Time
Limpet
The limpet sucked gently on the lime.
What time is this it’s radula rasped
There was no answer from the slapping kelp
The tide ran and the limpet remained
A mile high cliff of chalk gave up some ingots
of splattering flint on the hardness below. A
tangled dead tree wrestled the wind for possession
of a polystyrene cup.
Sand puckered with razor shell exhalations and
sky wheeled with gulls
Such was the time of man recorded on the shore
as sea scoured oak hulls rescued the beach from
it’s other noises and small crustaceans
sought sanctuary from crushing boots of iron bolted
leather.
And so who witnessed two ages collide in one brief
salty breeze?
Not the limpet for it could not see like you or
I, not the sodden raiders, not the gulls who only
looked for odour. No one.
And a thousand times a thousandth time slips within
time.
BACK
TO TOP
What
if
What
if countries that pride themselves on the separation
of church and state separate themselves from church
and state?
What
if democratically elected governments did not lie
to the people who voted them in?
What if some countries that tout themselves as leaders
of democratic government actually acknowledge and
bring into being proportional representation in that
government so that we don't have two parties of equal
and mendacious mediocrity?
What
if religion is but a repeated inability to see enlightenment
in any other form than in a man?
What
if Jesus’ humility was adopted by those who
fight wars over nuance?
What if Jesus had not proclaimed himself son of god
and just preached love?
What if Jesus was wrong to choose himself, and to
leave no doubt to his followers, that he was the "chosen
one"?
What
if virtually all the stuff of religion is written
by man?
What if the experience of religion is not strictured
by words of man?
What if at the moment of death the need for pain has
gone?
What if tunnelling into softness only invites pain
of life to burrow after you?
What if fear, pain, anger, in the healthy are manifestations
of ignorance?
What if the fear, pain and anger in the truly ill
are manifestations of the ignorance of the healthy?
What if the totemic inability to perceive enlightenment
or the inexplicable around us as anything but in a
human form leads us always to venerate yet envy, fawn
over yet despise, those who fill our void but are
yet still human?
What if love of power was to be superseded by the
love of love?
What if the vast majority of human beings dared express
an interest in their history?
What if each period in human history did not believe
it was the natural improvement on the history that
preceded it?
What if each period in human history did not have
the arrogance that, worshipping of humans in positions
of power that all other periods in human history have
done, will not result in warfare?
What if no one ever lied?
What if everyone always asked a precise question so
to answer incorrectly would be a lie?
What if Drug Stores sold heroin and pot?
What if street corners were undersold by the Government
in heroin and pot?
What if folks didn’t think it was cool to take
drugs anymore because the Government allowed it –
like alcohol, coffee, sugar ? ? ? ?
What if cigarettes went out when you put them down?
What
if cigarettes were just natural tobacco leaf?
What if cigarette companies cared about your health?
What if privatising energy providers was a good idea
because they cared about your happiness?
What if nuclear fuel was a good idea because there
was no high level nuclear waste?
What if known ways to fission Uranium 235 and burn
high level waste to harmless elements was part of
all new nuclear reactor designs?
What
if wind turbines were cylindrical – some even
lain on their side?
What if some folks considered wind turbines more attractive
than nuclear power stations?
What if these what if’s are becoming too heavy?
What if rush hour was spread over the day so those
poor sods who woke up late to find wankers who love
to bounce around in the morning and had decreed the
time for the rest of us to get up and work, have their
own as to when to start work - like 10am or 11am or
1pm etc?
What if cars ran on alcohol?
What if folks put in diesel vehicles what they liked,
bearing in mind that naming a petrochemical distillation
as diesel after Joseph Diesel invented the thing to
run on coal dust or peanut oil was a very smart and
totally disingenuous way to make it hard for folks
to pluck up the courage to pour vegetable oil into
their diesel tank (we do with our minibus and it works
fine)?
And on the way back from the pub there were some about
Mohammad:
What if Mohammad was wrong about an earthly paradise
in heaven?
What if Mohammad was wrong about the judgement and
hell?
What if Mohammad was simply brilliant at getting what
he wanted?
What if changing of one's belief did not necessitate
violence to another?
What if any religion that ends in it’s supporters
killing in it’s name is intrinsically warped
whether by it’s founder/s or by it’s interpreters
and those who obediently follow?
What if faith healing is not owned by any religion?
What if miracles are also not owned by any religion?
What if dance is a manifestation of love?
