later and I emerged triumphant with a bathroom sponge.  Eureka.  I wet the sponge - not soaked, dampened only - and repaired to the sofa.  I began with wetting my lips only - so far, so good. I then built up to occasional discrete, tactical sucks on the sponge, hoping to take on fluids by stealth, under the stomach’s radar.  I had in place a strategy.  All I needed now was some covering fire, a decoy, distraction.  I switched the TV on, hoping for a gentle Sunday matinee from a bygone age to gaze at longingly whilst sucking on my sponge. The screen crackled into life with a Hollywood golden-era brassy fanfare, just in time to catch the Sunday matineé’s opening credits

“Humphrey Bogart stars in…. “SAHARA!”

You’ve got to laugh. Humour is our short circuit preventing meltdown.  Or maybe, in the language of the movies, it heads us off at the pass, cutting off the path to insanity.

The Sahara hangover was from another time, a lion of its kind whereas the hangover of 31/12/20 was a gentle pussycat in comparison.  Damage was sustainable, fluids acceptable, soup, a possibility.  A few minor demons were off on a toot but the mopping up operation was well underway. Gather them up like naughty little numbskulls and put them back in the jar.  Until the next time the lid pops off.

So, taking deep breaths, I repeated like a mantra –

“Everything’s alright, everything’s alright..”.  

Tell it ‘til it’s true.

“Everything’s alright”.

“Everything’s alright what?”, came the answer, one of the more stubborn of the demons.  

“Everything’s alright fine”.

“Why two words when one would do?” said the demon. “Methinks you protest too much”.  

This processing of information often takes a musical form and it’s good to take notes throughout. You never know what you might miss. Tum te tum.  Whistle while you work.  Humphrey Bogart won’t always be there to help you through your hangovers and some courses you’ll have to plot alone, making your own entertainment along the way.  Meantime, and remember, this may well all turn out to be meantime, everything’s alright fine.

[anewinternational]

The Valley of Kings

                                                                                                It is the out of the ordinary that attracts attention: the anomaly, the anarchic, black sheep or maverick, the square peg that questions the very idea of the hole.

  For example, in Dumbarton town centre, lodged oddly at the end of a pedestrianised commercial street garish with pound shops, cash converters, charity, second-hand and bargain bucket sports shops, you may notice the curious presence of an establishment named, "A Touch of Egypt".  Here, you will find all manner of pyramid-related memorabilia:  Cleopatra prints, Tutankhamen fridge magnets, hookah pipes, souvenir sphinxes, cuddly Mummies for the weans and, to really get that dinner party going with a swing, folks, a life-size sarcophagus of Rameses II.  Odd as it may well be, “A Touch of Egypt” offers a welcome breath of the exotic to a particularly damp and drizzle-afflicted corner of the west of Scotland.

  Now, I am guessing here that somebody knows something that I don’t.  Perhaps someone has spotted a hitherto overlooked gap in the market.  A chasm, you could say.  To the best of my knowledge, there is, at the time of writing, no one else in Dumbarton, or, indeed, the greater West Dunbartonshire area, currently working the Egyptian racket.  And, of course, one may be excused for thinking, for very good reason.  On the other hand, for all I know there may well be a sizeable local contingent of Egyptophiles hungry for more on all things Pharaoh.  Mustard-keen they are.

  There are all kinds of things going on in this world of which I am unaware. I’m sure of it. I don’t know how many things because I’m unaware of them. But there must be lots.  Perhaps there are long and well-established links between Egypt and Dumbarton. Perhaps the town boasts a thriving community of Egyptian ex-pats, encouraging a time-honoured programme of cultural exchange: school trips, twin towns and the like. Perhaps Dumbarton is twinned with, for example, Luxor, and nestled amongst the sand dunes somewhere deep in the Valley of Kings there is a shop called “A Touch of Dumbarton”, much to the bemusement of the good folk of Luxor who, and understandably so, remain uncertain as to the relevance of Jimmy Wigs and tins of tartan shortbread to their everyday lives.

  I daresay I could always go into the shop and make discreet inquiries but over-exposure to the Hammer Horror brand of gory hokum as a boy has left me with a pathological fear of Mummies. Even the sight of a box of bandages could be enough to bring on a fainting fit.  It may be, then, that the truth behind the strange emergence of “A Touch of Egypt” will never come to light.  Meanwhile, we can only speculate.

[anewinternational]

Wee George

Wee George sits at the kitchen table, studying me thoughtfully from behind 1/2 inch thick, old-school, national health spectacles.  His little legs dangle happily from the stool through five-inch trouser turn-ups.  Hungover, I gently butter toast, keeping the scratches and scrapes to an absolute minimum.  George strokes his impressive moustache with a tobacco-stained index finger and says- "See that Lionel Ritchie's in toon?" "Is he?" "I bet he gets plenty fanny" "Ye think so?" "Too fuckin right he does.  Wallet that wid choke a hoarse." "Mibbe yir right George" "Fuckin right I'm right.  Think he's goat enough fur a Ferrari?" "Aye, probably" "Think he's goat enough fur a bungalow?" "Oh aye" "In Helensburgh?" "Anywhere he wants George." I place tea and toast on the table in front of him and return to the kitchen worktop. "Hmmm....tell ye who ah don't like tho" "Who's that then?" "That Cliff Richard" "How no George?" "He sings through ees nose" I turn back to the table and notice that George’s plate is empty. "You ate aw that toast awready?" "Whid ye mean?  Ye didnae gie me any toast" There is an empty plate on the table.  Not even any crumbs.  I could have sworn I made toast.  Maybe I dreamt it.  Maybe I'm going mad.  I'm probably still a little bit drunk.  Last night’s gig was a hoot.  I put some more toast on as George begins again.

"The Sugababes" "Whit aboot them George?" "Ye'd need plenty fuckin dough in yer tail tae take them oot fir a night oot" "Aye, I imagine ye wid George" "Even wan o them would be a dear night oot.  Fuck sakes, imagine ye hid tae take aw three o them oot.  Ye'd need tae be a millionaire." I place more toast on the table.  I keep my eye on this lot.  George starts munching away but his mind is still very firmly on the Sugababes. "Ye couldnae take them doon the Partick Snooker Hall." "Ye never know George" I briefly picture George escorting all three Sugababes into the Partick Snooker Hall, five inch turn-ups in the trousers of his Burton’s off-the-peg, christenings, weddings and funerals suit, waving his pension book under the noses of suitably awed bouncers as they humbly lower the velvet rope. "These fancy burds are lookin fir somethin a bit different", George pronounces as he gets up and starts edging his zimmer through to the living room. "Aye son, yees'll need tae get yersels in the hit parade if yees want a Sugababe.  Burds like that don't like wee guys in cooncil uniforms, burds like that...they don't travel in buses", he adds regretfully. I glance over at George's retreating legs and notice that, tucked snugly into his five-inch trouser turn-ups, the original slice of toast peeks out, butter side up.

