Britain has never been America’s poor cousin in popular music terms and it can be proud of its ownership of the project that inspired the American effort. However, as memorable, moving and impactful as ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas’ is, it just wasn’t yielded by the combined, hardcore song-writing pedigrees of Lionel Richie and Michael Jackson. It wasn’t produced by the astonishing legend that is Quincy Jones and it wasn’t performed by wall to wall legends and Dan Aykroyd???

We Are The World is quintessential in its ‘American-ness:’ It is self important, heavy on the gorgonzola, schmaltzy, culturally imperialist and pathological in its optimism and self-belief. But its intentions were genuine, it meant well and its execution was phenomenally slick. It exhibited its nation’s showbiz credentials with aplomb and was inarguably impressive and expressive.

Lyrically it is a peculiar blend of statesman-like expectation and rhetoric, Coca Cola philosophy and Christianity, “As God has shown us by turning stone to bread” Musically it is a frothy combination of gospel and Disney. Nevertheless, the performances grabbed these curious elements and transformed them into something immense. The arrangement of who sang what and when was extremely canny and it is this that always makes the record for me, especially when I watch the video. It must have been one helluva place to be. The legends present do what they do best, the lesser known pop entities provide some of the most extraordinary licks and the sound of the choir is frankly awesome. In the chorus when it splinters into the lyrics and harmonic “ahhs” it is impossible for this writer not to be moved.

It begins with Lionel Richie in gravely sincere mode, musically stating a call to order…

“There comes a time when we heed a certain call”

He is joined by Stevie Wonder in a state of harmonic accordance and contrition…

“When the world must come together as one”

Whereupon Stevie gently stresses the urgency of what is at stake…

“There are people dying”

His gentle concern is compounded by a fraternal nudge from Paul Simon, adding an “O” to the written lyric…

“And it’s time to lend a hand to life”

He is assisted by Kenny Rogers’s soaring harmony…

“The greatest gift of all”

At this point Kenny Rogers replaces the gentleness with something more intense, no nonsense…

“We can’t go on

Pretending day by day”

The natural heart-felt passion of James Ingram’s vocal relents slightly expressing his disappointment…

“That someone somewhere will soon make a change”

And then the considered knowledgeable opinion of Tina Turner who knows something of suffering…

“We are all a part of

God’s great big family”

And here Billy Joel is skillfully deployed to bring us all back to earth with a thud with Tina harmonising

“And the truth, you know

Love is all we need”

At this point in a unique moment of brimming egotism and guilelessness Michael Jackson makes his presence and ownership of the enterprise felt. The video testifies to his generosity but also his recognition of the moment’s bankability. No Michael Jackson album that followed would be complete without a ‘We Are The World’ style song; ‘Heal The World,’ ‘Man in The Mirror,’ ‘Earth Song.’

“We are the world

We are the children

We are the ones who make a brighter day

So let’s start giving”

Diana Ross’ voice makes its soaring presence felt to shrilly press the grave nature of the project home…

“There’s a choice we’re making

We’re saving our own lives”

Her voice combines with Michael’s in a moment of musical optimism, a suggestion that all will be well…

“It’s true we’ll make a better day

Just you and me”

The optimism remains from here on in with Dionne Warwick stressing that there is much to be done improvising an emphatic, gospel “Well” to the lyric as written…

“Send them your heart”

So they’ll know that someone cares”

And then the ancient of days, raw cowboy gloss of Willie Nelson’s voice adds it’s endorsement and harmony…

“And their lives will be stronger and free”

Once again the voice to press the messianic point is deftly selected. Willie Nelson sings…

“As God has shown us by turning stone to bread”

It is replaced by the optimistic vocal flight of the breezily cheery Al Jarreau…

“So we all must lend a helping hand”

At this point the memory of Michael Jackson’s earlier chorus is obliterated by the butch, blue-collar passion of The Boss, Bruce Springsteen. He assumes gruff ownership of the second chorus and thickens the urgency…

“We are the world

We are the children”

And then Kenny ‘Footloose’ Loggins demonstrates that he really can sing and very soulfully, elegantly even, uses his brief moment to bring back the collective nature of the project, rescuing it from Bruce’s hot command…

“We are the ones who make a brighter day

So let’s start giving”

Then an astonishing yelp outta nowhere from Journey’s Steve Perry, -until this point a ‘who’ for some- completes a trio of extraordinary turns…

“There’s a choice we’re making

We’re saving our own lives”

But then Daryl Hall makes it a quartet- interesting to note that the first chorus is the exclusive domain of Michael Jackson and his mentor Ms Ross, while this following chorus is evenly divided between four, eighties rock icons, Pop-pickers.

“It’s true we’ll make a better day

Just you and me”

Then the song shifts into soaring gear for its final jaw-dropping act. Of course, refusing to be forgotten Michael Jackson makes his final solo return as the saviour of mankind.

“When you’re down and out

There seems no hope at all”

And then as the middle eighth proceeds Huey Lewis throws in his bold, ballsy insistence…

“But if you just believe

There’s no way we can fall”

And then a superb star turn from La Lauper begins with an enthralling improvisation “Well, Well, Well…”

“Let us realise

That a change will only come”

And then Kim Carnes singer of Bette Davis eyes has a brief…

“When we”

Huey returns with a harmony

“Stand together as one”

And Cyndi does what wasn’t asked for but what was definitely required. Genius…

“Yeah, Yeah, Yeah”

And then the astonishing sound of all these soloists and Dan Aykroyd who, in the video, looks utterly overwhelmed and dazed by the enterprise, The Jackson Brothers (not Jermaine) Huey Lewis’ News, Latoya Jackson, Lindsay Buckingham, Jeffrey Osborne, Randy Jackson, Bob Dylan, Ray Charles, The Pointer Sisters, Smokey Robinson, John Oates, Bob Geldof, Sheila E, Harry Belafonte and Bette Midler become a choir unlike any other for the third chorus…

“We Are The World

We are the children”

The choir splits. One half performing “ahhs” and the other the rest of the chorus. A joyful polyphony broken by a remarkably innocent sounding Bob Dylan. This happens again but instead a subtle arrangement adjustment happens the second time around with just the ladies taking the second half with a little bit of Bob. And then the inevitable and essential modulation up as another legendary soloist, Ray Charles brandishes the reins with a beautifully bended…

“There’s a choice we’re making…”

But it doesn’t end here; the next two choruses in the opinion of this writer contain the finest uses of two legendary voices. How is the call and response of Stevie Wonder’s fiery soul and Bruce Springsteen’s intense grit not a good idea? And still it doesn’t end. We are then treated to a full chorus by James Ingram and Ray Charles until the choir returns for the fade.

All I can say is that I hope it achieved what it set out to and God how I wish I’d been there.

He would saunter, but the bitterness stirs a stride.

He pauses to photograph remnant leaves against stone church spires,

More certain than ever that no-one is watching or listening.

On Roupell Road the path out of his self-centredness becomes apparent;

It is fashioned like a Botticelli tree and coloured like autumn.

He crosses to the Brockwell Park entrance after photographing the spire at Trinity Church.

He is critical of the church’s walls:

They remind him of Vera Duckworth’s ‘stone-cladding.’

But the spire, at least, aspires to Wren.

As he gets closer he photographs naked trees against the sun.

He knows that their black essence will be revealed

And that the sky will burn like a day of judgement.

He walks directly towards an almighty pulsating bush.

Its undulations in the slow-motion, cloud-shadow flickers, beckon him like a sun.

He points his camera at the pulsating tree and films it for sixty eight seconds. 

He remembers his irrational fear of seemingly alien life-forms on the ocean floor.

He ventures within its demonstrative foreboding

And finds it to be the most peaceful place in the park,

As if its enthralling external display is to ward of evil spirits-

perhaps it is.

He points his camera again and slowly, steadily turns three hundred and sixty degrees. 

Looking back to Trinity Church spire, across the shimmering grass,

He attempts to shoot it between the wind blown branches and twigs. 

The light in the lenses dances in prisms.

He moves on up to the enscaffolded Brockwell Hall and encircles the old, boarded Brockwell Clock. 