What if music is too?
What if faith, love and music together never end in
murder, hate and war? Oh, they don't do they.
Oh, and what if much of the bloody war and horror,
not to mention the insanity of Revelations, that is
written in the Old Testament, especially in a cosmological
sense is just plain bollocks because the writers just
didn’t know what they were talking about, were
suffering from ergotism, or simply barking bloody
mad?
And, what if being a cynic of those who use science
for their own enrichment does not lead to being a
cynic of the science that’s abused?
And what if the only true torment left to this race
is romantic love – surely that is enough bollocks
to keep us occupied while everything else is sorted?
Except if you’ll ever meet again the lass you
met but once last November as she sat on the steps
in the Gregson centre engrossed on her mobile but
who you fell in love with in one conversation even
though she’d plowed through half a bottle of
Smirnoff after a row with her 41 year old boyfriend,
his parents recently dead. A supply teacher in Manchester
who made a frog bog for her pupils and – and
indeed.
BACK
TO TO
Emphasis
on the Absurd
I
listen to your crap and I’m inspired, inspired
to write, to write anything to eclipse this old dribble
you've put in my head - Gad, no wonder you bemoan
your 9-5 and your lost night
You
spin more moon and june than moons around fucking
Jupitar and Saturn
Yes,
you couldn’t get backstage
The
world is a cruel cruel place
Christ
almighty, at least lets hear the gravity of your crying
Not
another cliché – oh, downtown the crowd
won’t let you in
The
world might change, the world might let you in and
you would be a rock star
Not
enough moons round jupitar for that mate.
Is
this what America is? A cultureless president and
musicians without a lyric?
Oh,
this is great
“I
feel cold running through my veins
Don’t
know what to feel there’s too much pain”
"What
was your name, now it’s too late."
God,
you look cute luv but your lyrics make me puke!
“You
walked past and you looked cute, you smiled but I
look the other way”
GAD
if he heard the drivel you’re singing he would’ve
RAN the other way!!
Too
late my ass – not too late to run away from
this mediocrity with the pretty face!!
How
can you be so sure you want to rule the world and
you can’t even bleed with your words.
Are
the real songsmiths in Government then, or occasionally
rolled out on Garrison Keeler’s Prairie Home
Companion, are they the corporate icons or simply
the advertising acumen?
They
sure as hell don’t seem to be these down and
out broke down brain numbing songsmiths that couldn’t
give you an explanation of blues if Howling Wolf crawled
along their apartment crappy beer stained floor, shagged
their equally talentless girlfriend and bit them on
the leg.
How
many “souls and minds” do these cretins
have?
Some
larvly harmonies of the absurd that at least is true!!
Do
they inspire by frustrating a lazy artist to finally
write in exasperation at their lack of talent. Is
it right to use them when all my response is “
oh, deep in side I know – I still feel alive”
what bollocks!!
Gad!
These guys CROWED about themselves and they SUCK!
“Mind, drive, even change your mind!”
Don’t
these people read the site and figure out that the
DEMOLISHERS OF EMOROCK (WHATEVER THE FUCK THAT IS
BUT I HAVE A CLUE!) are the originators of the CME?
Bless
them really because although I hate trite lyrics no
one can hear what I sing so why should I care if the
music rates?
A
FLAWED ATTEMPT AT CHILD EMPATHY THAT SHOWS ONLY SPINNING
HYPOCRISY
GREAT
BLUES HAS GREAT LYRICS, NOT SMATTERING OF PLACE NAMES
WITH NO SENSE OF PLACE. THROWN IN LIKE PLASTIC DOLLAR
STORE ORNAMENTS ALL PATHOS PASTE
IF
YOU HATE WOMEN TRY HATING WITH INTELLIGENT VENOM INSTEAD
OF LOSER'S DROOL
BACK
TO TOP
The
Giant Squids of Avonmouth and other stories (aka Bulshitting
the Americans)
While on our way with the American bands into Bath,
Sean Rowe, acoustic guitarist of Mudfunk, asked about
the existence of any animal dangerous to humans in
the UK. I informed him that there really weren’t too
many: the bears had been shot, the wolves had been
shot and all the sabre tooth tigers had been sold
to Jerusalem zoos during the Crusades. There are of
course Crown protected dog drowning swans in the Avon
river valley. Owned by the queen no less so nothing
can be done about them. But their harm to mankind
is mainly emotional and then only if the person owns
a small easily swan despatched yap yap dog (that and
they might break your legs with their wings to add
injury to emotional trauma).