[anewinternational]

Pages from “We Come Here To Break Your Heart”

Stockholm Revisited

The puppet strings lie hopelessly tangled.  I bend over them, focusing dully through a beer haze, tugging methodically at a fankle of knots and kinks. Outside, snow falls gently on a silent Hornsgatan.  Occasional, thick, white flakes land upon the misted window pane to melt and slide slowly downwards. Through in the kitchen I can hear the Producer and his girlfriend talking a little heatedly in Swedish.  Perhaps she didn't care for him bringing me back at 2 am to drink whisky and talk about pop music.  It is, after all, her flat and she will have to be up for work early in the morning.  I can see her point of view. Uncomprehending, I allow myself to be lulled by the lilting, musical sound of their words, to and fro, back and forth and up and down with no resolve, until I overhear the word "Glasgow" being spoken, once, and then again.  It sounds quite exotic in Swedish.  Perhaps the Producer is pleading my case.  I keep a low profile and bend closer to the puppet strings, trying to make myself useful.  Maybe if I can free the puppet everything will be alright.  The Girl enters the living room and casually gives me the once over.  As I look sheepishly up from the puppet she glances down at it. "It is hopeless", she says, "I was going to cut the strings". "It might be okay", I offer She gives a bit of a snort and sits down at the table, pouring herself a little of the whisky.  The Producer enters and walks straight to the computer, tapping on the keyboard a few times before announcing, "Steve McQueen.  This was Prefab Sprout's finest moment." “Faron Young” begins to play quietly through small, tinny computer speakers. "After this album it all went… mainstream", he continues, pronouncing “mainstream” as though it were something distasteful and disappointing.   "On this album there is a strangeness, a unique atmosphere... beautiful." The Girl looks blankly at the back of the Producer's head.  I bend over the puppet strings once again, a little despairingly.  I have never before seen such knots. "How did this happen?", I ask her. She gazes out over her glass, towards the snowflakes landing heavier now upon the window.  I wonder if she heard me.  Then I wonder if she is familiar with the Scottish accent; I often forget about it.  Then I think that perhaps she just doesn’t feel like talking which, of course, is fair enough.  If some guy came back to my house at 2 in the morning, drunk and talking about puppets, I daresay I may be a little curt with him too. I am almost surprised when she does finally reply. "In America.  It was packed badly, without care, thrown in a box and forgotten about.  After the flight to Sweden, when the box was opened it was like that." "Oh, right", I say.  I bend once more to the knots, picking meticulously. "It is impossible.  You should not waste your time", she says, glancing vaguely at the knots. "I'm very stubborn", I say. "Even so", she replies, draining her glass. "Swoon was too self-conscious, too pleased with itself.", says the Producer. "Protest Songs had some lovely moments but Steve McQueen was when they struck a perfect balance consistently.  It is a mystical record." The Girl rises smoothly from her seat and, softly, on barefoot, slips out of the room in a faint flutter of white linen nightgown. I continue picking at the knots, peering closely. I think I can see a pattern of repeated twists.  I unwind the wooden handles, threading each alternatively through the tangled strings.  After minutes, maybe hours, of continual, repeated unwinding and unthreading, I note, with a small thrill of excitement, that one of the strings is now free of tangles and without knots.  I glance up at the Producer but he remains oblivious, scrolling down, face pale in the glow of the computer screen.   "By the time of Andromeda Heights they had lost it completely, although they weren't really a band by then which was perhaps part of the problem - no one to tell Paddy what was good and what wasn’t.  This is necessary: checks and balances." he continues.  "Perhaps this is all we are permitted: one pure moment". I gently loosen the second string, inserting the wooden handles through each teased out loop.  The snarled third and fourth strings prevent any further progress so I change my attention to them, picking and threading, picking and threading, over and over again whilst Wendy Smith coos ethereally in the background and I become obsessed with the idea that if I achieve nothing else in life I must at least do this; pick, thread, unwind and free the puppet.  The music ends and for a few minutes there is only the faint, furry pat of snowflakes upon the window pane, the picking of the puppet strings.  The Producer eases back in the chair, eyes almost closed, glass raised halfway.  I seem to acquire an almost zen-like concentration upon the task in hand and manage to unravel a few of the more fiendishly snarled tangles until a familiar pounding drum beat attracts my attention back to the Producer who is once again hunched reverently over the computer.  He nods faintly to the beat then turns to me and says, “Born Sandy Devotional” “Oh” “Yes...  How do you know it?” “A friend gave it to me” “That is the best way”, he nods.  We listen for a while in silence.  The Producer leans back into his chair once more, eyes closed.  I am just beginning to wonder if he is falling asleep when he speaks again, eyes still closed. “Here there is both subtlety and grandeur, a wide-screen intimacy.  It begins ordinarily enough; the riff in “The Seabirds” would not sound out of place in a stadium” “It works well in a bedsit too” “After this, the record becomes stranger, darker, drawing you in.  It is tortured, masochistic, portraits of ruined lives in a harsh, stunning landscape...the cruel desert, a sense of light like nowhere else in the world” Outside, the snow begins to gather and lie at the base of the windowpane.  A ghostly glow reflects into the dimly lit room. “The record burns with a pitiless light.  Many things will be burned away…until night falls and we feel the ache of absence…Second song from last, “Stolen Property”, “Someone is standing in the rain like they have no place to go Maybe that someone is you, maybe someone you don’t want to know” –

…but we do not own people. At most, we have them on loan.  So nothing can be stolen. We do not own people but, if we are lucky, for a time, we are with them…and for that we should be thankful, even as they walk away” The Producer opens his eyes suddenly, leaning forward to pour us two healthy belts of whisky before continuing. “Final song, “Tender is the night”, is one of acceptance, resignation.  There are no easy endings, no sudden realisations.  There can be no forgetting although there may be some kind of forgiveness... and a time to sleep” Jill Birt sings, pure and unstudied, a strange, dark lullaby.  The Producer rests his head back in the chair once more, eyes closed.  The Girl pads softly back through to the living room and stands listening for a few seconds. When the song ends she sits on the arm of the chair and leans forward to tap and play the song once over again.  The Producer’s head lolls easily on to the Girl’s shoulder and rests there whilst she makes no movement, listening.  As I pick and untangle yet another knot I notice in passing, almost after the event, that the strings now run free.  I lift and tease the puppet into a little waltz. “Baby let’s go out tonight It’ll all turn out alright I’m sure Don’t want to drink at home again tonight So let’s go out” I place the puppet seated upright on its box and ease my jacket on.  As I edge quietly behind the chair, towards the door, the Producer looks to be asleep on the Girl’s shoulder whilst she gazes out through the window at the snow falling heavier now, listening once more to the song. “Baby let’s go out tonight It’s getting dark earlier now, But where you are it’s just getting light”

[anewinternational]