A male handler with terriers and pugs crosses his path,

Just as he notices and approaches a severely reduced tree.

It greets his disappointments with two fingers up. 

“Up yours!” it seems to say.

He becomes aware of self-consciousness as he steps backwards and backwards,

to enable an almighty oak to fill his frame.

But nobody is paying attention. 

Is anybody ever?

Once again he attempts to capture the light radiated by the hardy, aging leaves.

Those leaves that cling on for dear life;

Until shrivelled and brown they crumble into undocumented dusts.

He decides that there is nothing particularly special about photographing a tree. 

It’s Autumn; 

All of the mobile phone era, amateur enthusiasts are out with their mobile cameras,

pictorially documenting their own autumns.

Still, he wants to capture what his eyes see. 

The way the naked branches and twigs appear to hang against the sky when isolated in frame remind him of Sandro Botticelli’s hyperrealism for some reason.

He tries to capture that.

It sort of works until his Botticelli fixations subside and he is free to become an amateur again,

Pausing to photograph the flame yellow of an infant tree,

Enjoying the earlier autumnal experiences of its long life.

Holes have been dug,

Mounds heaped

And cider has been drunk.

His eyes are drawn to the signpost.

Robert Johnson sings briefly in his head.

He photographs the signpost in silhouette towards the clouded sun. 

The power on the battery indicator is getting low.

He cannot leave without capturing the poplar.

He stands beneath the poplar, his back pressed against the trunk and points his camera upwards.

Its shrivelled leaves whisper their last.

They tremble wildly as if attempting to get away.

Never has he been this close to the source of the bewitching whisper.

Quite by accident during these fascinations, his view finder locates the magnificent poplar trunk.

He takes two shots; they will become his favourites of the day. 

Ever the unintended.

By now, every portrait he attempts of the smaller trees strikes him as ornamentally prosaic.

Instead he photographs the ground and the leaves upon it.

This is why he’s here; this is why he’s come.

The trees are indifferent: they have long shed as many leaves and seen as many seasons,

Than artists have been inspired and poets waxed lyrical.

As his power wanes he lifts his camera to capture red against blue.

Berries against blue.

As he puts his camera away and puts his gloves back on a smile spreads across his face.

He imagines a title for a collection of photographs,

‘Autumn: magnificently curated by Brockwell Park.’

David McAlmont

On Sunday morning I said to my partner Ken-Ken that I was going to have to write something new, in light of a young woman’s death. I expressed it that way because I didn’t feel like writing: we were house-sitting for a friend in North London and it was a bit of a break, so I was in the mood for relaxation. Also, I was loath to usurp a tragic occurrence as a vehicle for one of my crafts; I didn’t want to turn the circumstance into an opportunity for my ego. Nevertheless, I realised that my emotional response to the death was genuine: I was tearful and trembling, so I sensed that writing something might provide some release, by assisting better perspective.

I was fortunate enough to have met the young woman in 2005, when Guy Davies and I did a concert, to promote an album of jazz standards that we had created. A gang of friends, from my chosen industry, came to support me en masse, and were the most enthusiastic table at the Pizza Express Jazz Club in Soho that night; she was seated at that table. I met her afterwards and, knowing who she was, I was a little awestruck and amazed at how diminutive she was. I sheepishly confided that I found her vocal style interesting, because I thought it vulgar, yet profoundly enchanting in its vulgarity. I said I didn’t mean to be offensive, and she responded that I shouldn’t worry, adding that most of her friends thought she was like a drag queen anyway, and that she didn’t see the point of being anything but real. I enjoy flamboyance and musical honesty myself, so I identified with her quite readily. She then invited me to accompany her and the gang, to a late night Soho piano bar, because she really wanted to sing with me. Deep down I was profoundly tempted by the offer, but intimidated, afraid that this young female prodigy, who shared my affection for the great crooners and divas, would sing me off the stage. I also declined because I had just begun my ‘clean and sober’ journey and I was avoiding ‘wet’ places at that time, but I’ve always treasured that moment and kept it close until now.

In the days since the bad news surfaced, I have accepted that I am actually experiencing grief and that it is ok and appropriate to do so. It’s the sort of grief one experiences when a great star in one’s own personal universe (and I stress ‘one’s own personal universe’) is snuffed out; the gifted give, and my life is better for every gift ever given me by the gifted. I had written an essay in 2009, an appreciation of a song I love that had been recorded by the young woman. I looked through my Facebook notes, found it and read it for the first time in a year and some months. I decided, as it was written at a time when I had no agenda but appreciation of something I really liked, that it was worthwhile reposting it. Similarly, I decided that as I had an expressive outlet to thousands, through Facebook and Twitter, that I would publicly acknowledge the lady’s passing by having her image replace mine. I meant well, but as I took these steps and others took similar, (how shall I put this?) the tempest hit the coast. I have to say that I find the seizure of my sense of loss- and that of others- by some, nay many, as an opportunity to say ‘she wasn’t all that,’ and that she brought it on herself and that she was only a drug addict (hence scum,) absolutely extraordinary. Have I experienced an inadequate number of funerals and wakes in my lifetime? Is the appropriate response to expression of sadness, of loss, a treatise on everything that was wrong with someone, someone whose passing is being mourned? How unfortunate to discover that social networks bristle with reminders of  that Daily Rag’s horrendous responses to the passings of Freddie Mercury, George Harrison and Stephen Gately. The reason I have been moved to write, despite my reluctance to do so, is I have had a revelatory experience of social networking this week. I’ve been reminded that these networks are not for the sensitive, because they abound in the participation of ‘trolls.’

I remember being appalled by some of the comments that had been added to the comment-feed of a Youtube video that Lady Gaga had posted, in support of Gays in the US military, some months ago. I mentioned this, at the time,  to my friend Alex, and he said that the trouble with posting your heart on the worldwide web was that you were in danger of exposing yourself to the ‘trolls:’ people devoid of social graces and considerations, who enjoy a sort of fearless online anonymity. In the real world they’re incapable of caring, but with the facelessness of the online world they are free to belch that incapability of care in the form of poisonous bile at whoever or whatever they choose. Either that or users of these networks don’t realise that they are just on a multi-dimensional phone line.

Naively, at the time, I thought that these trolls were opportunists with unacceptable right-wing extremist views who hid in the darkness, waiting for a ‘bleeding heart liberal’ to show their support for a ‘namby-pamby’ cause, before using the democracy of the comment function to express their ‘inappropriatisms,’ but my goodness these trolls are closer than I could have imagined. Consider these examples: I ‘unfriended’ one woman this week who quite comfortably declared that she was glad the 27 year old singer was dead. She went on to ask the rhetorical question, “Can you tell how much I didn’t like her?” Scrolling down to read the reactions to this inanity, I found another inanity, “Yeah. Pete Doherty next. I wonder how sympathetic all of these people would be if she was selling drugs to their kids.” Meanwhile over on Twitter a follower of mine, someone that I had previously considered an innocuous following, ranted, “Are crack heads the new messiah or something? Cancer is a disease. Buying crack in the streets is a choice!” The latter comment struck me as ironic because the purveyor was gay and homophobes often attack gay men for making a decision to live their lives in ‘perversion.’

When I reposted my 2009 appreciation of the song (to which I referred earlier) on my blog, somebody called Jon curtly remarked that ‘drug addicts shouldn’t be role models.’ Huh? Then the networks were also dominated by the to and fro between ‘superiorists’ who think themselves better than others because of their awareness of what happened in Oslo. Again there were comments expressing annoyance that a ‘smack addict’ was garnering more grief than the considerably larger number of youths slaughtered at the hands of a demented psychotic. Frankly, it is as if Oslo is the ‘new Japan.’ It’s as if everything is supposedly alright in that Tsunami stricken country, now that news of that ‘Act of God’ is no longer ‘current.’ Are the Norwegians the only people to have died in barbaric, bewildering circumstances on earth this weekend? I think not. These curious posturing protestations give me cause to wonder if the correct way to live a 21^st century life is to be persistently aware of every single atrocity committed against a human being, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. The activist Bianca Jagger’s persistence in this regard is both commendable and impressive; few of us are Mrs Jagger.