However,
the occasional large runs of giant squid that ascend
up the Severn river system during the autumn spring
tides wreck havoc on the dog killing swans of Avon.
The spectacle is quite extraordinary – large suckered
tentacles whipping out of the weir pools and tearing
swans apart.
And
occasionally small children.
Yep,
he bought it.
Mind
you, the percussionist who was too sick to attend
the Isle of Arran gig also believed that, yes indeed,
Mungo Santamaria, on furlough between the Glasgow
and Edinburgh Cuban percussion festivals, stopped
by the gig on recommendation and even sat in with
us ‘til 4am. Along with a bevy of Cuban dancing girls
who were willing to dance in imaginative and fulfilling
ways to foster more mutual cultural exchanges between
our two weird nations and perhaps a chance of delicious
defection.
Marco’s
guitarist Sean (the squid believer) told him he thought
Mungo was a bit of a show off really (Mungo must be
80 by now!)
Ah
yes, then there's also the derivation of Bristol for
women’s breasts. Seeing as we were gigging in Bristol
at the time the subject inevitably presented itself.
Most of us know the explanation as a Cockney rhyming
slang (“Bristol City - ______”), but at least some
of the Americans who played with us in that fair city
(the Wellington Hotel – “Wellington”, of course, comes
from the Weoling Saxon folks who lived near Woden’s
glade, a place so heavily attended by Woden worshippers
it soon became a quagmire, so they sold knee high
Weoling boots for the worshippers) now understand
it to refer to the success of the Bristol brothels
eclipsing all other English ports during the Age of
Enlightenment because of their domination at the great
Tit Exposition of Britain in 1735.
As
most well educated history boffs know, the Great Tit
Fest was when brothels all around the country competed
for the prestigious and rare aviary award for the
best caged tits. As all history boffs also know, all
brothels at that time were disguised as bird sanctuaries
(giving us the explanation for the sexist term of
“birds’) to avoid local government scrutinization.
Many also operated as soup kitchens explaining clearly
where the word “brothel” was derived. As a footnote,
it is worth noting that the easiest birds to rear
in these smokey and dim lit environments were of course
coal tits: but also, blue tits and great tits. The
fascinating etymology behind these bird’s names, as
explained to the Americans, however, is too risqué
for this gentle page, but let your imagination run
riot and you’ll find you are probably correct.
The
soup typically sold at these bird-exploiting dens
was typically blue tit nest consommé.
The
BBC (Bristol Brothel Consortium) was as corrupt an
institution that has ever – well, maybe not, but don’t
get me into contemporary politics. Anyway, the BBC
was run my madams, cutthroats, pirates and other high
ranking members of the Georgian Labour Party and had
craftily infiltrated all it’s brothel competitors
with their own employees who, two days before the
contest, allowed specially trained harlot homing hawks
from Bristol into the competitor’s workplaces where
all the tits were thus eaten. Bristol, being the only
place left with uneaten live birds won by default
and so became renowned for its tits.
Yep,
they bought that too, and these were super educated
quite brilliant and liberal leaning musicians – so
don’t be surprised at over half that great nation’s
apparent political gullibility and bizarre interpretations
of Christianity. Bless, them, the Whitehouse aside,
they are but children in the gentle art of complete
BS.
As
this is the December issue of the Gauntlet it would
be remiss of me not to remind our readers that the
Convulsions will, as always, be performing at the
John O’Gaunt Boxing Day extravaganza starting 9pm.
And the bar will be open late too.
Cheers! Ben
Copyright Ben (not so foreign correspondent anymore)
Ruth, 2005
BACK
TO TOP
Good
Bye Chicago, Hello Costa Rica and Lancaster, Spill
the Wine, and Jack Daniel’s Lunacy:
It
was a testament to the musicians on the roof that
the Chicago cop’s comment after responding to complaints
from the neighbours was:
“It sounds pretty good to me, I tell you what, we’ll
give you another hour and a half and if we still have
complaints we’ll come back and ask you to turn it
down”
I
used to be in a blues band myself” was the parting
shot.
Susan,
bless her, had earlier that day shimmied onto the
telegraph pole next to the roof of our 2nd floor apartment
and attached a winch (she was the self titled winch
wench) by which we proceeded to haul up the band gear
(some musicians included) onto the roof. It helps
that Susan rigs sailing boats for a living.