Mr Glen

Mr Glen gazes out at life with an expression of permanent astonishment. Perhaps this is partly due to the half-inch thick spectacle lenses magnifying an already wide-eyed thousand-yard stare, although I do believe he is genuinely more than a little taken aback by the world and all it has come to.  An ex-World War II Spitfire pilot, he sits rigidly to attention, hands perched upon the handle of a burnished mahogany walking stick, upright and correct on an old, worn, red velvet-cushioned dining room chair.  Mahler plays tastefully on an antique radiogram somewhere in the background.  Mr Glen looks on with amazement whilst I steam iron my way through a pile of his underpants, each pair bleached white and starched beyond reproach. "Alan, my boy", says Mr Glen, his polished tones honed and refined at a Vancouver Island public school more English than England will ever know. "Hullo there Glen", I reply. Mr Glen studies me for a moment, considering, then continues, "Do you know what those fuckers have gone and done?" "No, what? What fuckers?" "You know very well what fuckers.  And what is more, they know who they are too", he adds, tapping his mahogany stick for emphasis. "What have they gone and done, Glen?" "Took away the bloody driving licence is all", he pronounces with distaste. "What happened?", I ask, adding another pair of freshly ironed underpants to a neat stack on the dining room table. "Last Tuesday, or maybe it was Thursday, one of those bloody days anyway, I took the car out and drove it into a fucking pole." "How did that happen?" "I was coming home from the shops, buying a few sandwiches for tea you know, business as usual.  I turned the corner, ticketyboo, up a gear and on we jolly well go, next thing I know we've come to a sudden halt and there's a big fucking lampost sticking out of the bonnet.  Silly fucking place to put a lampost is what I'm thinking when all of a sudden there's a tap on the window and who's standing there but a bloody great big rozzer.  Beastly luck. "Step out of the car please sir, step this way please sir, blow in this bag please sir", etfuckingcetera, Next thing we know, the car's being towed away and ex-Squadron Leader Glen is being driven home by Glasgow's finest.  Very nice about it they were, yes, very nice indeed, even offered to make me a nice cup of tea, but, upshot is, no more car, no more licence, no more fucking pole.  A day or two later the council billed me for the bloody lampost, miserable shits. "I'm sorry to hear that Glen", I offer. "Yees", muses Mr Glen, "And to cap it all, as the car's being towed away, it suddenly dawns on me that I've left the bloody sandwiches on the passenger seat, hungry I was too, poor show all round.  Not one of my successful missions. Total fuck up, you might say". I place the last pair of ironed underpants on the neat stack as Glen and I look on with bland satisfaction. "Shall we have tea now Alan?" "Let's do that Glen.  I brought you in a mature cheddar ploughman's" "You're a good lad, my boy.  Won't you join me?  Tea for two?" "I would be honoured" "Splendid.  Just a spot of milk in mine, no sugar I'm afraid, bastard Doctor's orders, sugar too much like a good time, bit off really, this stage of the game, ninety-six you know, two strokes, one heart attack, still here.  Can't take a fucking hint, ha!" We walk together down the long hallway towards the kitchen, a scullery in its day, my footsteps, the neat click of the mahogany stick and the soft-shoe shuffle of Mr Glen's monogrammed slippers echoing softly around the high ceiling as we go.

[anewinternational]

An Unexpected Bonus (Part 3)

The recovery period is all rather pleasant.  I revert back to the ways of my halcyon days on the dole; up all night reading and watching movies; sleeping until I wasn't tired anymore, playing my guitar, pottering about, then maybe out to the pub at night for a jolly one, two, three, four, and, why not, maybe just one more.  I attend weekly physiotherapy sessions at the hospital where I am mentored by an intense, morose Hungarian named Felix.  Felix measures flexibility with some kind of brass protractor-type device, frowning if the angles do not measure up to his expectations. He takes it as a personal affront if my thumb doesn’t show the requisite improvement.   “No change”, he monotones, shaking his head.  He looks as though he may be about start to start crying.  “Have you been doing the exercises?”, he appeals to me, his big eyes brown and mournful, more hurt than angry.  I cannot bear to disappoint Felix.  He strikes me as a man with more than his fair share of the world’s melancholy.  The idea of adding to his burden with my lazy thumb spurs me on to greater efforts. “Let me try again”, I say. I bend my thumb back as far as I can whilst Felix eagerly winds his protractor to fit the angle between thumb and palm.  He nods thoughtfully and bends to neatly note the measurements in his journal. “That was a very nice angle”, he almost whispers. “Was it?”, I reply, eager to please. “A very nice angle”, he repeats.  Felix places a hand on my good arm, looks me in the eyes and states with solemn gravitas, “We are approaching maximum flexibility” It is now my turn to nod thoughtfully as Felix and I share a moment, brothers-in-arms nearing the end of a long and arduous journey. “You must keep up the exercises”, he urges me “I will”, I say “You must never give in” “I’ll try not to” “It will be hard” “It always is” Felix nods and a ghost of a smile passes over his lips as we stand to shake hands.  He raises his arm and points off into the distance, gazing up and out as though at some glittering, far-off Shangri-la. “Maximum flexibility”, he repeats, almost in prayer.

 A couple of months later, more or less mended, I return home from work one afternoon to find an envelope on the doormat.  I note from the stamp that it is from the Criminal Injuries Board.  I vaguely remember filling in a form relating to this a while back then I daresay I must have forgotten about it.  Upon reading the letter it appears that I am to be awarded £2,600 in compensation.  I instantly have a childhood flashback to the Community Chest card in the Monopoly board game which happily informs you “Your annuity matures.  Collect £100”.  I had no idea what an annuity was but I knew what £100 was and that was good enough for me.  I mull all this over as I leisurely stir some scrambled eggs into position. It doesn't take much thinking about really.   It is all very simple.  Taking out my phone, I message the others- "Dear Band, let’s get some strings on the record.  Bloody big ones"

[anewinternational]

An Unexpected Bonus (Part 2)

The phone goes early next morning.  It's the hospital telling me to come in sharpish as there's been a cancellation and the Surgeon can fit me in for a consultation.  I shuffle my sorry bones over the hill and up to Gartnavel where harassed looking nurses steer me hither and to for a confusing while until I am at last ushered into a consultation room painted a dull, municipal beige.  I sit on the examining table, gazing glumly at wallcharts of the human body and shrill posters warning of the latest bacteria strains.  A few minutes later the Surgeon strides in and introduces himself as Max.  He looks like a clean, capable fellow. He washes the wound, has a bit of a look and says, “Hmm” “Hmm”, I agree, pretending to know what I’m talking about. “Ok”, says Max, peeling off his latex gloves and washing up, “It’s going to need an operation under General Anaesthetic.  We need to know what the damage is down there.  We'll knock you out and open up the wound.  We'll then perform the initial exploratory process to assess the damage.  Afterwards, if necessary, we shall perform the corrective process, stitching together as required." "Afterwards?  When would that be" "Sorry?" "Do I have to come back for the mending and the stitching?" "No, no, no, no.  We wouldn't open you up, poke around, sew you back together, then send you away just to have you come back in to open you up and poke around all over again." "That would just be cruel really, wouldn't it?" " It would be impractical.  All corrective surgery will be performed as part of the operation." "That's good to know.  A package deal." “It’s an invasive procedure”, continues Max, scrubbing his neat nails, “ and I’m afraid you’ll be off your work for quite some time”. “Oh” I say.  I am trying to look a little crestfallen but inside my head there is a colliery brass band belting out “Happy Days Are Here Again”. "Come back at 9 am tomorrow”, adds Max, drying his hands on a paper towel and popping it into a pedal bin marked “NON SHARPS”.                                “The whole thing shouldn’t take too long.  You’ll be fit to leave by the afternoon.  Do you have any questions?”                                                                         “None right now.  Too many in general.”                                                              “I recommend you go home, relax and get a good night’s sleep.  I’ll come and see you after the operation. Bye for now.”