Many were the nights when I lay in my bed freaking out, drunk, wired and afraid that I would have a deathly seizure at any second, because I had been on yet another bender. My hangovers, once the source of “Check me out. How cool am I?” became too frequent and frightening. I feared for my life and I prayed to whoever, whatever to help me, yet I’d wake up the next morning, the sun would rise, everything would seem alright and I’d once again drink myself back into that disturbing oblivion. I had a very active social life back then and I felt unable to commence any road to recovery until the next birthday party was out of the way, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to attend a party without becoming ‘wrecked.’ God forbid any of the people who cared about me then should say they were concerned by what I was doing to myself: I reacted viciously, arrogantly and dismissively, and I would attempt to silence them by turning them to stone with my Medusa glare. Any personal career gains that I’d made fell away. I screwed up opportunities and lost friends. I drank and drugged myself bankrupt, but mercifully I was given another gift, the gift of time; mercifully I was denied the attendant glare of avaricious paparazzi. The only word to explain my release from that infernal whirligig is Miracle. I had an epiphany, something that convinced me to make a change. In the light of recent events, it is difficult to get my head around why only some of us are permitted that choice: the choice between life or, as Russell brand so eloquently put it yesterday, “jails, institutions and death.” The fact that only some of us experience that blessing makes me sad. However, I can only be grateful for it and for the clean years that have followed. Much has been restored to me and I enjoy life in a way that I never thought I would. After this weekend I’m additionally grateful for that time and that miracle. I’m grateful because I’m newly aware of the abundant ignorance of the ‘trolls’ regarding my condition and the insufficient compassion out there for people who suffer with the alcoholic-addicts’ wretched appetite.

difficulty as an opportunity for solution

The Aquarian is bold and determined, essentially brandishing the reins of leadership and piloting the chariot forward. His positive outlook and commitment to assuring the future are invaluable to his bewitched, bothered and bewildered Taurean companion: where the Aquarian views difficulty as an opportunity for solution, the Taurean is presently- and often too easily- disposed to inevitability and despair. The road that stretches before them is familiar, but the last time the pair traversed this route it was thronged by a memorable fanfare of dandelions and Spanish gorse, bathed in the glorious beatitude of Apollo’s loftier golden transport. This time the celestial charioteer’s attentions are diverted from the Irish earth, as he wends his accustomed course above a congestion of darkly belligerent clouds. The path before the company feels subdued, flanked by the diffident glimmer of buttercups, the elegant flimsy of flat-topped cow parsley and an alarming incidence of over-sized daisies- the like of which the Taurean has never seen- certainly not growing wild in London anyway; all emanating from once chartreuse, spring green hedgerows and fields that are now mid-summer matured. The companions are exhausted: they have long departed their base-camp; the very base of their chosen precipice has been exceeded, but the intended summit remains unconquered. They’ve been touring, writing, promoting and having meetings upon meetings for months now and there are many  more to come. The Aquarian is in acquisition of a fresh humility, feeling that he has taken a naively puppish lurch down a bombastic production route; he’s returned eager to steer the course in a more tranquil, spiritual direction. The Taurean is bedevilled by childhood memories and familial realities, and a radical and necessary adjustment to his personal career vision: he has made a vital change that should accentuate his long-held appreciation of an oft considered hot-air balloon analogy: metaphorically speaking, he has lopped some weighty, debilitating ballast from his flight, yet instead of experiencing a sense of lightness, of emancipation, he is dogged by post-traumatic stress and embittered by this working departure from a long desired heatwave in his beloved London. If it is true that the last lunar eclipse sent the sensitive spiralling into darker emotional spiritual places, then the Taurean’s negativity is testament to this. His psychologically and psychically wretched state of mind is further compounded by the continued, baffling appearance of The Fool in his daily Tarot draw: he is perturbed by the persistent advent of the zero-branded image; this dizzy youth with a bundle on a stick, striding forth in glorious sunshine, spellbound by the heavens, doted upon by a devoted familiar, his dog; so eager is he to proceed, to experience, that he doesn’t notice he is about to step of a cliff and plunge headlong into the unknown.

neither grateful for this nor happy

Upon arrival at the remote Ragoora Lodge, the Aquarian slows and stows the chariot, releases the reins and inhales; he praises the freshness of the air. The Taurean shrugs his indifference and declines to appreciate the ocean-fragrant air quality or his compadre’s reverence for it. He is annoyed by the Aquarian’s repeated use of the word holiday when referring to this work-trip. Much as he has enjoyed being here before, this time he is over it. The overcast skies and the measly 15-degree temperature heighten his negativity as he scrolls lugubriously through Twitter, sulking at the parched rejoices issuing from London’s soaring temperatures. They enter the rustic cottage and, as they enter the kitchen, it is unexpectedly pristine, seeming more sparse than usual. The newly monastic appearance to the usually inviting interior further concentrates the Taurean’s dark sulk, as he doesn’t feel as at home as he would like. It is the Aquarian who evinces his own perennial optimism by putting things in place that make it feel more homely: an embroidered place mat on the dining table by the window, a peppercorn mill and similar vessels for celery and sea-salt. As these things are put in place and the door that separates the kitchen from the living room is opened, the kettle is switched on, groceries are dispensed in the bread bin, fruit bowls, fridge and cupboards; the homeliness is increasingly resuscitated, but the Taurean’s disconsolation turns instead to the absence of activity at the bird table, positioned just outside the kitchen window for the entertainment of cottage diners. He brightens slightly, anticipating a morsel of comfort from the green pesto spaghetti that he will shortly prepare, but he’s resentful that he has to cook- feeling as he does. His depression contrasts significantly with his companion’s derring-do and he begins to notice, after all this time, that his partner is actually the more spiritually centred of the pair, thinking it makes sense because his buddy is an Aquarian. Unfortunately, in his present state of mind, he is neither grateful for this nor happy for the Aquarian, and resentful envy quickly matures into jealousy. Recognising that these spiky emotions are all part of the current depression, he keeps them to himself and sets about preparing the evening victuals.  Once the vegetables are chopped and ready for sautéing he makes another distressing discovery: they’ve failed to purchase spaghetti and they will have to settle for rice instead. The rice takes forever to cook and, even after an hour, it still tastes undercooked; they eat the disappointing meal in near silence. After the culinary blandeur, the Taurean produces his Golden Tarot box and does a traditional retreat spread to set the tone for the sojourn. The reading is surprisingly signified by The Sun and not so surprisingly crossed by the Ten of Swords. The Taurean immediately recognises the gravity of the crossing, explaining to the Aquarian that the retreat will be successful because of the signification of The Sun, but that they will have to contend with the Ten of Swords, a card that could only refer to the foul mood in which he has arrived. Yet again the bonny, blithe, good and gay image of The Fool returns, crowning the spread.

where will he find the energy, the will, the belief?

