Wednesday 4 June 2014



When I was a small boy (I was petrified)

When I was a small boy l feared books and their snaking impenetrable code. Unless there were pictures offering an oasis in the desert, they had no meaning or use to me. It seemed my dad was right; here was evidence that I was indeed a useless little boy. Sometimes I would pile up my books and toys to fashion a stove and play cook with mum’s pots and pans. Dad would view the game with clear disdain; his temples a volcanic peak shrouded in the smoke of his Woodbine. Despite his best efforts to cajole me into playing soldier, for the most part I preferred to stir rather than slaughter.

At school, my friends seemed to enjoy books, but perhaps they were pretending too. After all, the oxygen of the classroom was fear of exposure and the slipper’s sting. I managed to get along by simply ignoring the issue, oblivious perhaps, and hopeful that it would somehow disappear. I have no recollection as to the reasons why I struggled so, but I suspect poor schooling was the main cause. My mum did her very best in the circumstances but she was burdened with her own problems, not least my father. I did feel her love and support strongly, but home life was a bubbling cauldron; a yin and yang battle between a mountain lioness and the black bear in the woods. The battles were evenly matched but bloody with a ringside seat.

One day I woke wracked with anxiety and nerves, because today there was to be a reading test. The last one had been a tearful humiliation thanks to my teacher announcing my lack of ability to the class and their ensuing jibes. I was the dunce corralled to the corner of the room. This time though, I had prepared well and memorised the test word for word. The story described a woman making jam in the kitchen, a lovely snapshot into a cuddly domesticity alien to me. I sat at my desk fidgeting with my eyes lowered, transfixed by the scrawling trails spiralling from the inkwell. My name was eventually called and I strode confidently to my teachers desk. She looked up with cold eyes, gesturing to a chair with a curt ‘sit’ as I approached. The book was passed across the desk and she asked me to read aloud as before, but this was not the page I had rehearsed. ‘Read please’ she barked. My mouth opened but just a wounded squeal emerged as I burst into tears. I was sent back to my desk once again in shame.

Although I can’t remember the details, I’m very thankful that my family moved as my next school was a good one. Here I felt encouraged and responded by learning quickly, gaining confidence and blooming brightly like a summer flower. Books became fun; a trusted friend and window to escape, knowledge, excitement and opportunity. Henceforth I would never be without one by my side.





Thursday 19 December 2013

 
 