By
all accounts the cacophony could be heard about 10
city blocks away (a mile). Too much Goose Island IPA
dissolved the resolve to just play in spurts to keep
the neighbours from getting too restless. Instead
an orgy of smoldering amplified blues ensued and an
hour and a half later the cops reappeared with 100’s
of complaints from our Latin neighbours. Thus, despite
the neighbours dancing on their roofs with us and
the couple dancing in the street the live roof music
component of the going away party was thus terminated.
A
drunk cyclist pulling off the staircase banister and
the University of Chicago philosophy professor peeing
his pants on our couch while discoursing on the origins
of beer and civilization brought up the rear of the
party circa 4am.
Then
it was off to Costa Rica. The band I was there to
see, Gandhi, were a ballistic sweat fest of Zeppelin
meets Santana underpinned by Bob Marley and Sister
Sledge: during their second set they started playing
a bunch of obviously popular Central American pop
standards judging by the number of cariocas singing
along (slang for fans). Centenaro rum fueled linguistic
inspirations found me doing the same. It turned out
all the songs they performed were their own (and you
can judge for yourself as they are playing in the
John O'Gaunt Sun. Dec. 3rd this year).
Fast
forward to the Chicago Music Explosion Oct. tour in
England and a needed edit to this original article:
The
red Chilean wine spluttered across the white carpet
of room 9 at the Aldersyde Hotel, Lamlash, Isle of
Arran, like blood from a hurriedly sacrificed chicken.
Wilem from Breaking Laces, New York City had opened
the door on my glass of the stuff while stuffing dry
muesli into his face. “Don’t let them blame me, they
didn’t want me upstairs with the wine in the first
case”. No worries, I went and fetched Verity the Landlady’s
daughter and exaggerated the extent of the splatter
to one of Hammer House of Horror proportions such
that when she saw the stains she was not too upset.
She ran off to the bar to retrieve soda water.
When
she returned, sans soda water (all out) but with a
squirty of flower-scented toilet cleaner, however,
the room now looked like an abattoir. A full on messy
heifer sacrifice with wine EVERYWHERE. In the interim
of five minutes, Ig, keyboardist from Oh My God!,
had jokingly tried to feed me some of the muesli off
the carpet only to completely knock the rest of the
wine out of my hand, over the carpet, bedding, walls,
some on the ceiling. Glass act.
This
was the second only real mess from the Americans on
the entire tour. The second was at the John O’Gaunt:
After a bit of well meant rebooking of Chicago’s Oh
My God! at the John on a full moon Sunday night the
lead singer decided to drink the worse part of a litre
of Jack Daniels (behaviour forbidden in our contract).
This was their only lunacy on the entire tour and
it would have to be enacted at this correspondent’s
favourite Lancaster pub on the eve of moving back
to Lancaster! The whole debacle was (and they still
didn’t break a single chandelier) to the delight of
few folks except one gent who works in a lunatic asylum.
To repay Robin, the Convulsions find themselves with
a residency at the John O’Gaunt thanks to a landlord
who combines the wisdom of Solomon with the patience
of Gandhi (not the Costa Rican band but the other
bloke who defeated the British Raj). We hope to provide
shows at the John O’Gaunt that will be the testing
ground for all our new material and future furniture
rearranging and dissembling acumen.
So
there you have it folks. The Convulsions start a twice
a month Sunday residency at the John O’Gaunt starting
on Boxing Day (which is not a Sunday), and continuing
through March. Make mine a double JD and coke please.
BACK
TO TOP
Scott
Free
The
following narrative raises more questions than it
answers:
I
was in a hurry to escape the conversational clutches
of the drunk, fellow at Rick’s bar in Napoleon, Ohio.
Pity, because I was able to corroborate at least one
of his stories:
In
1958 Robert Heft was the first American to design
the current bloody flag you see everywhere in this
self obsessed country – he was a high school student
who received a B- in his class project for his design
with 50 stars when there were only 49 states since
Alaska had just joined the union. However, he had
anticipated the joining of Hawaii to the Union and
was smart enough to send his flag into Congress and
thereby earn a career to this day on the patriotic
lecture circuits of small town America’s historical
societies.
Anyway,
the story is that on New Year’s Eve, 1880, a retired
civil war veteran, Scott Henry, a Yankee carpet bagger
colonel who had moved to the small town of Napoleon
after making his fortune in Virginia woke up the young
newly married pharmacist assistant at the local apothecary
in the early hours while out looking for his son.