The next morning, the Taurean awakens in the cottage feeling deflated and dehydrated, as if his dried skin has somehow fused with the white sheets upon which he has fretted and sweated through the night. There is a jarring chatter, as of gulls, ricocheting on the wild winds, whipping and whistling about the white lodge walls. He listens to the sound in slumbrous stupefaction, as memories of the sound design from Hitchcock’s ‘The Birds’ hatch in his embattled consciousness. As he hauls himself out of bed, it is as if he feels his age in the under-lubricated hinges of his bones; a powerful physiological resistance to work -and being there- that he needs to overcome. Previous retreats have gone so well and have seemed so effortless, but his heart is so absent from this occasion that he simply can’t see it: where will he find the energy, the will, the belief? He opens the curtains to the Ragoora morning and beholds gainsboro skies, lumpen and gravid, toward and beyond the horizon. He decides that this is the way the entire retreat will be- as if it is his decision to make. As he enters the kitchen, the jarring Du Maurier via Hitchcock chatter sounds anew. He looks out the kitchen window towards the quaint bird table and is startled by a pestiferous apparition; a murder of hooded crows, squabbling over crumbs from the bird table. His enervated memory summons the visions of Roger Corman, the demons of Edgar Allan Poe, and his years in Guyana, where he first heard the term ‘Jumbie Bird’ (Ghoul Bird) in reference to crows: the superstitious claimed that the foul fowl only ever gathered to portend an imminent death. These hoodiecrows have a raptor-like aspect to their approach and an awkward raggedy glide as they encroach from the electric cables that run the course of the Ragoora lanes. They have grey-circled eyes that remind him of Mugabe’s reptilian irises. The way they importune each other to share the bird table spoils, and the amaranth interiors of their open mouths are disturbing. The dark feathers that cover their shadowy bodies are offset by light grey head feathers that lend the impression of hooding; but on the crown of their heads is a dark, tonsure-like semi-circle that matches the colour of their bodies, giving them a spectral appearance, as of the mediaeval spirits of ritualistically shorn, Franciscan votaries. The Taurean attempts to dismiss the ominous nature of these winged Eminences Grises, but for now, they are like a threat and he takes exception to their position in the pecking order, holding them responsible for the absence of the charismatic songbirds that usually feast upon the bird table.

solve the problems by working through them

In the time that has passed between the last retreat and this, hard lessons have begun, but the teaching is incomplete: the sense of creative triumph with which the companions previously departed Ragoora has become tempered by the reality of demoing and live performance; whatever it was they felt they had in place became slightly lost. Typically, the Aquarian has returned to Ragoora to solve the problems by working through them, whereas the Taurean has thrown his hands up in histrionic despair, decrying that what they have created just isn’t that good. He wants to continue writing until they are good enough. The Aquarian thinks they are good enough and thinks that they need to use the time in earnest pre-production, with a view to enabling them to present a clearer picture to the musicians who will help make these songs flesh; The Aquarian is right, but before the partnership can collaborate successfully on the Aquarian outlook, stock needs to be taken; inventory needs to be conducted; the air needs to be cleared. So far, the partnership has been a success: the Aquarian and Taurean have long recognised their vitality to each other and become successful thereby, but alas even working partnerships can be stymied by the challenging actualities of life, personal histories and the human condition. The Aquarian’s natural bent is the open honest exchange of views; the Taurean’s tendency is to secretly hope that things will sort themselves out, that understanding will be achieved without his having to steer, that nothing need be said unless it is absolutely critical and necessary. Often in partnerships, which work as well as this one, either position is acceptable, but the Taurean’s reluctance to immediate honesty leads to a build-up of critical mass which  must be dealt with all at once; the Aquarian must cover old ground because the fleet-footed swiftness of his pace has eluded the flat-hoofed, circumspect steps of his collaborator. The discovery is, inevitably, that the partners are on the same page and that some things need only be said. If all is fundamentally well, it remains vital that reminders be exchanged of things discussed and agreed upon; in this, the difficult, but manageable partnership of a 44 year old Taurean Croydonian and a 41 year old Aquarian Huytonian, colluding in the delicate merger of creativity and business.

A new assent in the Taurean’s mood accelerates

The retreat continues to grind on like Fortuna’s creaky Wheel, but mercifully keeps on turning. Eventually the air lightens, especially after the necessary inventory has been accomplished; new songs arrive: two are the fruits of a challenge to write the best new song, another is the outcome of an interview with The Aquarian by the Taurean, and another the addition of some of the Taurean’s lyrics to a fiery Aquarian stomp, recovered from an earlier spring retreat. With these welcome adjustments in their creative fortunes, the warmth of Apollo’s chariot finally prevails in the heavens, gracing the retreat with the singularity of its unique golden light. Even the hooded crows acquire a comic charm and the songbirds return. As the Aquarian distributes seeds and fat balls for their delectation, he is stunned by the bounty and evident effort that has been invested in the Ragoora kitchen garden: broccoli, camomile, potatoes, various types of mint and chives. He finally is able  to enjoy the ocean fragrance on the breeze and he notices a modest cluster of wild pink roses in the adjacent  field. The companions visit a local enchantress and, in exchange for a palm crossed with euro, she imparts a mixture of spirulina, chlorella, barley and wheat grass for their well-being. On the evening of the 6th day they perform a concert at Brennan’s local tavern. It is a magical evening attended by the Cloonacool villagers, the Enchantress and her friends. A new assent in the Taurean’s mood continues, reacquainting him with his higher purpose and his reason for being.  Afterwards, he notices that his tiredness returns, but that it is a good tired rather than the depression blackened exhaustion with which he arrived. The Aquarian’s spirits are also lifted as he enjoys several draughts of the island’s renowned black liquid and an encounter with a mythical Irish Rose. It is a palpable turning point in the atmosphere of the retreat and, towards the end of the magical tavern gathering, the local Enchantress invites them to visit her again, promising them the treat of another specially mixed potion. Two days later, they journey to where the seas lap the dunes at Strandhill and ingest a delicious repast before continuing the afternoon with a visit to the sorceress who mixes them the promised concoction of beetroot, carrot and spirulina. The intense green of the spirulina and blackish purple of the beetroot blacken the pale Aquarian’s lips and tongue; the Taurean and the Enchantress laugh. It is a relaxing episode, furnished with health and laughter and imbued with the stimulant of synchronicity: the Taurean notices that his fellow traveller takes an interest in a book on The Tarot. The Taurean isn’t particularly interested in the book, feeling that he has read plenty on the subject and that he has a daily relationship with the cards anyway. He is however drawn to an Herbal Tarot Deck, thinking that it will assist with his frustrating ignorance of all things green.   While they digest their portions of potion and the Enchantress attends to others, they make a decision to cross her palm with euro in exchange for the book and cards. On the journey back to the cottage, the Taurean takes a casual glance at the book that has captured the Aquarian’s interest and is immediately enthralled by its take on the Major Arcana. There are 22 Major Arcana cards numbering 0 to 21. The Fool is 0 and, as far as this particular Jung-influenced  Tarot oracle is concerned, the 21 remaining cards are encounters, stops and lessons on The Fool’s personal odyssey. It’s some 20 years since the Taurean first took an interest in the Tarot and yet this approach is as captivating and illuminating to him as it is fresh and exciting. In the remaining days of the retreat the Taurean finds The Fool’s journey irresistible and realises that this is the keenest attention he has paid to a favourite pastime in years.

the confrontation of the individual with the seismic

The Fool’s journey impresses itself upon the company as they re-examine one of the first new songs they wrote at the January retreat, ‘Some Kind of Masterpiece.’ It is one of the songs they have since demoed and performed. It has been the source of one of the partnership’s most heated differences. Lyrically, it takes a deep philosophical course through  dishonesty, fear and frustration with human limitation and expectation, as gleaned from the mind of the Taurean lyricist. The lyrics have been inspired by an arrangement constructed by the Aquarian that conjures the confrontation of the individual with the seismic. This is one of the demoed songs that requires a solution: the sizeable declamations that make up its choruses have inspired bombast in the initial production approach. The Aquarian thinks that it needs to be calmed down. The Taurean is concerned that lyrically it is an indulgent self-portrait and that it is evidence that  his writing is easily and lazily given to self-examination. The Aquarian is a champion of the statements that his partner has added to his arrangement and has fought hard for reworking the approach. Eventually, they agree that the story is paramount, that it has somehow become lost and that it is their responsibility to recover and honour it with the music. They set off on a slow, sapping journey of delicate repair and assembly; the story painstakingly takes shape and unfolds into a journey itself. The verses are simplified and the singing therein is opined with almost whispered clarity. It has the effect of making the listener pay closer attention. The choruses are sung out more, but only just, and the sung lyrical melody is also tracked: thickened. The chorus is comprised of four statements, but the songsmiths decide to make the last two  a harmonic chorus. It has the effect of sounding response-like, making the first two statements of the chorus seem like questions. The song is transformed into a microcosmic musical  odyssey.

it is exactly what the Taurean has been thinking

On the penultimate day they sit in weary silence at the dining table, listening to the new arrangement, their arses well and truly kicked by the process of vitalising the song’s execution. As the reconditioned piece unfolds, something occurs to the Taurean, which he thinks without saying; it is something that occurs to the Aquarian and he voices it the minute the song concludes. He states that the song is like a journey, The Fool’s journey, and that the voices in the chorus are like the voices of the beings he encounters, rallying to attend to The Fool’s concerns, to remind him of life’s abundant complexities. It is exactly what the Taurean has been thinking.