And with a swish of his immaculate white coat he is gone.

 That night would have been our usual rehearsal night.  The Guitarist calls the rehearsal room and explains the situation to the Boss Guy, informing him that due to an unprovoked knife attack we shall not be rehearsing tonight. Boss Guy replies that this is all very well but rules are rules and late cancellation charges apply so we must pay the room hire in full.  That's the music business for you. We decide to circle the wagons and meet up in my local boozer.     Bound, as I am, to a band riddled with malingering hypochondriacs, it is not unpleasant to be on the receiving end of band sympathy for once.  The Guitarist and the Drummer in particular look a little put out, as though their latest imaginary aches, pains and dreaded lurgy have been unfairly upstaged here. Never mind.  We have a few drinks for morale before the meeting is brought to order.  It is then pointed out to me that we have a series of gigs coming up soon and what have I got to say about that then, eh?  I look around the table where the band are each and all now looking at me intently.  It is a key moment. “Howsabout we have a go at playin the songs wi me on vocals only, Frank Sinatra-style.  I won’t play guitar, or anythin else, just sing”  All heads around the table are now nodding with satisfaction.  It was the correct answer.  In fact, I suspect I have just said the words that they have all longed to hear for years. It's bonhomie and backslaps all round and we're on the road again.  And so passes the night.  

Next morning, a little hungover, I walk back up to the hospital where they dress me in paper pants and a short gown with no arse.  Perhaps they knew my measurements beforehand. A bit later on the nurses come to wheel me down to Theatre.  Another opening, another show.  The Anaesthetist smiles his best executioner’s smile and administers the celestial injection.  Last thing I remember is babbling away about truth and beauty and Guardiola's Barcelona: "...Messi, Xavi, Iniesta; the holy trinity, weavers of majesty, magic and wonder, magic and wonder....

The next thing I know I come to, back in the ward and Paw is sitting there at my bedside, reading the football pages. "Awright son?" "No bad, yersel?" "Aye,fine.  That's a hell of a gown they've got on ye" This is a bit of a volte face for Paw and I.  After a life spiced with the usual vices,  the beleaguered state of Paw Smith's ravaged constitution demands that he is regularly hauled in to face the music in the various Surgeries and Hospitals of deepest, darkest Lanarkshire where it is the Doctors’ and Nurses’ thankless task to mitigate the Scotsfolk's many, varied and cunning methods of self-destruction.  Our previous hospital scene took place at Monklands General, a couple of months ago.   For weeks Paw couldn't keep food down and was having increasing problems with his breathing.  All the family feared the worst, as did the hospital.   Sufficiently concerned himself, Paw reluctantly agreed to undergo initial scans and x-rays then, as the piece de resistance, a dual endoscopy and colonoscopy; a double bill, as it were.  On the eve of this delicate procedure I visited Paw, accompanied by my Uncle Davie who is himself a distinguished veteran of the Scottish Wars of Self-Destruction.  Uncle Davie, as the family elder, took the lead in the discussion. "So how's it gaun Kenny?" "No bad Davie" "I hear they're gonny stick a camera up yer erse" "Wan up ma erse and wan doon ma throat.  Jesus Christ, I hope they use two different cameras" "This is the NHS Kenny, they'll only huv wan camera fir the whole hospital.  Don't worry, I'll make sure they gie it a good wipe after they take it oot yer erse" "That's good tae know Davie" "It's aw modern nowadays Kenny, jist a wee thin camera.  Count yersel lucky.  It could've been a Box Brown they were banging up there.  Ho ho ho, woof!   Hahaha" And so, with the dull, everyday business of life and death having now been dealt with, the two men then relax and talk at great length about fitba.   To everyone's relief and amazement, all Paw's results came back clear and, thanks to his formidable haemmorhoids, fear of the arse camera has kept Paw on the straight and narrow ever since.   Anyway, so surgeon Max joins us and sits casually on the edge of the bed straightening his trouser creases. "How're you feeling Mr Smith" "No bad" "I'm happy to say that I believe you'll make a full recovery but you'll be out of action for a while." "Ah" "You suffered a severed artery, severed nerve and partially severed tendon" "Oooyah" "It's all been stitched back together.  You'll be in plaster for around a month, then a sling and physiotherapy.  After that until you should regain the use of your thumb.  I imagine you will be off work for at least two months, probably longer" This cloud has a glittering silver lining. I shall be a man of leisure again. "Thanks for aw you've done Max" "No problem.  Do you have any questions?" "Will ah be able tae play guitar?" "Could you play before?" "After a fashion" "You'll find a way Mr Smith.   All the best"

[anewinternational]

An Unexpected Bonus (Part 1)