The Brightest minds cast the deepest shadows – Christmas 2013
These are my liner notes for the Christmas CD 2013 with links to videos & extra tracks. Enjoy...
This year has been swathed in coils of sorrow and loss. My world was razed to the ground on the 24 February and I still stumble through the ruins. The sun went out and I languish in an ice age; a brave face masking sadness just below the surface. Writing exposes the hurt, and what was once a pleasure has become pain. Even these few words are a struggle and bring turbulence.
This compilation was also a challenge because some songs here transport me to feelings and memories which are difficult. But I have tried to balance pain with hope because Doreen Alice warrants celebration. She was many things, but always vibrant, loving, generous, funny, opinionated, sexual and passionate. She made me in her belly and gave me many traits which I applaud and embrace.
Thanks to Mike H, Mike W, India, Clare & Rui for making this & the Podcast happen J
Moonbeams (Take Me to the Land of Hell) - Yoko Ono & the Plastic Ono Band
I have always had enormous admiration for Yoko Ono, her art and her dignity. Like the country of her birth, she never fails to surprise and this excerpt from ‘Moonbeams’ felt like a fitting start to this year’s bonanza. People are planets, their souls are suns.
Busted Note (Haw) - Hiss Golden Messenger
Haw came to me through a friend and this track immediately grabbed my attention. For reasons unknown, God (whatever that is), threads this compilation. I suspect there’s something subliminal going on because I’ve found myself searching for answers. Of course there aren’t any, life’s simply a bottle and death the stopper, or is it?
God Bless the Girl (The Next Day) – David Bowie
For Bowie fans the re-emergence of the thin white duke on January 8th was the best present imaginable. For me he is and will always be the high water mark of popular culture. No one can touch him and in 2013 he was everywhere. There is no other. This track, which features the Bowie choir in fine voice, appeared on the Japanese pressing of ‘The Next Day’ so hopefully will be new to some of you.
About Farewell (About Farewell) – Alela Diane
Alela’s fourth album of songs beautifully articulates the feelings which spin from a breakup. It stands comparison to Joni’s ‘Blue’ thanks to an honesty and sorrow which will connect with anybody who has loved and lost. She herself observed ‘nothing is really shrouded in metaphor or anything. I’m laying my cards on the table. I’m just saying it how it is.’
Incompatible (Obsidian) – Baths
Baths (Will Wiesenfeld) swept into my world thanks to numerous plugs from Rui, the Portuguese wind. I sometimes struggle with electronica as a genre, often finding it ephemeral and transitory but rich seams of gold emerged in Obsidian which gave a warm glow to 2013. It also delights me to see yet another great gay writer take the stage.
Cecil Taylor (Fanfare) – Jonathan Wilson
Jonathan Wilson was a live highlight of 2013. Watching his playing up close and personal was a privilege. Although there is nothing new in his approach, his music is timeless and the nods to Little Feat, Santana, Dylan and Pink Floyd bring joy to an old fart like me.
Ambiguity (Fellow Travellers) – Shearwater
Shearwater narrowly missed out on the final cut last year so it’s a pleasure to include them this time around. They were also a live highlight of 2012. Fellow Travellers showcases a set of covers and this one comes from David Thomas Broughton, a British folk artist renowned for improvising and recording in one take. ‘It's easy to forget where you came from if there's no question of your return.
The Pisgee Nest (Me Moan) – Daughn Gibson
Daughn had me all a quiver in 2013. On stage his charisma and sex appeal oozed like honey from a comb, inducing palpitations and bringing to mind a young Elvis. He swaggers with the best but in person you couldn’t wish to meet a more unassuming young man (as Giles will testify). A star is born & definitely one to watch (over & over).
Shame Chamber (Wakin On A Pretty Daze) - Kurt Vile
Wakin on a Pretty Daze was a purchase that never left my side during the year. Few records get better with every listen but this one does. Beautifully conceived with great lines and licks around every corner, this comes highly recommended. ‘How can I look myself in the mirror, then again, why should i?’
Mélancolie (Beautiful Africa) - Rokia Traoré
Seeing an artist live often makes or breaks a record for me. Savages and Valerie June for example fell off this listing as a result of lacklustre or tired performances. Rokia Traoré on the other hand burst through like Malian sunshine. She was simply sublime and joyful live.
Song for Zula (Muchacho) – Phosphorescent
I love the epic canter of this song and the way it expresses the space that exists between love and hate, something I’ve experienced in my own romances and most recently with my father. How love opens up our vulnerabilities whilst being ‘just as fickle as a feather in a stream.’
Will You Love Me (Big Inner) - Matthew E. White
Tue 22nd Jan 2013 saw the snows engulf Brighton and road gridlock meant that I arrived late to Matthew’s first ever headlining UK show. I only caught a few songs but his lush soulfulness, good humour and warm delivery was enough to fix this record in my consciousness. Resident Music’s record of the year too J
My Love My Life (Get Schooled EP) - Villagers & John Grant
John’s show at St George’s Church was the live high point of my musical year. Moving, beautiful and heartfelt, it was everything a performance should be. Pale Green Ghosts was also my runner up record of 2013, narrowly beaten by you know who. Here John is paired with Villagers who also turned in a wonderful show at the Old Market this year. This ABBA tune features on a limited edition EP called ‘Get Schooled’ so may be new to some of you.
Old Blue (No Selfish Heart) – Rick Redbeard
Rick Anthony stepped away from the Phantom Band and rebranded as Redbeard for this wonderful solo outing. I had the pleasure of seeing and meeting him in March accompanied by my lovely chum Paul. This song made me cry on the night thanks to the lines about time. My mother had passed just a few weeks before and time had run out. The performance can be seen here -
Even the Stars (Let It All In) – I Am Kloot
I listened to this song over and over on the train journeys to Northampton when my mother was sick. It’s a simple tune with an even simpler message. Everything dies, so live for the moment and do things that count. We have no control of the past or future, just the now. ‘To say just one thing that matters’ became my mantra in February and I played this song to her on the day that she died.
I Wanted To Say More (Give In) – On An On
This is another song that sound tracked February gaining great power for obvious reasons.  I listened to the advice of dear friend Mike R and did my best to say everything I needed to when I sat alone with Doreen Alice, but inevitably I wanted to say more. Every word was true and the conversation has continued with signs that she’s listening.
Abandon Window (Immunity) – Jon Hopkins
I was signposted to this record by my friend Jim and on a chance visit to Resident decided to buy it. I played it in the car on the way home and was unaffected until this tune emerged as I charged along the coast road. Doreen Alice filled the car and tears simply exploded from me. I have no idea why, but it’s become one of the songs that bring her back.
The Other Side (Museum Of Appalachia Recordings) – Diana Jones
A short but lovely track lifted from a record so authentic it could have been made 50 years ago. Chosen for obvious reasons and a suitable end to this little collection made for Doreen Alice and dear friends across the globe. If you have this disc you’re special to me in one way or another, so please remember that J
 