Ragoora Lodge

As I turn left out of Tower Hill station towards East Smithfield, I find that I am walking towards a massive slab of Roman wall remnant-  well, actually not a slab, more of a dollop. As I look to my left, atop a tunnel and across Tower Hill, the historic menace of an enscaffolded Tower of London rises gravely. I spare a thought for the ravens with botched, clipped wings, doomed to spend their lives in the confines of ancient Britain’s enduring Bastille because of an inane empirical superstition. I saunter across Tower Hill, at the red traffic light’s behest, and enjoy a rare personal glance at Tower Bridge. Of course, I recall the legendary anecdote involving an American suit who negligently squandered millions on the nondescript London Bridge, thinking it was this magnificent Thames bestriding colossus; the anecdote flickers briefly as I enjoy the blue decoration on the legendary landmark’s grey brick spires. At night its resident hovering gulls, illuminated by its floodlight, appear like mythical spirits rather than Thames prospecting predators. I’m heading east along East Smithfield now; I dislike this motorists’ domain masquerading as a city street: by day a torrent of frequently grid-locking traffic surges and sputters along, while the pedestrian is exposed to the oncoming roar of speeding lorries, from a shallow, narrow, curving pavement- never pleasant: the joy of breathing is either taken away or hesitated. For some reason my mind returns to my second visit to Yosemite in 1998 and the powerful surging rivers emboldened by the melted snows flowing down from the spring melted mountaintops, a much pleasanter, revitalising rush, imbued with negative ions.

For tourists come to visit the Tower and bridge, this unpleasantness is most probably, either an insignificance or fascination; for others come here for work and business, it is a necessary annoyance, appropriate to the Mordor-like affront aroused by St Katherine’s Docks, Thomas More Square and Murdoch’s (News International) high-walled dominance in the area. I am aware that I am brushing shoulders with his army of minions, as a hobbit in an Elven invisibility cloak might with Saruman’s Uruk-Hai. I would move faster through this strange land if I could, but I am somewhat weighed down by the weight of my laptop, so the besuited, stilletoed and officious out-stride me. Eventually, I turn onto one of my favourite London streets, Pennington Street: I first experienced this cobbled, macadammed stretch, flanked by walled-up arches and blank facades, last year when I came here with Guy, to The Smoke House studio, to mix ‘Grapefruit Moon’ and ‘Isn’t it a Pity.’ Being a gangster genre enthusiast and lover of ‘The Sopranos’ I enjoy its suitability as a location for a gangland hit. Perversely, during the sessions an ex ‘X Factor’ contestant will create a day of minor disturbance shooting a video here, cheapening its louche majesty. 

This week we are back to transform baby demos into grown up deal-seeking recordings. Guy and I have already been through a phase of extreme trepidation: after seven weeks of cosy song writing retreats in Ireland, the time has come to expose our hard work to hard unforgiving scrutiny: years of experience have indicated that this phase can be insensitively painful. However, trepidation has shrunk before an onslaught of confidence, inspired by the sheer capability of focused songwriting retreats and our associates for this task, three brilliant musicians and a very capable engineer.  An essential ingredient of a fantastic few professional months has been these four musicians: Guy Davies (of whom I wax lyrical often) has been ubiquitous in my reports on the new material’s development, but the live shows we have performed, the ones that have garnered many a standing ovation, have been personally transcendent in no small part to bassist Level Neville Malcolm, guitarist Robin Boult and drummer John Miller.

In 2004 when Guy and I did our third album together I was at a difficult cross roads. I had abandoned song writing and couldn’t bear the thought of writing about love, feeling that all the great love songs had been written; neither could I stand the thought of writing another song about my feelings, as I couldn’t face another set of navel-gazing laments. I decided to record an album of standards with a trio in a small studio in Wales. We wanted to work with a double-bassist, and drummer Andy Gangadeen introduced us to a tower of musical benevolence, Level Neville Malcolm. The title ‘Level,’ he stressed, was not negotiable; that’s who he was and how he expected to be addressed. His Zeusian laugh, rich virtuosity and immense likeability saw off any protest. When the label that released that album went bust and a tour failed to materialise I was utterly downcast because it meant that my professional collaboration with Guy and Neville was at an end.  Thus, when Guy and I came together again after a long hiatus he insisted that Neville was vital to this process, so we tracked him down, and to our delight he expressed enthusiastic openness to climbing onboard, saying that he would love ‘a piece of the pie.’

Also, in the early noughties I met and befriended a superbly talented American pianist and songwriter Jon Regen, with who I’ve enjoyed a deepening friendship and collaboration. Every summer he flies to London to perform a very special residency at Pizza Express Jazz Club in Soho. His drummer for these and other European dates is a terrific jobbing talent called John Miller, whose response to the question ‘How are you?’ is usually ‘Oh you know, kids and gigs, kids and gigs;’ once again, a very likeable, enthusiastic band member, who makes invaluably intelligent contributions to the development of arrangements. When I performed at Jon Regen’s London dates last year Guy came to one of the shows and whispered to me as he left, ‘Get the fookin’ drummer’s number!’ John responded keenly and quickly became a vital entity and surprise star at our ‘Live at Leicester Square’ show, and has been as vital an entity since.

Last Christmas Guy and I were invited to the Featured Artist Coalition Christmas party. If you’re a musician or artists and unfamiliar with this organisation I urge you to look them up. They are a very positive, growing force in an ailing decentralised industry. After the ‘Live at Leicester Square’ recording we knew that we were going to need a guitarist to complete our live sound, but we arrived at the party not particularly thinking about this issue- that is, until Howard Jones performed a few songs accompanied by Robin Boult. When we heard Robin’s playing we immediately looked at each other, seeing a welcome manifestation of fortunate synchronicity, but with similar immediacy I thought that a guitarist of that quality would never be available. I was grateful to discover that I was wrong about that. Robin emerged as the vital secret weapon during these recordings, adding necessary fire and verve to the solidity of the rhythmic, chordal foundations laid down by Neville, John and Guy. Where they created the arteries and musculature of the  body, Robin  stimulated its personality and character . He’s really, really rather good.

Not only have we been able to assemble a dependable combo of terrific musicians and special human beings, but there is no substitute for talent commingled with experience when the intention is to metaphorically whack the metaphorical ball out of the metaphorical park. This project is hugely ambitious in its outlook and Guy and I have a cocky determination attached to our pursuit. We’re not interested in manufacturing a good record, or a nice record, or the right record. We want to make a great record, one of the great records even. I really can’t see any reason why we shouldn’t aim that high. We’ve dug Nadal deep with the song writing and the last thing we want with all the special personnel we have in tow is to have a dispassionate sound recordist get their hands on our promising offspring. We’ve already attempted to beguile one key producer to the project, somebody that I worked with in 1994, who is now paid hefty sums to be the exclusive sound-smith for a credible British fivesome, but he is unavailable as he is in cahoots with that fivesome’s lead singer and they are apparently touring the world for 18 months. Thankfully, my optimism is so much better than it was, because upon hearing this news I knew that the right person would come along to midwife our music. Enter Dom Morley. When Guy and I collaborated on the second album of our long relationship we worked at Metropolis Studios, a converted power station that evoked a superhero’s beyond city limits lair. The session was assisted by a personable yet steely youth called Dom, an affable chap with a discreet professional focus that suggested he would go on to great things in the recording world, and he did: he has since produced Adele and won a Grammy for his production on ‘Back to Black.’ Guy was having a chat with the programmer from the session that Dom had assisted on (Nick Franglen of Lemon Jelly) and during their conversation Nick suggested Dom. Guy sought him out, Dom expressed an interest, listened to what we’d written and responded positively. It was a wonderful moment, as there was already a history and he would complete the team beautifully, with his winning mixture of likeability and astutely steely professionalism.