The fellow assured him his son was not there. Scott
left only to return with more vehement demands to
see his son. An argument ensued and Scott shot dead
the pharmacist’s assistant. In his defense Scott claimed
he didn’t know he had an army issue revolver in his
coat pocket and that because he was cold he had his
hands in his pockets and the gun must have gone off
while his hands were shivering. The jury acquitted
him and the phrase “Getting off Scott free” entered
the lexicon.
Among
other things I learnt on this cycle trip on Route
6 from Chicago to Long Island, New York (Route 6 –
the Grand Army of the Republic (Memorial) Highway
was named after veterans of the Civil War who helped
fund and build it and was at one time the longest
US highway (3652 miles in 1937) until California in
1965 requested it’s status start two hundred miles
inland from its original origin in Long Beach in 1965.
Route 20 is the longest now.):
The
Amish peaches and apples in Nappanee, Indiana are
the best in the world!
You
can’t put your bicycle on the Amtrak train between
Sandusky Ohio and Cleveland should you want to bottle
out of that 70 mile ride because the easterly wind
had been getting to you – but just as well because
the cycle ride up Route 6 follows the shores of Lake
Eerie and is delightful, especially when that head
wind has stopped.
Cleveland
Metro Parks are superb and the concession stands serve
you a casserole dish sized banana split.
The
Cuyahoga River in Cleveland and Lake Eerie once had
a “flammable” sign next to it and last burned in 1969
prompting the US Clean Water Act of 1970.
In
the town of Andover on the Ohio and Pennsylvania border
they put pretzels around drinking straws in your orange
juice (and don’t serv beer in the restaurants).
Meadville,
Pennsylvania, is at the top of a bloody great hill,
but the natives are very friendly if not extremely
bawdy.
Oliver
Perry (founder of the phase “Perry’s Luck” and the
banner “Don’t Give up the Ship”) by winning the 1813
Battle of Lake Eerie arguably changed the whole course
of the British American War and the destruction of
the Shawnee Indians dream of an Indian Midwest (or
a British client state). A fascinating account at
http://historynet.com/mhq/blperrysvictory/index.html).
The
sunsets from Presque Peninsula are world famous (so
the folks of Eerie, PA assure me, though the one I
saw was quite magic).
The Alleghany Reservoir has a LOT of carp – at least
by the dam wall.
Western
Pennsylvania has a LOT of mountains and hills over
1 mile of ascent, though the Harmony peaches are perhaps
even better than those in Nappanee.
The
last 4.5 miles down into the Delaware Valley town
of Port Jervis is all down hill.
Bear
Mountain, on the Hudson is 2316” and a bastard to
cycle up on Route 9W (and you start at sea level as
the Hudson is tidal at this point) but the views over
the Hudson valley are stunning.
The
Bear Mountain Bridge was completed in 1924 (without
a single loss of live) and also carries the Appalachian
Trail at a height of 135” above the Hudson.
Keith
Richards lives in Weston, Ct. though the drug dealing
and prostitution is more prevalent in nearby Bridgeport.
Blue
fish for breakfast in Shelter Island is hard to beat
– especially when all you’re going to be doing that
day is going fishing with your dad and second cousins
while the mud splattered wobble wheeled bicycle remains
stationary in the garage for second cousins to use
when their legs grow long enough.
This
ride was dedicated to the memory of the amazing Amanda
Buckney and helped raise funds for Leukemia Research.
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TO TOP
Of
Drunken Stuffed Duck Orgies and Ceiling Fans
It
always comes to this – when stuck for stories
I always fall back on my Aussie pal Paul Foulsham
to provide the anecdote. It’s not that I
have writing block per se – the weekends
have been eventful with Toronto one week, Detroit
the week before, then Green Bay Wisconsin. The
Leo Frigo Memorial Bridge by the way is named
after a former president of Frigo Cheese who later
rummaged around garbage cans outside of grocery
stores for the poor, thereby shaming the grocery
store owners into giving their spare produce to
the cause. But no one we met up there knew that
so that’s why I looked it up. We blew up
buckets of water with dynamite while shooting
arrows with the bows provided by the mad drug
dealing Mexicans who abducted us. So that took
one paragraph.