It's been a long day.  Double shift over and done and now I'm walking home up my street.  It's a beautiful Autumn evening, crisp but still warm, occasional golden leaves float down through the quiet air.  I'm considering what I have in my fridge, what to rustle up for dinner, when I become aware of a voice behind me, young, male and largely incoherent.  Much of what is said is unintelligible to me but when I show no response the volume is increased, the tone sharpened until I make out the words, "Hoaw you, fuckin poofy drawers!" I have had worse, far, far worse than this. This is one of the funnier ones. I do not react.  I continue walking, measured and unhurried.  I briefly think of my neighbour telling me how her cat slows down when a dog barks at her. She says it confuses the dog.  I slacken my pace as the insults become louder and closer. I hear a sudden squirting noise and feel a cold splash of liquid shoot across my back. With a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach I turn around to see the depressingly predictable sight of a young, thin, pale-faced guy in a shell suit and baseball cap.  He is squirting a small carton of orange juice at me. His eyes are cold and glassy, shark-like. "Yir wastin yer juice.  Yir gonny be thirsty", I say. But our boy is not for turning and he pushes his head into mine with aggression. "How, d'ye no like it" "Naw yir fuckin right I don't like it", I say, pushing him away.  I'm angry now and follow up, pushing him hard in the chest.  He looks stoned and with this second push he staggers to the ground.  He picks himself up and turns to go, muttering over his shoulder something about a gun he's got stashed down his trousers, how he’s gonny take it out and show me and then he’s gonny burn my fuckin hoose doon.  I take this opportunity to hit him a good solid boot right up the arse; brisk, yet firm and with plenty of follow through.  He stumbles, small change spilling from his shell suit trouser pockets and rolling down the street.  A shiny pound coin plops down a stank as I experience a flashback of myself, dressed like him, acting like him, or trying to, once upon a time, a few lifetimes ago. He begins to walk away and I'm thinking thank fuck, hoping that's the end of it, but no, he's coming back at me now, like a Zombie that refuses to die.  Without thinking I once more push him away, hard in the chest, and only then do I notice the knife in his hand.  I look down and my thumb is streaming blood.  I back away towards my door before thinking that he mustn't know where I live so I retreat behind the nearest parked car.  He stands at the other side of the car, leering strangely, taunting me with his knife, feinting to go one side of the car then another, almost as though we were playing chases.  I suddenly remember I have my phone on me so I take it out and call 999.  Over the roof of the car he shouts that the Polis don't answer calls from wee poofs like me.  I keep my eyes on him and as he turns to walk away the Emergency Services are asking me which service I require. "Police and Ambulance" "What is the location?" "Dumbarton Road, Partick, Glasgow". I begin following our boy at a considered distance.  I know I could outrun him if necessary. "What is the situation?" "I've been attacked with a knife, some wee fuckin bawbag" Bold Boy hears this and turns back on me, advancing a few paces as I retreat behind the nearest car.  He smirks with satisfaction, then turns and walks away again.  As long as he believes himself to be the aggressor he feels safe.   "Assistance is on its way to you" says the Emergency voice, “Are you injured?". "Thumb's fucked" "Are you bleeding" "Aye" "Can you move it" "No really" "Is the assailant still in the area?" "He's walking away in front of me, up the hill, wee arsehole" Again he turns towards me for a few paces then, seeing me retreating (I never thought I'd be glad of all the parked cars on this street) he turns away with a triumphant sneer.  Just as we reach the corner at the top of the hill I hear engines roaring behind me, two Polis Vans and an Ambulance travelling at a rate of noughts.  Bold Boy gradually registers these oncoming re-enforcements and begins to leg it in a comically uncoordinated fashion, almost as though someone had swapped his feet the wrong way round.  The leading Polis Van closes in sharpish.  It pulls over, door sliding open as the biggest, burliest Polisman I have ever seen thunders out and hits the ground running, truncheon at the ready, a man very much on a mission.  I sit down on a little wall I happen to find behind me and, thumb in mouth, settle down to watch the show, long, red streaks, like tomato cup-a-soup, trickling down my arm and jacket.  Glancing up I see that the big Polisman, despite carrying an obvious weight handicap, is almost upon our Bold Boy and, ohohohoho, I don't believe this, Bold Boy begins to zigzag. What the fuck is he doing, trying to dodge enemy shellfire?  Is he a U-Boat shaking off torpedoes?  I leave off sucking my thumb for a minute to gurgle and snigger, hehehehe, this is first class entertainment.  Unfortunately, like many great performances, it is over far too quickly.  The Big Polisman closes fast and it’s almost as though he jumps up above Bold Boy before landing on him hard and from what seems like a very great height. He would've got a clap on the telly for that one.  Give him a big hand Ladies and Gentlemen.  Let's see that again in slow motion, ooooh, that was beautiful, textbook.  I give a little cheer, blood burbling down over my chin.  The Big Polisman is pinning Bold Boy to the ground now and it’s almost as though he has completely absorbed him. Bold Boy has vanished without trace.  There is not even a shellsuit leg to be seen.  The Big Polisman has been thorough and comprehensive.  He has a lovely touch for a big man.  As if this was not conclusive enough, three of the Polisman's colleagues, all similarly formidably proportioned, are now sprinting over to the scene, hungry for a slice of the action.  They all pile in, in a highly satisfactory manner, administering whatever blows and restraints they deem necessary.  After a brief but very enjoyable one-sided scuffle, the four Polis commandeer one limb apiece and hoist Bold Boy high in the air, Jesus Christ Superstar-style, where he relaxes into an almost Zen-like posture of acceptance.   Bold Boy is carried shoulder-high in triumph before being unceremoniously delivered into the back of the van where I trust he shall sustain one or two additional abrasions whilst "resisting arrest".  Once the suspect is firmly under arrest and has been suitably subdued, he shall then, I imagine, be called upon to perform his civic duty of "assisting the Police with their enquiries", a perilous stage of the proceedings, often conducted down dank corridors fraught with treacherously slippery floor tiles, leading on down deep, dark stairwells, sudden and steep. Due Process, I believe it is called. With all the excitement I'd almost forgotten the blood.  Next thing I know I'm in the back of an Ambulance and they're wrapping a strip of gauze round and round my thumb as a young Polisman takes a statement from me.  I'm told to hold my thumb in the air and squeeze it with my other hand.  Cutbacks, I think in passing.  I imagine that back in the Golden Age of the NHS there would have been someone to squeeze your thumb for you.  The Ambulance speeds away and I’m vaguely aware of the mean streets of Partick whizzing by through the misted windows.  Meanwhile, I relate my version of events to the young Polisman.  He tells me that it looks like Bold Boy has been on a bit of a spree today.  Shortly before making my acquaintance he robbed, at knifepoint, two 14 year-old boys, stealing their pocket money (I vaguely wonder here if it was the young boys' coins that went rolling down the street after that well merited boot up the arse I administered).  Also, and perhaps most sickeningly of all, Bold Boy held up the Morton's Roll Van, making off with the cash tin and a big bag of rolls. This, of course, is tantamount to interfering with the Royal Mail, if not more so.  I hope they throw the book at the cunt.  