As the session approached I became more and more impelled to communicate our lofty ambitions to the team. Why not? I developed a grandiloquent ‘The Apprentice’ style scheme for luring the band up to Primrose Hill to make a specially written speech about the groundbreaking feat we felt we needed to perform. I’d been watching some Alejandro Iñárritu DVD extras, and he deploys an elaborate pre and post production ritual that involves a rallying call to the entire assembled cast and crew and the casting of red and white roses into the air, but I couldn’t imagine hauling Robin down from the countryside, John from Brockley, Guy from Loughton and Neville from Hoxton just to listen to my grand ambitions on a hill. Luckily, I’m a Julia Cameron enthusiast and my current encounter with another of her inspirational tomes suggested the writing of letters to your supporters to express how much you appreciate their belief in you, so I took that as a lead and emailed individual missives to the band, honestly conveying how invaluable they’ve been and how important I think they are now. I think it worked.  The guys arrived one by one with a sharpened resolve illustrated by an arsenal of gear: John with several drums and an embarrassment of percussion, Neville with several basses, fretless, jazz and precision, and Robin with what seemed like his entire guitar collection. The Smoke House is already a museum to vintage recording delights: (Paul the owner is a vintage gear fanatic) 1980s Neve desk and appropriately period outboard gear, eventide harmonisers, valve compressors and lexicon effects, meaning that the addition of the band’s gear turned it into a veritable warehouse of recorded as live implements. Dom even expressed his regard for a particular compressor by saying that he’d like to have intimate relations with it before the session concluded.

Upon arrival Dom sets about assiduously miking the drums and amps in the reasonably sized live room. He takes great care to visually assess the height of drum microphones to ensure that the recording phases correctly. He shows Guy a delightful 50s shaped microphone with a smile saying ‘That’s your drum sound.’ Robin, John Neville and Guy conduct themselves with the same diligence, in a flurry of cables, plugs, amps, music stands and chord sheets. They position themselves in a circle, so that they can look at each other as they play, distributed like spiders on a web of leads and cables. I have a microphone set up in the recording room behind Dom at the desk, beneath a fierce air conditioner, to sing guide vocals. The priority as we begin is to capture a great performance by the rhythm section, and the rest of the week is taken up with the considered addition of keyboards, guitars, percussion and singing. Dom appears to be going about his tasks with great ease, but he will later communicate that the first day of setting up is actually very difficult, as it involves him experiencing the nerves born of working with unfamiliar equipment and the potential dread of working with unfamiliar gear not functioning in a way he’d like; his pleasant surprise is our relief. Guy is in his flame-haired alpha male primate element this week, cutting to the quick and conducting the proceedings with typically earthy, unintentional vulgarity, much of which becomes immortalised to Twitter followers and Facebook fans as TMSIS: Things Musos Say in Studios. When not singing, chipping in or popping out to Waitrose for sushi, salads, sparkling water, crisps and chocolate biscuits I’m ensconced in a corner updating Twitter and Facebook. I also use the session to indulge my new smartphone application indulgence Hipstamatic.

Maturity, patience and experience work wonders here. Of course we’ve played well together for months, but with the new material and seeking out the right parts a band will sound initially ropey. Patience reassures that this is the nature of things, as very soon the band begins to sound vital and rocking. There are heated exchanges about certain aspects: disagreements when musicians become adamant that they feel things don’t work, no matter how convinced somebody else is, but we throw ourselves upon the mercy, experience and beseeched intelligence of each other, try all suggestions and eventually things take shape. Sometimes an acoustic guitar part completely discolours a song, sometimes a bass part is far too wayward or an emphasised downbeat on the drums slows a track’s strut, but we get past all of these things and improve on the programmed demos with a stimulating, fresh, new, live essence, nailing what we are looking for. The week ends with dancing, smiles, high fives, embraces and belief where there might have been traces of doubt or concern. We had intended to record three songs, but it eventually became clear that we were better advised to invest what time we had in making two sound great.

In the spirit of the continuing secrecy until completion, I can convey that the two completed tracks are transcendent, up-beat and surprising. Lyrically they are astute, they are catchy and they make me smile and Guy rave. My tessitura in each track is fully tested and the songs build and build. Where one song seems inspired by contention with dark grey clouds over a testing metropolis, the other seems to hold the promise of a sunny weekend after a wretched workweek. We are now enjoying the blessed assurance of working with a constantly improving, great team, and are freshly confident that we can get a lot done independently. Once again please be patient with us. We can confidently promise that you are going to love the new material and that it will be inarguably wondrous. We will get it to you as soon as we can.

Dandelions and Spanish Gorse

It is a disconcerting thing to see my Flame-Haired compadre cry. I weep at the drop of a hat, but then I see myself as a bit of a waterfly, a sometimes soggy lettuce, a great, big lump, whereas Guy’s physical presence is very much that of a flame-haired alpha-primate. He’s tall, speaks with a no-nonsense, gutturally Scouse accent, set in a manful baritone; he is also uber-confident and as sharp as diamond-cutter. These attributes provide a robust illusion of formidability. Don’t get me wrong, he is altogether a ‘Monsieur Formidable’, but these qualities only serve to mask the inner-sensitivity of all true poets and artists. Nevertheless, when he bursts into the kitchen in joyous shock at the harmonic chordal structure he has just erected, his resounding breakthrough causes his surprising collapse into red-faced, wide-eyed tears and I hasten over to the ‘Lab’ to witness the outcome of his experiments. I tell you, the man has been on fire; he’s dug very deep, immersing himself in understanding. His luggage is heavy with key song-writing master texts from the likes of The Beatles and Bacharach, and he’s applied his newfound understanding of Baroque composition to the heavy information.

The drive from the airport has become second nature for L’Eminence Gingembre now. He knows where we are going, and we are fully conversant with our purpose. The city falls swiftly away from our aspect like biblical scales from post Road to Damascus eyes. The absence of skyscrapers from the skyline, as apparent from the airport’s hilltop view, commences a feeling of relief, initiating a restless anticipation as to what can be achieved in the coming weeks. That the coming weeks’ work will amount to three weeks worth is not an issue; we know it will take all available time to pursue what we feel we must. This is our state of mind as we race along the country lanes from Knock International to our third song-writing retreat at Ragoora Lodge, wedged between Tobercurry and Cloonacool, but the distraction from these considerations is quite extraordinary: all along the lanes that stretch towards our destination a miracle of yellow is ubiquitous in the form of a fanfare of bountiful dandelions; they’re absolutely everywhere. I love the humbly spectacular weed’s annual revival on the estate grasslands of Brixton Hill, but I’ve never seen anything quite like this. The flurry of organic yellow alerts my eyes to the other yellowness that infuses the landscape’s green. I think it is the beginning of my understanding of why the Irish would refer to their home as the Emerald Isle, though by the time we leave I will add to their classic moniker my own ‘Ile de Chartreuse’, after I tire of saying yellowy green and look on the internet for a more succinct description thereof.

We are greeted at the cottage by the owners, my dear friends Patz and Karl, and their devoted Jack Russell Elsie. This is the first time that Guy and I will enjoy an evening at the cottage with them, for one night only, and our worn city feet barely have time to touch the carpet before we are rushed off to the beach, to enjoy the surf. Karl is desperate to go get wet and has brought wet-suits. Exhausted as I am and distrustful of the sea’s temperature, I have no intention of going in, but Guy speedily dons one of the suits and with Karl surges towards the ocean, as its waves bequeath them the same honour. Patz and I saunter along the beach with Elsie, and sit on the sand to watch Karl and Guy being joyously buffeted by the waves. It’s a lovely change of pace and I’m quite taken by the remarkable flock of white-bellied sanderlings that dart and swoop synchronistically with the rhythmic surf. It is on our return from the beach that I begin to notice another of mother nature’s miraculous Irish works in yellow, but I’m too tired to inquire and still rather smitten with the compelling riot of dandelions. Tomorrow morning Guy and I will take a final walk with our hosts before they return to Manchester, we go to the supermarket and our purposeful industry begins in earnest. As we return from the supermarket my rested eyes will be alerted anew to this bush, of thorny green and yellow, that beats heather-like paths across the Western Ireland hills.