As
we contemplate another sweaty and destructive
ceiling fixture encounter at the John O’Gaunt
(Sunday, July 10 th) a fond story comes to mind
(and one that heartened us all before playing
the Silver Dollar Lounge in Toronto to the twelve
folks who had survived the previous eight hour
pot vaporizing party held in this auspicious club’s
backyard).
Apologies
Becka.
Becka
hopped on the van a couple of years ago, taking
a couple of days off of work at the Gregson to
hang out with a rock band on the road (poor girl,
the sadness of demystification) and off we went
to London with Jim Swinerton on bass, Mike Howard
on guitar, Matt Baumann from Chicago on drums,
myself and several cases of Chicago’s Goose
Island beer in the back. We stopped off for a
gig in the Bell at Bath where Jim split his head
open on the ceiling beam while leaping from the
stage to the bar. Why he did this after the punters
had left we don’t know. The next night we
ensconced in my friend Paul’s flat in Wimbledon,
dragging Jim and a case of Goose in across the
gravel drive.
After
the Goose case was lightened, and Becka loosened,
she unadvisedly brought her stuffed child hood
sweetheart duck to our attention. Mike, bless
him, started applying a different starting letter
to what was certainly ‘uck’ when he
grappled with the unsuspecting completely insentient
Quackles.
“Sick
and wrong, sick and wrong!” brought out
a curious Paul from the kitchen with vino .
“What’s
that?!” exclaimed my Foster chugging chum
seeing Michael applying Elvis mannerisms to a
small stuffed animal between his legs.
“Sick
and wrong, sick and wrong, that’s what,
leave my Quackles alone!”
“Quackles?!
I hate your Quackles – where’s my
knife. I’m going to get your Quackles!”
Totally
unnecessary, of course, but Paul has a history
of spontaneous hatred of toy animals that goes
back a couple of decades to the woggit era and
Stoke College in Suffolk where we both went to
school. The head girl, a bald headed lass named
Amanda, had a woggit that disappeared one summer
morn only to find its way on to the school air
rifle range. While being beaten up by Amanda,
Paul denied all knowledge, but he is Australian
and it was a koala bear woggit. At least it was
before it lost its skin, most of its limbs, head
etc while gaining about a pound in lead.
We
had much wine, Becka slept with Quackles in her
arms, tightly..
I
awoke fairly early in the morning to be a hung-over
high number in the chain of Thames water recyclers
and noticed a shadow passing over the kitchen
tiles. Strange fruit indeed, for Paul had been
true to his word and had managed to rouse himself
out of deep drunken slumber to fulfil his evil
purpose. Quackles hung by the neck and swung slowly
and mournfully around and around from the kitchen
ceiling fan. “Oh, boy there’s going
to be a scream”. There was.
Marty,
the mad philandering Irish drummer from Chicago
who had hopped on the road with us for Toronto
thought this all quite amusing and related a story
about a girl he knew who was following him and
some friends to a party. She was very attached
to her Pee Wee Herman doll until she noticed it
had become attached to the bumper of their car
in front.
We
played the gig in good spirits at the expense
of undeserving anthropogenic bits of contrived
fluff and their wanton abuse at the hands of sadists.
On the last number I cracked my head open on one
of the over head speakers. I don’t know
it all connects somehow . . . .
BACK
TO TOP
Swinging Musicians of Lancaster Town and the Midwest
US Promotor
The
John O’ Gaunt 2:30pm last Saturday before
Christmas, and a session was about to begin! Spider
was there, Cheryl who used to bar tend had just
stopped in, I was about to start chatting to this
girl I’d never met before, and my best friend
in London was on his way. What a lovely way to
while away a few hours before playing an acoustic
set at the Bull in Morecambe. Oh, and the Burton’s
was just going down a wonderful treat!
Then
the phone rings behind the bar and the session
comes to an end (for me at least). My piano playing
friend on the gig had to cancel due to flu. Bugger!
However,
as really good luck would have it, I ended up
playing two super fun sets with the Bull’s
barman, Al, who turned out to be an accomplished
guitarist, formerly of the Lone Sharks. There
was even a kicking party to follow (ta, Paul of
the John O’ Gaunt). Thank you, everyone who
helped me try and find someone to cover that gig,
especially Alan Duckles (Sun Street Stompers),
and Sue Parish (Lancaster’s excellent jazz
singer).
Every
gig in December has ended up being lots of fun.