Next thing I know, the ambulance doors open and we're at the hospital.  I get whisked off on a trolley and taken to A+E.  They wheel me down a white corridor, swish a curtain around the trolley and tell me to squeeze my thumb some more.   After a while, a genial Irish Doctor called Noel enters, takes a look at my still bleeding thumb and says "Aye, it's a little bleeder alright" He then wanders off back down the white corridor, whistling a jaunty reel. Apparently they can't do much until it stops bleeding so I lie on the trolley holding my thumb in the air, squeezing it with my good hand.  The young Polisman is still sitting with me and we are now joined by a Poliswoman who goes over the official statement. "I heard he attacked the Morton's Rolls Van" I tell her. "That's correct Mr Smith" "He's a sick fuck" "He's a very disturbed young man" "Did the rolls get through alright?  People are relying on those rolls.  Jesus Christ, it doesny bear thinkin aboot" "The rolls are fine Mr Smith. Now if we can just once more go over your statement" The Poliswoman repeats my statement back to me and it’s pretty much all as I've just told you, minus the Due Process fantasies.  She then looks up, taps her teeth with her Polis pen and says- "Just a couple of final questions now Mr Smith.  Can you describe your assailant?" "He's a wee fuckin fanny" "I mean can you describe his physical characteristics?" "Young guy, average height, late teens-early twenties, thin, pale, shell-suit, baseball cap, aggressive, glassy-dead-shark-eyes. Jesus Christ, that’s half the young guys in Glasgow.  Ahm no narrowin it doon much for ye am ah?" "Can you remember anything about his baseball cap?" "It wis green" "And was there any writing or stitching on the baseball cap?" "Hmm, let me think" "Any gold stitching?" The Poliswoman looks at me closely. "I was gonny say bronze but aye it was probably closer to gold" "That's brilliant, thank you Mr Smith.  That's all we need for now.  I'll leave you to recuperate.  I wish you a speedy and full recovery."   And all too soon she's off and away, back down the white corridor in her nicely fitted Polis troosers.  I lie back and squeeze the thumb some more.  The young Polisman is still with me.  He sits next to me drinking coffee and talking about  Liberace, got all his records apparently.   Some time later when the bleeding eases, Noel shows up again.  "How's our little bleeder then?" He has a look then issues some instructions to a big strapping Polish guy named Lukas.  I talk with Lukas about a marvellous jolly me and the boys had in Gdansk a while back, right good laugh, so it wis.  He tells me that I really should get myself to Krakow, lovely part of the world he says, so I half-listen as he talks away, something about underground salt cathedrals, whilst the thumb gets sprayed with a sticky yellow liquid, patched up once more with bandage and gauze, and I am then told I can go home.  I bid my farewells and offer my thanks to Lukas and the young Polisman and then it’s my turn to make my way back down the white corridor.  I can’t feel my thumb but I try to dwell on the bright side and reflect that, if nothing else, I am now a little more informed as regards, amongst other things, the beauty of Krakow in the springtime and the life and times of Liberace.  It’s dark as I leave the hospital and as I walk home I suddenly remember that there was nothing in my fridge after all so I think I’ll just spoil myself and buy a fish supper on the way home.

[anewinternational]

The Scottish Parliament

  We are due onstage in 20 minutes. 

  After a stuffy, frustrating hour spent nosing the van inch by inch through Edinburgh's milling festival streets, we finally pull up, as directed, at the back door and tradesman's entrance of the Parliament where we are met by a formidable redoubt of stout, reinforced metal gates.  Sunlight glares fiercely upon a row of lethal-looking, Venus-fly-trap jaws cast in steel, their long, curving fangs gleaming and eager to sink into anyone careless enough to be caught in possession of an inadmissible pass or out-of-date laminate. Everything about this gate says Fuck off.  Our Driver bravely winds down the window by a speaker, a button and a no-nonsense sign ordering the button pusher to "SPEAK HERE".  I am full of admiration as the Driver extends an arm and an intrepid index finger towards the button, giving it a confident push.  After a few seconds the speaker splutters into life and demands

"Yes!?"

"Hi, it's the band" "Who!?" The driver offers up our band name.  There is a long, embarrassing silence before the speaker voice returns once again, this time louder, annoyed and with yet another "Who!?" The Driver valiantly repeats our name whilst we cower behind him, dying of self-consciousness.   "And what do you want?" hollers the speaker voice. "We're the band", repeats the Driver, slow and methodical.  He is well experienced in these matters, having driven half his life and all over the world with many bands, far bigger than us.  He mentioned in passing that he once drove Spandau Ballet on a tour through Kazakhstan which surely deserves some kind of medal.  He remains courteous and calm in the face of the speaker voice's continuing interrogation. "What are you here for!?" "We're here to play a gig" "A what!?" "A concert" "Wait a moment please!" The speaker cuts once more into silence.  We tap fingers, bite nails, paw passively at phones.  In between time.  Somewhere in the background I can hear birds singing happily and I think how nice that must be, to need no permission.  The speaker bursts abruptly back to life as a new and markedly more butch voice demands "Who is this!?" And the whole dreadful rigmarole begins all over again.   After the Driver has been subjected to a round of questions identical to those previously asked the speaker cuts off with an angry crackle of static and we are once again left to our own devices.  I begin pondering ways of making more productive use out of life's many pockets of in between time.  Perhaps I could do push ups or learn Italian.  Suddenly, unannounced, with a dreadful grind the fearsome rows of metal fangs, slowly, reluctantly begin to unclench.  We are afforded a small window of daylight into which we may pass.  I imagine this must have been what it was like trying to gain an audience at the court of Ming the Merciless.  The van rolls slowly through.  Behind us I hear a bone shuddering groan, followed by a sickening click as the gates once more snap to a close. We are now inside the jaws of the beast.  The only way is forward.  The van trundles down to an empty car park and comes to a halt as unobjectionably as possible in some out of the way corner.  A comfortable looking security guard saunters into view holding a half-eaten sausage roll.  He stops to look at the van, taking a healthy bite of sausage roll and munching methodically, before strolling over to the Driver's window.  

We are due onstage in 10 minutes.

 The Driver winds down the window as Security Guy leans in with a lazy elbow. He glances at the driver before looking over his shoulder at our poor, huddled masses in the back of the van.  We all sit on our best behaviour.  Nothing to see here.  Security Guy turns back to the Driver, recognising him as the responsible adult here. "Who are you?" he asks, taking a man-sized bite of sausage roll. "We're the band", replies the Driver, our champion and a model of saintly patience. "Band?" says Security Guy, casually raising an eyebrow at the sheer unorthodoxy of it all. The Driver yet again dutifully explains who we are and what our business here is whilst Security Guy listens, incredulous, occasionally peering in the back of the van, looking us all up and down with a smirk at the motley assortment of humanity he sees before him.  Finally, he nods, bored now and asks us "Do you know where you're going?" "We were hoping you could tell us that" replies the Driver Security Guy raises both eyebrows to hitherto unprecedented heights, shaking his head slowly in wonder, unable to believe that such folly could really be. "And you have equipment of course", he tut-tuts reproachfully, adding to our list of sins.  He consoles himself with a final mouthful of sausage roll before unholstering his walkie-talkie.  Shaking his head again, this time to express utmost regret he adds "Well, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask Albert to come down with his trolley" Surely not, I think to myself.  Surely there is no need for such extreme measures.  Not Albert.  Not the trolley.  I picture Albert as a keen-eyed trouble-shooter, a go-to man in times of national emergency, the Red Adair of the municipal works, riding to the rescue on his trusty trolley.  Security Guy is on his walkie-talkie now.  He has sauntered away a few paces to lean his ample backside against a pole.  He half-turns away from us but we can still hear him clearly. "Albert?  Yes, yes I know Albert, yes I know that too Albert and I'm sorry.  Listen, Albert, could you possibly come down just now?  I know....I know what time it is and I'm sorry...well, we'd very much appreciate that.  Oh..and Albert?  It's a trolley job"  

We are due onstage in 5 minutes.