Guy and I need to beat an even more daring path up loftier slopes. It is easy to create personal songs about our lives, and idiosyncratic pieces of interesting music with our collective experience, but what about reaching out further and inviting an audience in to our work? After our retreats in January and March we are strongly decided that it is not lacking in credibility to create enjoyable songs that are not revelatory of our deepest demons. Why not also create music that people can enjoy the feel and beat of until they are ready to take a closer look, unearthing your story’s depth; lyrical thought can sometimes be the long-term investment. What is so wrong with being honestly ambitious, if it is matched with a determination to create value for money? Artists who have a high regard for Springsteen, Mitchell and Simone are ill-advised to forget their regard for Bacharach, Holland-Dozier-Holland and the Brothers Gibb. This is the tone of the third retreat and it will pay off resoundingly. Where the first retreat was overwhelmingly personal and the second, a mission to be classic via an examination of what that entails, the third provides the striking consequences of these examinations. Also, we realise that you can only get to such a point of transcendence by writing and writing. Hence, the breakthroughs come slowly, but they do come and they are moving, emotive and infectious. There has been laughter and tears, but I’ve also begun to restrain my body from toe-tapping, head-nodding etc to enable myself to assess flaws and what is lacking. This is an interesting development because, so often I’ve mistaken a tapping toe as being indicative of quality, when in fact my toe will tap just as readily along to Whigfield! That’s how serious we’ve become about getting this right

On my birthday I will celebrate by playing a concert at a pub in Cloonacool. Before Patz and Karl leave they suggest that we undertake some local PR, stressing that we pop into the health-food store for a chat with its winsome proprietress, Jane. She is a delightful lady and while paying for green lentils and discussing the show, we discuss the extraordinary Spring weather with which Ireland has been blessed. It is during this conversation that we discuss the frenesi of dandelions and the remarkable yellow bush running amok on the hills. I explain that I’ve never seen it and how much I’ve enjoyed my encounter with it, whereupon she explains that it is Spanish Gorse, quipping that it probably arrived with the Armada.

One resplendently sunny day, on the occasion of a particularly arresting breakthrough we decide to reward ourselves with a back-patting drive to Strandhill to inhale the ocean again, to enjoy the sunlight on the water and so that Guy can egg the surfers on. On the way we drive through a stretch of road where my newfound floral love is at its most impressive. As I am wearing a yellow shirt Guy suggests that we stop for photographs. I think it’s a lovely idea, as so much of our third retreat has been dominated by an omnipresence of yellow dandelions, yellow in oceans of chartreuse, enhanced in the late evenings by a yellowing sun and the yellow of the prickly furze. It is then that I decide that the title of this piece should be ‘Dandelions and Spanish Gorse’

]]> http://dimcessayist.wordpress.com/2011/05/08/dandelions-and-spanish-gorse/feed/ 15 dimcessayist Spectral Dandelions IMG_0901 IMG_0898 IMG_0771 IMG_0817 IMG_0906 IMG_0876 http://dimcessayist.wordpress.com/2011/03/19/an-aggression-of-siskins/ http://dimcessayist.wordpress.com/2011/03/19/an-aggression-of-siskins/#comments Sat, 19 Mar 2011 07:27:52 +0000 dimcessayist http://dimcessayist.wordpress.com/?p=382 ]]> An Aggression of Siskins

My flame-haired compadre has an ornithological obsession, an interest he inherited from his father when they strolled through Sefton Park, Liverpool during his childhood. We’ve been enjoying a fortnight of banana porridge breakfasts at my friends’ comely Ragoora Lodge on this recent songwriting monastic, accompanied by a riot of gluttonous songbirds during the daylight hours. He’s been enthusiastically luring them to the bird table with Ragoora’s store of nuts, seeds and the unappetizing sounding balls of fat that tickle their avaricious fancies, regaling me with his knowledge of their names, stirring my interest with his fascination therewith. We’ve spied upon a variety of coal tits, great tits, goldfinches, greenfinches, chaffinches, a robin and a remarkably feisty species called siskins. The collective noun for a company of crows, he instructs me, is a Murder of crows. If this is true then I wonder if an aggression of siskins is an appropriate title for the feisty company: when the other birds, indeed when their fellow siskins, encroach upon their feed, they splay their wings, open their beaks and lurch aggressively at the rivalry. It’s been a right song and dance, a captivating if slightly disturbing spectacle, to witness such darling looking, diminutive life forms with such vulgar social graces.

Our sojourn, though different has, like last time, been highly rewarding and inspiring. We’ve increased the fresh material haul from 10 to 23. In the first session we produced a cluster of deeply personal songs inspired by my experience of family, an aspect that continued this time, but we’ve also been expressing our awareness of the city in which we live and the world around us, paving the way for our next retreat when we plan to write simply and directly about universal truths that aren’t coloured by the potent neuroses of yours truly. Once again we are loathe to be any more revealing just now, but I can tell you that we’ve conducted ourselves with a studious, teachable openness: I’ve maintained my own spirit-guide (a groundbreaking set by an all American icon,) but we’ve also adhered very strongly to Ma Davies concerns: she has asked Guy if we don’t write happier material, so we’ve taken her inquiry seriously this time and plan to make it the overriding priority of our next retreat. The concerns raised by Ma Davies prompted us to collate and dissect ‘Joy! The Ma Davies Dossier’: a collection of favourites that are both transcendent and highly catchy.

Interestingly, we’ve ‘spliced’ very little this time: we surprised each other in January by marrying my lyrics to Guy’s compositions. This time I’ve been revelling in my workaholism, ceaselessly churning out lyric after lyric in the cottage, while Guy has been deconstructing classic pop structure in the studio. Guy has taken my lyrics and disappeared for hours at a time before bounding back to hurry me over to the studio to play me what they have inspired in him. He has given me daily stake-raising challenges, pressing me to participate in the canon of great lyrical statements made by the songs that we have chosen as beacons. New techniques have been developed, most significantly, ‘Shadowing’: instead of waiting for inspirational osmosis to occur I’ve taken favourite lyrics and borrowed their narrative devices. Instead of liking their lines and wondering how they were achieved I’ve located personal experiences that identify with them. It’s worked a treat.

I’ve cooked curry, pasta and vegetable soup. We’ve rewarded ourselves with a surfeit of Americanos, slabs of chocolate, fig rolls, nuts and chocolate chip cookies. The aging winter has done battle with the vibrant youth of spring above our heads; we’ve had the fabled four seasons in one day. The winds have been roaring at night, we’ve awoken to snow covered mountains. There has been rain, hail, sunshine, rainbows, moonlight and the brightness of the stars has been astonishing. I’ve well and truly fallen in love with the Beach Boys now and rediscovered Simon and Garfunkel, after they elevated our outings into odysseys. We’ve maintained the nightly movies, but whereas on the last trip I was merely introducing Guy to movies, this time they attained a palpable influencing quality over both of us. We’ve been blown away by ‘Husbands and Wives’, ‘Crimes and Misdemeanors’, ‘Babel’, ‘Babette’s Feast’, ‘Heat’, ‘The Barefoot Contessa’, ‘4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days’, ‘Citizen Kane’, ‘Taxi Driver’, ‘White Ribbon’, ‘Sweet Smell of Success’ and ‘Brokeback Mountain’. On the nights when I had difficulty sleeping I subsumed ‘My Name is Joe’, ‘Dead Man’s Shoes’, ‘Don’t Look Now’ and ‘Talk to Her’. I swelled with big brotherly pride when Guy decided that ‘White Ribbon’ was his favourite.

We both know now that we are going to produce the desired, necessary masterwork. With each step our attitude and resolve is being reconditioned. Our confidence is growing because of the intensifying diligence of our approach. We’ve never taken these steps before, yet they feel so right. Some years ago a long-distance paramour dubbed me a fatalist because I was so enamoured of him that I superstitiously feared mortality’s unwelcome intervention upon us; it’s a strange aspect of being me: usually, when things are going well I begin to fear untimely death; I’m happy to report that I’m absolutely terrified.