Paul Guppy (bs), Mike Howard (gtr.), and Mark
Thompson on drums played a marvelous semi-acoustic
set at the Bowerham on Tuesday 26th.
Enhanced and enchanted with the vigorous violin
of Mark Demorney sitting in, initially on Watermelon
Man, and then everything else (including an RnB
version of Vivaldi’s first movement of Spring
that melded through Irish reel to Got My Mojo
Working – indeed). There was the much heralded
gig at the John O’ Gaunt on Wed. 29th
with Mark Townson (Swamp Dogs – gtr.), Boogie
Bill Roberts (pno), Glen Knowles (Fontaines –
bs.), and Mark again on drums. The roaring sax
of Gerrard helped blow the proverbial roof of
the place during the 2nd set. The balls
of this line-up prompted my table dancing skills
to be aired to the viewing public.
But
it’s not just the gigs I’ve played on.
The marvelous chorusing of The Gladly Solemn choir
and Cat’s Chorus at St. John’s on Thursday
21st was superb, talented, and uplifting.
The jolly good jazz sessions of the Stompers themselves
on the Sunday lunch sessions at the John, and
as the New Riverside Jazz band at the Waggon on
Thursday s, is always a joy to anticipate. All
this talent shows how wonderful the music scene
is in this town! Even compared to a gig rich,
musical happening place like Chicago.
Bill
Roberts and Mike Atherton visited Chicago last
summer for a "once in a lifetime event"
that looks to be pretty regular now! With Bill’s
help I was able to return here and play great
gigs with a full band. The band that backed Bill
and Mike in Chicago are coming over to England
next August – already 7 gigs booked. Two
more young Chicago bands I know want to come over.
It doesn’t stop there. Already the main logistics
of showcasing Lancaster musical talent in Chicago
has been established (hopefully starting late
July or early August 2001). This is becoming fun!!!
Cheers,
and enjoy the snow – just remember for every
minus degree here subtract a further ten for Chicago
(the summers rock however)!
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Another
Saturday. Another Sunday (or Mardi Gras) in the
Windy City:
Just
bumped into Phil last night, lead singer of Strain
Busy Sky.
"Hey
Ben, Shawn wanted to thank you for taking care
of him last Saturday night! Said you picked him
up drunk off the street, took him home, and put
him to bed."
I
had to point out to Phil that Shawn Kelly’s
story was absent of a few details:
The
Convulsions had played a gig at Coyles’ Tippling
House and some of us had elected to go out to
a late night bar to squander the inconsequential
remuneration from the gig. The meeting with the
affable and highly abnoxicated Mr. Kelly occurred
shortly after two English friends, Chris (who
lives here now), and Owen (over here as an ambassador
of British culture) and I were gently evicted
from Estelle’s hostelry of revelry and bosom
showing patrons at around 6am. With us was a very
effusive and completely warped Puerto Rican girl
called Carmen trying her every little bit of lush
charm to live up to her Bizet’s namesake
by kissing all the boys (you should have seen
her reaction when I whipped out the trusty gob-iron
and wobbled into a rendition of the Habenera!).
It was only then, right after the buttocks of
Owen had charmed passersby on North Avenue that,
in an attempt to divert my gaze from his cultural
statesmanship, I saw a bloody apparition of strange
good nature staggering outside a loft known well
for it’s parties and lesser known for it’s
aggressiveness towards percussionist gate-crashers.
It was Shawn. Bruised, bloody, but smiling. And
VERY drunk. We elected to give him a ride to get
him off the street and away from arrest.
At
some point during the ensuing journey, Carmen
rewarded Owen’s primeval babooning with a
Mardi Gras display of her own that we all, bar
the sotted Mr. Kelly who was not focusing too
well, appreciated. It was only natural then that
we should spend the next 3 and a half hours at
Carmen’s house helping her diminish the bar’s
worth of good ale and wine her real estate business
had purloined from a foreclosed restaurant, while
she flirted with us all in true gypsy fashion.
My only regret was the onus of being designated
sober. There was music, song, laughter and no
more nudity, other than the failed attempts to
get Shawn to button up his hairy belly showing
shirt (as it turned out the yobs who had assailed
him had ripped his shirt and all the buttons had
flown). When it was time to find a place to eat
thank goodness for the Diner Grill on Irving Park
– a 24 hour diner that is staffed by ex-cons
and not at all alarmed by shirt ripped, bloody,
and drunk musical customers. With nickel juke
boxes on the counter that play Patsy Cline no
matter what you select, "Crazy" seemed
just about right.