We unload the gear and place it in the designated loading zone whilst the Driver rolls off to park the van in our allotted parking space, on the other side of the car park from the loading zone.  I notice that I have a series of texts and missed calls from the Violinist wanting to know where the hell we are just as I realise that I can't find my bag with my stage outfit.  I am scrabbling around frantically amongst our piles of cases, bags and band miscellanea when suddenly Security Guy looms over me and proceeds to issue me with detailed and rather involved directions on which entrance, which elevator, which zone, turning and stairway to take.  In my lateral vision I can see the band menfolk standing around, hands in pockets, chatting idly about nothing very much at all really. "Can someone take directions from this guy?” I shout over to them, a little curtly it has to be said.  My tone and choice of words leave something to be desired and earn me hard stares all round.  The Drummer gallantly comes to my aid and shoulders the burden of Security Guy's convoluted series of directions, not to mention an unabridged version of the heath and safety rules and regulations.  I resume rummaging around for my bag full of stage gear and the phone rings again with the Violinist who wants to let us know that we are due onstage in 2 minutes.  A slow, steady and rhythmic trundling heralds the arrival of Albert and his trolley.  Albert looks to be around eighty if he's a day.  I do not doubt that he is a man blessed with many admirable qualities but I suspect that blistering pace is no longer one of them.  I'm sure Albert himself would be the first to admit that his champion days in the 60-yard dash are now sadly long behind him. My phone goes and it's the Violinist to let me know that we are due onstage in 1 minute as Albert and his trolley edge agonisingly towards the loading zone where four of the band menfolk, not a care in the world, continue to lounge at their leisure, chatting idly about nothing very much at all really.  

[anewinternational]

Good news from the underground

The band have come in with me, thrown in their lot.  For the first time since our early days of blind and wide-eyed hedonism, the scent of the chase is upon us. The hunt is afoot.  My bluff is finally being called but, with the others on board, it is no longer a bluff.   I never was one for the main event: too many people, too much jostling and, unless I was pushy and shameless, the stage and the show would be at a remove so far away that I may as well have been elsewhere.  Performance means intimacy and a temporary removal from the world outside the door.  I picture my ideal venue and I see a bar at the dark end of the street or a carnival stall at the end of the pier, out of season.  And it will probably be raining.  I am aware that this taste for off-Broadway is not conducive to healthy ticket sales.      I remember, as a child, drawing pictures as pretty as I could make them, only to score out, tear up and throw them all away. This impulse towards oblivion has never quite left me.  A propensity to self-effacement may well be an admirable quality, even a necessary prerequisite in, say, a butler or a spy, but for a singer in a pop group it is, to say the least, unhelpful.  I daresay I should have shared this with the band before they got involved in all this nonsense, let them in on my fatal secret.  Too late for all that now.  But time and again they have talked me out of tearing up the picture, allowing it to be seen and having the courage to take whatever comes next. Time and again they have drawn me away from the shady margins of the world and back to people, back to light.  At the end of the pier there is nowhere else to go.  At the dark end of the street I only found a dead end.   I used to believe I could do all this alone because I had to.  Now that I no longer have to I hereby admit that I cannot.  I cannot do this alone.     Henceforth, the debts and fruits of our labours shall be borne and shared by all.  I can almost physically feel a weight lift from my shoulders as the deal is sealed in the best way possible; over a drink and a handshake.  This crackpot scheme is no longer the delusion of a crazed loner.  We are now a full-blown conspiracy.

[anewinternational]

In the Patisserie

So, there's this manager guy interested in the band.  He seems like a decent sort: enthusiastic, amiable, conscientious, hard-working, organised and a little bit successful too.  There is, of course, a snag: he comes with an appendage. There is a bad cop to his good cop and Bad Cop is yet to be convinced by us.   A meeting is arranged and I know all does not bode well when I am informed that this summit is to take place in a west end patisserie.

The Drummer and I meet at Hillhead underground and wander down Byres Road.  We are each of us preoccupied with our thoughts and do not say much until we reach the befrilled entrance to the patisserie.  Then, with his hand on the polished, brass door handle, the Drummer gives me a curt nod and says, - Let's see whit these cunts hiv goat tae say fir themsels. Pushing through the stiff, begrudging door, a shrill, little bell alerts the clientele to our unlikely presence.  We shuffle, a little sheepishly, inside, trying not to knock anything over as we make our way between the piles of scones, the paper doilies and the genteel ladies who lunch.  A refined, understated eyebrow or two is raised as we pass regardless through a notable lull in the general murmur.  We edge to the back and the darkest table we can find which isn't very dark at all really and certainly not dark enough.  Then, we wait.  When it becomes apparent that we are not here to rob or ravish the locals, the murmur resumes with what may be a mixture of relief and disappointment. After a few surreal minutes of sitting as harmlessly as possible, the frilly door tinkles open once again as another brief hiatus in the chink of crockery and tearoom chatter heralds the arrival of the Management.  Good Cop bounds over and gives us the big hello.  Bad Cop is markedly less enthused, reluctantly bringing up the rear with a limp dishrag of a semi-handshake.  His small, dark, elusive eyes are not quite present and peer out from somewhere underneath what is surely an unnecessarily large and ostentatious floppy cloth cap.   This is, after all, a Tuesday afternoon.  My instincts tell me that we could all just cut our losses here and go home right now, no honour lost.  However, here we are, and the show must go on.  Coffees are ordered and we seat ourselves around the table like poker players.  

Good Cop gamely attempts to get things moving with a -So what have you guys been up to? I am suddenly shy and awkward, as is usual for me whenever called upon to explain what must appear inexplicable to any rational individual: the curious case of the band as eternal liability; if we were a business we would have long ago gone bust; even as a charity I imagine we would have been wound up by now; certainly, as a bet, you wouldn't take us, not in a million years. - Oh, you know, writing, rehearsing, playing gigs, I say, toying with a paper doily. -Drinking, adds the Drummer -Aye, band stuff, I say, not really wanting to talk about it. .... .... The coffees mercifully arrive and we fall upon them gratefully.  A prolonged period of stirring, sugaring, slurping, and general beverage management ensues.  Good Cop takes off his now steamed-up spectacles, wiping them with a snowy-white napkin.  Looking us both over anew, he raises an eyebrow in amusement and further prompts us - - New recordings? We nod proudly.  The Drummer passes them both a pristine, exquisitely pressed CD of our new demo recordings, complete with on-body artwork, band name, song list and all conceivable contact methods: everything but instructions on how to press play.  The Drummer has put a fair bit of effort into these CDs, knocking them out today during a lull in his work at the Glasgow Art School.  I know for a fact that the Drummer prefers to spend these precious lulls of his standing outside the school, leaning on a railing, smoking a fag and idly watching the girls go by.  I know this because I have often leaned on the railing with him, vaguely discussing band business whilst this brave new world skips gaily by.  I am then, I would say, the only man here, other than the Drummer, to know just what a sacrifice on his part these CDs represent.  Good Cop picks his CD up enthusiastically, scanning the track listing.  Bad Cop pokes a little at the plastic sleeve with a pale pinkie, glancing briefly at it.  

