What is fully
mature is very close to rotting
It’s been a
laboured start to the year, my head gripped by churning turbulence and questions
circling like black crows. My nature drives these storms and a need to re evaluate,
refresh and take stock. One side of my brain desires stability and picket
fences whilst the other is ready to pack and search for a way out. Perhaps one
day I will find my warm spot and drift into contentment like my beloved Chaka. We
could all learn a great deal from cats.
Music has been my salvation
and I’m already excited by the prospect of delights to come in 2013. My playlist
will swell as the year progresses and then it’ll be time to shrink wrap the
2013 compilation. The first new release of the year arrived this week in the
shape of the Villagers and their record Awayland.
They were a live highlight of 2010 and I’ll be seeing them again, once more
with Carina by my side in February. You can hear Nothing Arrived from the new record here:
Today white returned
and my garden was carpeted once more by inches of snow. Patti & Joni refused
to leave their coop and I realised that this was probably their first sight of
the menace. Feeling their sorrow I fed them with corn from my hand, threw in
extra straw for comfort and also stocked the wild bird feeders with fat balls,
peanuts and seeds. How such small creatures survive in these conditions is
miraculous. To my delight a circus of birds visited throughout the day including
a gregarious group of five vocal strangers which sent me scurrying for ‘Birds
of Britain & Europe.’ A quick search revealed them to be Fieldfares here to
winter believe it or not.
Here’s a little
film from someone else’s garden which gives some idea –
Pulp made the 2001
festive round up with Birds in Your
Garden and I never tire of them and this track coincidentally produced by
the mighty Scott Walker. You can see a performance below and you’ll notice the
wonderful Richard Hawley hammering away on an acoustic in the background.
It's six
o'clock, the birds are singing.
I'm wide awake whilst you're still fast asleep.
I went outside, into your garden.
The sun was bright & the air was cool
And as I stood there listening
Well the birds in your garden they all started singing this song
Extract from a
memoir -
I could hardly contain my
excitement when the box arrived at the bungalow for my birthday. It had been my
dream to have a record player of my own and here it was, smelling factory
fresh. The cardboard was torn away to reveal a black oblong box with a polished
teak effect top and letters spelling PYE, the password it seemed to a new world
of possibilities. Further frenzied examination revealed a speaker set in the
lid and tempting silver controls for volume and tone. I was beside myself with
gratitude and mum was squeezed with exuberant hugs of appreciation.
At the weekend flush with birthday cash I
rushed into town to buy a record and displaying great taste chose Nilsson’s
sublime Without You; a record which still ranks as one of my favourites thanks
to Nilsson’s phrasing and an emotional impact so rare in mainstream song these
days. Although I hadn’t experienced the pain Nilsson’s vocal so eloquently
expressed, I understood how it felt to lose love thanks to my father’s
withdrawal of his.
No,
I can't forget this evening
Or your face as you were leaving
But I guess that's just the way the story goes
You always smile but in your eyes your sorrow shows
Yes, it shows
Without you reached No. 1 on March 11 1972,
the day after my 12th birthday. Trivia fans will no doubt be interested to know that the song was
written by the long forgotten Badfinger.
It’s a great shame that it was later destroyed
by Mariah Carey covering it (in her own shit), in much the same way as Whitney strangled
Dolly Parton’s I Will Always Love you.
Alongside Song Sung Blue by Neil Diamond,
Nilsson was spun to death as I sang along adding my own unique vocal
interpretations.
My hunger for vinyl was insatiable and I
would play anything I could find to fill the desert before a new purchase. As a
result, the sonic sunshine of the South Pacific movie soundtrack and Elvis
Presley’s GI Blues were as familiar as the hits of Slade, Alice Cooper or Marc
Bolan.
At the time I was of course ‘young enough to
know everything’ as Oscar Wilde would say, but now I realise that following the
advice of another Oscar would have saved so many tears.
If a man don't understand you
If you fly on separate beams
Waste no time, make a change
Ride that man right off your range
Rub him out of the roll call
And drum him out of your dreams.
Most of my ideas for record
purchases were seeded on Top of the Pops (RIP), and I would often record the
show with my portable cassette player by holding the microphone next to the TV
speaker. It was on one of those Thursday nights back in the summer of 1972 that
I first connected with the gorgeous shirt lifting androgyny of David Bowie. I
was already familiar with Bolan’s strut and Cooper’s sneer, but they seemed
like builders in drag and glitter by comparison. Bowie was a leap in evolution
from these peacocks and far more tantalisingly ambiguous and sexy in his
lyrics, shimmering jumpsuit and space boots.
I had to phone someone so I
picked on you...