Dearest Peops.

We’d like to proclaim the heartiest thanks to you all for participating so rapturously in the six concerts we’ve performed for you this month. Sure, it was only six days, not an epic slog around the world, but the sense of romance that we got from being on the road again, sharing the favourites from the back catalogue with you, aided by three immensely talented musicians, isn’t diminished by the shortness of the stint. I didn’t know what to expect, but I need not have fretted because your response has been so warm and encouraging. I can’t tell you how often we were told that the concerts were some of the best that some people had seen. Thank you. I’m flattered and delighted that what I do is that enjoyable. It isn’t the end; largely, in the coming months we’ll be bookending writing sessions in Ireland with similar tour clusters; 2 dates in March, 4 in April and 5 in May. More dates are popping up all the time. Please keep an eye on davidmcalmont.co.uk.

Guy 'Beethoven' Davies.

Once again I have to champion my compadre Guy Davies for being the energetic visionary that he is. These concerts were something that he declared vital last summer when we decided to become a team; I had my doubts: I knew from experience that it was easier to get venues to book gigs if there was a relatively current release. The question I put to Guy was this, How could we tour without anything to promote? Guy instructed me- as he often does- to leave it with him. In days he’d come up with the live CD/DVD idea which we filmed and recorded in November and released earlier this month. Then he secured the Pledge Campaign that has helped fund the tour. Once again thanks for being a fabulous audience at Leicester Square that November night and for supporting the Pledge Campaign.

Robin 'Milano' Boult.

Inarguably, the time spent with you on Facebook and Twitter has been invaluable, as so many of you in the audiences were people that we’ve interacted with online. There was a wonderful opportunity to create backstage footage, to share photos and regularly update either people who couldn’t make it, those who’d already been or those who were yet to attend. When I took the rewarding decision to theme the concerts- Love, Forgiveness, Reconciliation, Sweetness, Opportunity and OK- I was able to reveal the themes to the online crew before the live audience. It meant that supporters online were able to enjoy some of what we shared live and I was able to convey some of the online feedback at the concerts.  I had fun tweeting the arrival of the notorious ‘Breakfast Bags’, doing Tour News updates, clowning around with the expression ‘BREAKNG NEWS’ and uploading behind the scenes footage.

Level Neville Malcolm

We met some lovely people, made new friends and discovered what the music means to you. Many expressed that they had waited years for a chance to see me live. I appreciated how many of you conveyed what the songs meant to you during the long wait. I took photos with many of you for my Facebook collection, reconnected with others for the first time in years, signed the new album and older releases that you brought with you.

John 'Matinee' Miller.

We must say thank you to Lotte Mullan for being such a terrific support. I really like Lotte. She’s a sweet woman with talent and a purpose and I think she’s destined for fabulous things. She also warmed up as much as I did. The pre-show racket the two of us made backstage was hilarious. I also enjoyed the music of Sam Eason at The Fleece in Bristol and loved working with Calum Macdonald, the other guy who sings ‘That Song’ He is a gentlemanly giant and I envied the ease of his professionalism. Adrian ‘Brigadier’ Bance our tour manager, and pilot of ‘Doreen the Toddmobile’ (Thank you Todd Sharpville) is a total one-off: his winning belligerence got us from town to town, where he did battle with ‘jobsworths’, amateurs and bad drivers, regaling us with a stream of stories that you’d only hear from someone who’d been on the road since 1971. Within hours I found myself in a delightful tour bubble with a terrific band; Guy ‘Beethoven’ Davies, John ‘Matinee’ Miller, ‘Level’ Neville Malcolm and Robin ‘Milano’ Boult, 4 very capable musicians who doubled as an unfussy crew. It was hard work, but so worth it.

Guy, Level Neville and Adrian 'Brigadier' Bance.

I feel vindicated and mandated now. It was only ever bad luck and a naïve lack of focus on my part that stood in the way of me getting out-and-about to perform for you, but as many of you know a lot has changed since Guy and I decided to do what we were born to do. Our determination to make this work has produced standing ovations, tears, joy, laughter, hugs, revelations and affirmations.

Thank you all

David and Guy

The Mysterious Absence of Wrens

What’s not to like about my strapping, flame-haired, Scouse collaborator, Guy Davies? He has always been a thoroughly professional musician with a titanium business brain and an ever-ready Buzz Lightyear grin. Our creative hiatus has been my gain, as he spent the interim years studying Baroque composition and poetry, while acquiring a yogic sensibility and an increasingly spiritual bent. Of all the people with whom to spend 12 days on a songwriting monastic- at my friends’ brilliantly located, beatifically comfortable Ragoora Lodge- there is nobody better qualified.

I knew that I’d see him morning, noon and night, and it was an easy, decidedly fraternal affair. I’m not sure who the bigger brother was, but our roles defined themselves with immediate ease: Guy drove the car, hired the equipment, chopped the fire wood, made the fire, gleefully trapped and disposed of the mice, fed and identified the birds, and crafted marvellous arrangements in the modern, Manhattan loft-like Ragoora studio. I bought the food, cooked, organised the post-supper DVDs, did the tarot readings and wrote lyrics in the charismatically rustic Ragoora cottage. Together, we inhaled the pine-scented Western Ireland air on frequent walks, drove to the sea, skated- unintentionally- on the icy ground, ‘oohed and aahed’ at the clarity of stars, vermillion sunsets and snow on the hills. We chatted about life, family, the city and our experience of the music industry, as we crafted some of the best songs I’ve ever  co-written. Strangely, we suddenly realised that for all our collaboration over the years we’d scarcely written together- until now.

I felt privileged to introduce Guy to some of my favourite movies and had my confidence charged by my taste. I had enough for Guy to choose what he wished to see, and the synchronicity that we unearthed in the selections was astonishing. We watched ‘There Will Be Blood’, ‘Code Unknown’, ‘Into the Woods’, ‘Capote’, ‘All About Eve’, ‘All About My Mother’ and ‘Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter and Spring’. On the nights when Guy had gone to sleep, I treated myself to ‘Vertigo’, ‘Bullets Over Broadway’, ‘Barton Fink’, ‘Heat’, ‘Sunset Boulevard’, ‘The Straight Story’ and ‘Babette’s Feast’. The inspirational properties of the nightly cinematic fixes, as well as their surprisingly appropriate themes, combined beautifully with the stillness of Ragoora and its surroundings: the mysterious absence of wrens, the walks, the alert, wary curiosity of sheep and the continual uninterrupted space in which to have the important conversation that we’ve needed to have ever since we discovered our mutual instinct for collaboration.

We were able to express our vision for the new material thoroughly and lucidly; I was able to share my neuroses fully with Guy; he openly discussed his resentments and personal concerns. We chided our fathers, assessed our environments and backgrounds, and found that we were both at a point where we needed to say the things that we’d always wanted to with our new music. What we have created so far is well on its way to achieving this. Most extraordinarily, I’d be pleased with my lyrics, Guy would be with his arrangements, but the combination of my words with his music surprised us both with its explosive freshness and lively chemistry. When we completed 10 new songs and played them back on shuffle, I guffawed heartily at the introductions. I’d swear, or cup my palms at my mouth and yell ‘Choon!’, as did Guy. There were points when I’d cry ‘Genius!’ or he’d say ‘That’s fookin’ great!’; we weren’t bragging. If anything, we were coming to terms with what years of experience, single-mindedness and faith, commingled with belief, can attain. Guy blew me away with his compositional twists and, for a change, I found myself listening to the kind of lyric-writing I have often envied in others. Instead of thinking, ‘How did they do that?’ we were wondering from where these songs we’d written had magically appeared. At one point, Guy very sweetly ventured that he was George Harrison to my Lennon and McCartney.

To share anymore at this stage would be to name and describe songs. On this occasion, more than any other, we’re agreed that we need to keep a tight-lid on what we’ve written- so far -because, on the evidence of what we’ve achieved, the likelihood is that we’ll produce something quite exceptional.

Thanks Guy for providing such an extraordinary beginning to the year. Watch these spaces.

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