Limitless undying Love
That shines around me like a million suns
It calls me on and on across the universe.
Jai Guru Deva, om
 
Soundcloud: pygar59

 
 

Saturday 31 August 2013


 
 
Not going shopping...

My school was a bit on the rough side, a secondary modern stuck in the sticks where bullies ruled, some of them teachers. I would watch out for their swooping shadow menace and keep my head down. They would circle the schoolyard like skuas, and if we were lucky we’d just lose a few cigarettes rather than our teeth. The ultimate insult was to be called queer and it came with punches, hair pulling, spit and segregation. Sometimes violence would erupt, and the grey slabs of the yard would be marbled with blood. A nose bleed was generally used as an excuse. The irony was that many of the young men branded as queers were not gay at all. Just to be a little effete, wear glasses or be caught reading a novel instead of a comic was enough to be rounded up at my school. Academic aspiration and achievement was a cause for suspicion whilst sport and progressive rock was king. There was no underground, velvet or otherwise at my secondary modern.

To my eternal shame I stood back and watched the carnage in my desperation to be invisible. Rather than stand alone and be noticed I opted for the side with power and joined the baying crowd, a coward, but not the only one. In my defence all I can say is that I never physically hurt anyone but that’s a pretty feeble stance to take. Regrettably I was no fearless and defiant Martha P. Johnson. There was a feeling even then that I didn’t belong anywhere or have a corner to fight despite realising I was a bit queer myself. To my peers I was just a regular bloke with a good sense of humour; a court jester with a weight problem.

 

 
Ian Knot was the toughest boy at my school and he lived in my village. This meant many awkward minutes avoiding eye contact whilst waiting together at the school bus stop. At first he viewed me with utter contempt but over time we became friends of sorts because I made him laugh. However with an audience in tow his contempt would spring back like a field gate. One day the bus was late and adopting the look of a James Dean brought up on black pudding and strong tea, he pulled out a crumbled pack of Players No.6 from his pocket. With one precision swipe a match was struck and cigarette lit in one swooping movement. After several deep drags the cigarette was offered to me and I didn’t dare refuse. It tasted quite disgusting and Ian laughed as I coughed and spluttered; my eyes smarting and red. An intense rush of blood and wave of nausea engulfed but I persevered so desperate was I to belong somewhere.

 

The next day one of Ian’s courtiers summoned me to a corner of the schoolyard where his gang gathered before assembly each day. I stood in their horseshoe as Ian introduced me to each of his clan as little fat Hill. I had a new name and identity. The pincer of my new family closed in like a fly trap as I swore my allegiance to each of them in turn, finishing with Ian. He gestured to the pebble dash wall that circled the yard like a sandpaper sheath.  ‘Go on then, you know what to do’ he said. There was no going back so I did as every other member had done before me. I raised my arm and dragged my knuckles down through flint shards until my skin tore and burst with blood. I would wear the scabs proudly for weeks as a totem, my wounds indicative of my new status and invincibility. 