When
Shawn finally came around we found out that he
had over celebrated Strain Busy Sky’s huge
win at the Park West’s Lucky Strike (big
tobacco) battle of the bands. They brought in
over 1500 folks to vote for them – and he
apparently did a shot of vodka with each and every
one of them. We told him he was in Hammond Indiana,
and he believed us. Poor fellow. We never did
find out what exactly had happened to him. All
I can say is that he is one of the gentlest blokes
you’ll ever meet who only noticed the blood
on his hands five hours after we had gotten him
off the street and his pancakes were placed before
him. I never took him home, merely to the Park
West where his car was parked. The only parts
of the night he can remember never happened. Still,
a super percussionist in a super band. You can
check out Strain Busy Sky at www.strainbusysky.com.
By
the way, look forward to seeing you all at the
Ruthless Brother’s Blues Band show Dec. 27th
at none other than the fabulous JOG. Happy Holidays!
Cheers,
Ben
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Last
Weekend.
Last
Friday. Night Wolf. A 50 year old guitar, Hamer
guitar that is, slinging blues man from central
Pennsylvania playing in my friend’s coffee
shop (Lisabet’s in Lansing, IL) to 25 folks.
Just ripping into the old Chess stuff.
We
played straight for nearly three hours –
and all intuitive playing, locked in, second nature,
don’t have to think just ride, kinda gig.
Our host, Chris Lathrop, former lead guitarist
for the rock group Mean Reds (Hamer guitarist
that is) and current copy editor at Playboy introduced
me to a ripping funk band at a local bar called
Afterglow. Had to play with them of course! Yeah,
pass the peas boys!!
Chris
had managed to convince most of the nation’s
small, but select group of Hamer guitar aficionados
to converge on his wife’s shop that weekend
– loved to have been there Saturday when
most of them were going to show up to jam from
places as far away as Maryland, Minnesota, and
Colorado!
But
Saturday I had to walk into Eddie "the Chief"
Clearwater’s new bar, Reservation Blues,
with his Jewish, platinum haired wife’s daughter,
the lovely Heather Greenman. Heather, Epicurean
extraordinaire, is doing the stained glass windows
for the establishment. And who should I meet but
Dexter the drummer.
"Man
we don’t know what happened to our harp player,
can you play with us?"
Hell
yeah! The bandleader was none other than Sammy
"Fender" Taylor (Koko Taylor’s
brother in law, and also related by blood and
music to Muddy Waters, Junior Wells, and Killer
Ray Allinson to name a few). Definitely old school
Chicago blues – some duplication of the night
before. Excellent three set show. Sammy even wanted
me to join his band – an opportunity I would
have leapt at a few less busy years ago. Brock,
the crew cut Australian bar manager that Eddie’s
wife, Rene, had discovered running a club in China
pretty much booked my band there on the spot.
Heather’s nepotism, meanwhile, ensured a
constant supply of margaritas. Not a bad night!
Then
Sunday my folks arrived at O’Hare airport
amidst blowing snow (welcome to Illinois in spring!).
Whisked them away to the Goose Island Brewery
for one of the few pints of cask conditioned beer
in the States, followed by BBQ rib platters at
Smokedaddy’s and the slap bass and acoustic
Sun Record years strain of Rami Gitz’s excellent
"Torturing Elvis" (had to sit in for
four songs of course – Big Boss Man, Kentucky
Moon, among them). Dropped my folks off at the
hotel after they’d been up for 27 hours,
and headed down to the wonderful Under Ground
Wonder Bar to play two late night (1am –
3am) acoustic sets with the fabulous Dr. John
style vocalist, gritty Fender playing, Pete Special
(one of the artists coming over this summer).
The
bar tender, Matt, was making up his special "mocha
martini’s". Rather dangerous. This time
I didn’t stay to serve the bar staff and
lock in crew "Flying Kangaroos’",
ala last Wednesday, as my band’s CD art still
needed to be done (not to mention the mastering,
duping and other fun stuff).
Both
bands I’m in comprise identical musician
line-ups (there will be a costume change between
sets at least!), so this allows us to be the only
group in Chicago that is TWO bands, releasing
TWO CD’s on the SAME night, and at the SAME
place – we are, in effect, opening up for
ourselves! Hope I can play though - still have
harmonica stitch from last weekend!
Cheers,
folks!
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