 I remember Bad Cop now.  I remember he used to be in a band that was famous for never playing live.  They created a bit of mystique about themselves by never playing a note, turning up at the right gigs with the right faces and kissing the appropriate arses whilst taking great care to shun and blank all those with insufficient credentials or an incorrect haircut: a man who likes to support the winners, perhaps in the belief that this makes him a winner too.  When his band finally did play, it was built up as a big deal until, come the night, come the show, it quickly became apparent why they didn't play before. There were seven of them on stage and they didn't have a tune between them. A while after that I heard he'd gone into management.  And so, now, here we are. He does not look at the Drummer nor I, preferring to rest his gaze somewhere high and far off, somewhere beyond our mortal realm. When, finally, he speaks, his tone is low, vague and not very interested. -Have you had any label interest? -What do you think? -  I reply, a little crisply, I admit. He continues to gaze out into the fascinating, far distance, I daresay wishing he was elsewhere.  I can't quite see past the feeling that I wish he was elsewhere too, anywhere elsewhere. -Weren't Bella Union interested in you guys? - offers Good Cop.   Good Cop really is a sport. We all still have about half a cup of coffee left and perhaps this latest mirage will give us just enough time and cover to sup up and see our way out of the door.  I note, peripherally, the immediate return of Bad Cop's attention.  His small, dark eyes harden and focus beneath the huge, floppy cloth bunnet which seems to get larger and increasingly ridiculous every time I look at it.   I nod thoughtfully, rummaging through dead files in my mental out-tray. - Bella Union... briefly, yes.  Then no, not at all - I reply. I wish I could be more helpful to Good Cop but this is the truth so there it is. -Ah... any others? -Not even briefly - the Drummer pipes up with a grin -Ah

Good Cop nods sympathetically whilst Bad Cop's eyes zone out for what I suspect shall be the final time, gazing forevermore off into the mystical distance.  Our window of opportunity is now closed. Good Cop gathers up his CD and makes with the pleasantries, something about having a listen and a think about where we can go; maybe coming to see us live.  We all know that this is already over but are complicit in his upbeat vagueness, even a little thankful for his hollow words which camouflage the dreadful silence and give us all just enough covering fire to don jackets, settle up bills and exit the premises without too much awkwardness.  Good Cop gives us the big cheerio by the frilly door. Bad Cop is already halfway down the street.  As I turn and close the door I notice, through the frills and the gleaming, polished glass, that one of the CDs still lies unclaimed upon the table.  A brisk, efficient waitress is now tidying it away along with the cups and the tea things and the paper doilies.

[anewinternational]

On the Reeperbahn at half past midnight

There is a bar in Hamburg, just off the Reeperbahn, named after the classic German film star and singer, Hans Albers Klause.  It is warm and friendly, salty with nautical memorabilia and just a little bit seedy.  My kind of place really.   If you should ever find yourself, some lucky night, on the Reeperbahn at half past midnight, perhaps you may chance upon this bar and, curious, step inside. The location means that passing trade and transients are common here so it is unlikely that you will attract more than a brief glance from the clientele as you enter, buy a drink and establish yourself in some discreet corner, dimly lit by a swaying ship’s lantern.  Perhaps you will be drawn to the jukebox which offers a wide selection of Hans Albers’ music and should your selection be his famous- 

“Auf der Reeperbahn nachts um halb eins”

- you may, if you are lucky, be rewarded by one or two approving nods and respectfully raised glasses from the local holy drinkers, for this song is the unofficial anthem of the surrounding St Pauli neighbourhood and of its maverick, jolly roger of a football team, FC St Pauli.  

 Perhaps you will wander the room, peering at the many fascinating exhibits adorning the smoke coloured walls; posters, photographs, paintings and plaques from German cinema’s golden era and Hamburg’s proud seafaring history.  Many of the portraits on display are in honour of Hans Albers and in which he poses roguishly in picturesque mariner’s garb, although it is said he was only ever on a ship once in his life, on a jolly day trip to the wonderfully named island of Heligoland.  But not all of these curiosities are a Hans Albers homage.  

  At the far end of the bar, on the right hand wall, beneath a careless string of fairy lights and a precariously strung-up fishing net , hangs a striking, remarkable picture.  It may be drawn in charcoal, or crayon, or even in pencil; it is difficult to say in this light.  Impressionistic, sketchy and a little childlike, it is the Accordionist, captured in mid-shanty, cap tipped jauntily, cigar dangling rakishly from barely drawn lips. It has an odd, haunting quality and is mysteriously unsigned.  The bar staff are uncertain of its origins and can't quite recall when it first appeared.  Maybe it was dashed off by a pavement artist for passing tourists and found it's way here through junk shops and jumble sales. Maybe it was donated informally one night by one of the regulars.  Maybe payment in kind for a bar bill.  Perhaps you too shall stand here, at the far end of the bar, on the Reeperbahn at half past midnight, gazing at the accordionist in strange enchantment, just as I did, a few years ago now, when I thought I saw a way forward and it felt like a door was opening somewhere.

(Photograph by Helen Matilda Wyld)

[anewinternational]

The Accordionist

He was there all the time, right under our noses, but it was cold and it rained hard so we hurried heedlessly past. At the foot of the stairs leading down from the railway station, just off the main public thoroughfare, there stands the Accordionist. He dips and sways with supple grace, fingertips nimbly tapping out a secret combination of notes, unlocking the door to a lost world of jolly jigs and melancholy waltzes. It is the ghost of fairgrounds past, a circus which left town long ago. He plays well and with feeling for the unlovely rush of harrassed commuters who swarm past and around him and his partially open case wherein, twinkling here and there in the depths, there lie occasional, stray coins. He smiles faintly, eyes closed as the people mill and hustle blankly by. All contributions are gratefully received but this is music free at the point of access, universal and open to all. Perhaps such generosity is asking for trouble. We are suspicious of that which we need not buy, and so, on we go, we walk on by. We are a difficult audience. But if the performance is more than we deserve the Accordionist does not behave any differently. The song is the thing and it is sung to be shared. Occasionally someone tosses a coin into the case and the Accordionist bends to seamlessly include an elegant bow in his movements. He welcomes us in and, by listening, we become part of the song. I stand discreetly in a forgotten corner and, for a time, I forget myself, watching and listening. I want to go to that place where the music is but I don't know how to get there.

[anewinternational]

Page from "We Come Here To Break Your Heart"

Encore

When it's been a good one, one of the really good ones,  the ones you don't forget, long after all good people have gone safely home to bed we will still be wide awake, hanging on to a falling high.  The adrenal rush, the thrilling rise and soar and, oh how soon we peak, easing down through afterglow, until further, lower on, the high that keeps us up all night must find somewhere else to go, some form of consolation: a beer to lean on, a vigorous whisky or the fleeting comfort of passing strangers and some kind of hollow joy.  It must be so, for long after the last note has been struck, the song will continue; refrain, reprise, encore, once more, far into the night and on through the small hours of the morning until, finally, we fall somewhere deep inside the darkness of the heart where our words become sighs and the song becomes a dream.  Perhaps, there, some few, precious moments of peace shall at last be found.  But by then, it will already be getting light.