 


When I was 16 I watched ‘The Naked Civil Servant’ with Doreen Alice sitting opposite me. We were both completely transfixed by the show which brought colour into a world of 1970s brown and beige. Looking back I think my mother felt Quentin’s pain and courage so deeply because she too had been ostracised and singled out. In her case for being an easy woman knocked up by some Yank from the Criterion Pub. She’d also shared Quentin’s love of bright red lipstick, Cuban heels, dark alleyways and a man in uniform back in the day. I applaud her for getting what she wanted in the bleakness of 40s Britain, no doubt with a pair of nylons and a few brandies for good measure. We have nothing to take from this life but our memories and spots of light. I saw Quentin more as a beacon of beautiful otherness lighting new pathways and possibilities like some wartime Bowie. Although I would never have the desire to dress up or possess the cheekbones of either, I would always be on the outside whilst on the inside. I realised that queer could be power and strength after all.

'My mother protected me from the world and my father threatened me with it' - QC

Quentin Crisp - born Denis Charles Pratt, (125 December 1908 – 21 November 1999(1999-11-21)
 


Friday 16 August 2013


 
Everything is new


Every everything
everything is new
I cried everything
everything is new

 
I loved Anthony’s Scott Nina infused warble croon the moment I heard it coiling around Old Whore’s Diet, the closing track to the Rufus masterpiece Want. A serendipitous conversation with my friend Mike led me to I Am a Bird Now and a new love affair and greed for every recorded morsel was born. Antony’s ethereal transitioning otherness lit a fire that has burned since.




I first saw him perform at The Empire Music Hall in Belfast on the 3rd July 2005 with Mike at my side. The theatre was modest and we sat just a few feet away at a small round table lit with candles as the voice stirred deep silt from the soul mining depths. There was nothing contrived just a raw honesty and a desire to hold him close. At the end of the show a lady in her sixties with a tear stained face thrust a packet of chocolate rolos into his hand and said she loved him. I left wishing I’d had the courage to do the same.
 
8 years later on the 26 July 2013 I sat with my friend Jim by my side. The lights dimmed and the voice once more resonated in the darkness, eyes are falling, lips are falling, hair is falling to the ground, slowly, softly, falling, falling...
The Rapture
In darkness I was transported, transfixed and transitioned and to my delight Doreen was with me. I felt her course through my veins bringing oxygen to my starved muscles. And with each song her energy grew as tears ebbed from my eyes. I felt at home, safe and in another world. I imagined her sitting at the table in the kitchen with a cigarette and a cup tea, reading the paper.



Another World


I'm gonna miss the sea
I'm gonna miss the snow
I'm gonna miss the bees
I miss the things that grow
I'm gonna miss the trees
I'm gonna miss the sun
I miss the animals
I'm gonna miss you all
I need another place
Will there be peace
I need another world

Anthony talking about the
Swanlights show

 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Laser light bleeding finger tip cosmos
Yearning strings; voice spiral transition
Calling; calling me
Holding, holding me
Loving, loving me.



The Crying Light

Let I
Shy cry
Under the light
Let I
Cry sight
A child at night
I can
Have courage
To receive your
love


 



"I was no one, nobody, from Nowheresville until I became a drag queen.  That's what made me in New York, that's what made me in New Jersey, that's what made me in the world."

Martha P. Johnson - activist & drag mother - Born 1944 - Died 1992
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

Thursday 25 July 2013



Kin'yōbi - November 31st 1995

The sky was a great grey arch with columns of black girding the light. Rain spots tracing doily patterns onto the puddles of Sauchiehall Street. My feet were aching and the chill had reached deep into my bones. In the near distance I could see the warm glow of the Willow Tea rooms - a sunny grin above Henderson Jewellers. After a day inspired by Charles Rennie Mackintosh, it seemed fitting to end the afternoon away from the weather in this Japonisme gem.


After climbing the stairs a waitress settled me into a corner table where I sat back and marvelled at the beauty of the space. Even on a grey day light cascaded through the ornate windows, bouncing off the clusters of elegant high backed chairs and glass topped tables. Uplifted by my surroundings I ordered a large slice of butterscotch cheesecake and a pot of Earl Grey tea.


I was about to leave when a thick set man with ginger hair and a back to front baseball cap entered the room. He stood near the door with hands on hips casing the joint with a spotlight stare darting with lightning speed. Seemingly satisfied, he turned and nodded to a hitherto unseen group who followed him to a table by the window. My curiosity aroused I looked across and instantly recognised Corinne ‘Coco’ Schwab. My heart somersaulted and then tangoed as a further glance revealed Reeves Gabrels. Coco had acted as personal assistant to David Bowie since the 1970s - to get to David, you had to get through Coco first. Reeves, sporting a bright pink hairdo was the current axe man in the party, and this could mean only one thing. The man with his back to me had to be David Jones enjoying some leisure time.


David & Coco circa 1975

To say I was excited is an understatement the size of Mars. Images and the set list from the previous night at the Scottish Exhibition and Conference Centre cascaded through my mind as I wallowed in the moment. Could David bloody Bowie really be sitting just ten feet away from me? Was I really breathing air that had just left the lungs that had belted out ‘Teenage Wildlife’ last night? My body was a quiver and my heart pounded like a piston as I processed.  A loud guffawing laugh confirmed the identity and my thoughts once more tumbled in Bowie frenzy. What should I do?                  
                                                                        
Well, how come you only want tomorrow
With its promise of something hard to do
A real life adventure worth more than pieces of gold
Blue skies above and sun on your arms strength your stride




Set design - Outside Tour - David Bowie is here - V&A 2013



Bowie - Outside Tour - 1995



The waitress broke my reverie with would you like anything else sir? I was tempted to point and scream ‘bring him’ but instead I ordered more Earl Grey to calm my nerves. She soon reappeared with a steaming tray and this time I asked if she would do me a great favour. I pulled the concert ticket from my wallet and gestured to the window table. You know who that is? I asked. Oh yes! she replied I’ve just taken his order. I smiled, stifling my desire for details and some insight into his dietary habits. Could you tell him I enjoyed the show last night and ask him to sign my ticket?

I sat back and watched as she approached the table. Would he be angry at my intrusion? She crouched by his side with my ticket in her hand and to my astonishment he turned and flashed a broad smile before signing the stub and sending it back to me with a wave. I gazed at my prize trembling with the thought that moments earlier it had been in his hand.





Elated, I poured some Earl Grey and pondered the situation. Would I ever be in the same room as David Bowie in my life again? No. Was a signed ticket enough? No. Would I regret not saying hello? Yes. Decision made I gazed lovingly across at the chair back, supped my tea and set about rehearsing a speech. The last thing I wanted was to interrupt his afternoon with crazed fan gabbling. After due deliberation, I rose from my chair and took a deep composing breath before traversing the few feet that separated me and from my god. His skin was clear and softly tanned and I noticed that he was wearing a sweater with the year of his birth bursting from his chest. 1947.



‘Please excuse me for interrupting your afternoon tea'
He looked up with new teeth and beaming smile ‘Oh hello’
‘I just wanted to thank you personally for signing my ticket’
‘My pleasure’ another big grin
‘I really enjoyed the show last night and love the new record ’
‘Thank you very much’
‘I’ve been a fan for years, and couldn’t pass up the chance to say hi and shake your hand’
I offered my hand ‘is that OK?’
‘Of course’
Our hands met, clasped and shook.
‘Thank you so much’
‘Pleasure’
‘Enjoy the rest of your afternoon’
‘I will’
‘Thanks again and goodbye’
I nodded with a big smile and floated back to my table. It was time to go, my work was done. After one final gulp of cold Earl Grey I settled my bill with a huge tip and then with one final glance took the stairs down into the cold dark Glasgow air. Every few steps I stopped to look at the ticket, not quite believing my luck. I had just met David Bowie.

Bowie & Coco 2013


November 30th 1995 – David Bowie - Scottish Exhibition Conference Centre

 

The Motel

Look Back in Anger

The Heart’s Filthy Lesson

Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps)

The Voyeur of Utter Destruction (as beauty)

I Have Not Been to Oxford Town

Outside

Andy Warhol

The Man Who Sold the World

A Small Plot of Land

Boys Keep Swinging

Strangers When We Meet

Jump They Say

Hallo Spaceboy

Breaking Glass

We Prick You

Nite Flights

Teenage Wildlife

Under Pressure

Moonage Daydream