April 5 - Malaga: Andalucia laid on a welcome for us from the opening day. Coming in from the airport, our taxi was diverted as the centre of Malaga was thronged with onlookers for a military parade. We dismounted and made our way on foot through the sunshine. The main street, the Alameda, was packed with people standing up on dusty folding chairs under the palm leaves, craning for a viewpoint. Andrea stood up on a lamppost for a better view and looked adorable as an eight year old as the soldiers marched quickly by in ranks, followed by buglers who twirled their instruments expertly - and blew sweet, shrill, soulful notes out into the cool sunshine.
When the parade had passed, the crowds broke up quickly and we pulled our suitcases through the narrow streets to our hotel, close to the broad, pale open space of the Plaza de Merced. The hotel is an oasis of cool, tiled calm, a maze of corridors and shuttered windows.
We dumped our bags and headed out for lunch, eating under the shade of a beautiful bougainvillea by the church at San Augustin. We were serenaded by a beautiful player – a Peruvian who sang and played for tips as ordered lunch. As we ate, we could hear the approach of drums and cornets – playing the most beautiful, mournful music. And here through the narrow streets in the afternoon sunshine came the wooden icons of Joseph and Mary, both riding donkeys, which were carried into the grounds of the church while the band, dressed in black with vintage German style helmets with points, played outside.
We went back to the hotel for a siesta, and awaited Julia’s arrival. After a long catch-up, we ventured out around 7.30pm. As we arrived at the cathedral, more crowds were gathering, and soon another icon was carried into the street, flanked by penitents wearing the pointed black hoods and carrying black candles.
We went for dinner at Il Jardin restaurant, and when we emerged, another icon of the virgin was being carried back in, this time in darkness, very dramatic. I managed to squeeze off one shot above the heads of the crowd, and caught this amazing image of the rows of faces of the carriers as they brought the icon back to the cathedral. The accompanying music was heartstopping – beautiful and moving, sad and complex, lots of shifting, deep harmonies in minor keys. As we made our way back to the hotel on the pavement of the Calle Madre de Dios there were rose petals dropped earlier in the evening from one of the many processions making their way across the town that night.
The first day in Andalucia left my head swimming with impressions that reeled over and over in my head as I tried to sleep: The ringing of the bells. The sound of the bugles in the open air. The rich and glamorous people gliding around the back of the cathedral. Now and then, the heartbreakingly beautiful little Spanish girls. The smell of incense in the street. The shimmering icons carried aloft. The little shot glasses of sweet sherry offered up by our waiter after we tipped him. The sparrows twittering in terror by the church of San Augustin, as the bugles and drums started up.
Here’s a picture of my father as a very young man, on an outing from Diamond’s Sawmills in Coleraine to the great shipyard at Harland & Woolf, Queen’s Island, Belfast.
There were two or three such excursions – Diamond had occasional business with the yard. He says he can’t remember the exact reason for this trip, but here he is, lounging in the back of an old Austin van with Pat Hutchinson from Portglenone. Pat has now joined the legions of the long gone, but my father, of course, shines on.
I am not even a twinkle in my father’s eye at this point – we believe this picture may have been taken about 50 years ago. He remembers Harland & Woolf as an intimidating place, a world and a tribe all of its own, and as a young catholic from up the country, I’m sure he couldn’t wait to get on the road north again.
The picture has come into my possession just as I am about to take part in my own little piece of shipyard history in this year of All Things Titanic, next Sunday afternoon, April 1st. I’ll be participating (either walking or cycling) and then performing briefly at around 1.25pm as part of the Titanic Yardmen Cycle and Walk.
Organised by the Connswater Community Greenway Group, the event aims to re-stage this classic photograph (left) of 1,000 yardmen standing on the slipway at Harland & Woolf. The numbers for Sunday’s event were limited to 1,000, and I’m delighted to say they’ve made the target and the event is now officially sold out.
Everyone taking part will receive a ‘duncher’ – the flat caps worn by the shipyard workers – and a ‘piece’, a packed lunch, courtesy of sponsors Edwards & Co Solicitors and Fitzer’s Catering. The event has been organised with the intention of raising awareness of Bowel Cancer.
The event starts at the Billy Neill Centre in Dundonald (for the cyclists) at 12noon, and at Pitt Park on the Newtownards Road (for the walkers) at 12.45pm, and both parties converge on the slipway at Harland & Woolf, arriving by 1.15pm.
Compering the event at the slipway will be Dan Gordon, and I’ll be singing a couple of songs with Belfast references – Sailortown and You’re The One. Then after some speeches and the re-staging of the photograph, there will be some music from Belfast Community Gospel Choir – it should be a memorable afternoon.
If you’d like to know more, get in touch with the Connswater Community Greenway group on (028) 9046 7934, or visit the website: www.communitygreenway.co.uk.
Those of you who know me well will know what a sucker I am for design... I'm constantly arrested by beautiful posters, album or book covers, wonderful packaging, interesting typefaces, magazine layouts etc.
So you won't be surprised when you find out I've been drooling over this little box of delights - a box of sampler teas given to us over the weekend by our dear friends Michael and Alison. These are people of wonderful taste, and they probably don't even know how much they hit the target with this.
It's a very plush little cream-coloured box adorned with beautiful typography and elegant use of space - and inside are a variety of herbal and flavoured teas, each of them individually packaged in a tiny cardboard pyramid.
They've been laid head to head in the box, so when you lift the lid it's a sequence of very satisfying and snug little geometric shapes in a range of muted colours. I find stuff like this irresistible. I almost can't bear the tought of trying one of the teas and ruining this display.
Back in the vinyl days, I was always the kid examing the gatefold or double albums and the inner sleeves with the printed lyrics, soaking up every detail of the package. I've been known to buy certain 50s Blue Note jazz albums just because the cover looks really cool. Now I find not much has changed.
I’ve been thinking a lot recently about the wonderful cartoonist Ronald Searle, who passed away at the start of the year at the ripe old age of 91.
I first came across his irreverent, hilarious work when I in my second year at Coleraine Inst. There was a book of his work in the library, including his drawings from the War in Burma and inevitably the St. Trinian’s girls. I was immediately smitten with his comic invention and his inventive, stretchy and scratchy drawing style.
My favourite was a cross-eyed mare standing chewing on a wildflower in an overgrown meadow, captioned ‘Idiot Horse Labouring Under the Misapprehension That It Is Representative of Nature’.
I was all ready for a big art weekend in London in February 2010 - I was going to see the Van Gogh drawings and letters at the Royal Academy, but I also wanted (probably more) to see the Ronald Searle retrospective at the Cartoon Museum, laid on to celebrate his 90th birthday. The Ash Cloud put a spanner in all of those works, and I was grounded.
The papers were full of obituaries and tributes in the last week or so, but my favourite story was from Gerald Scarfe, himself perhaps the greatest of the legions of cartoon geniuses from this part of the world. Scarfe idolised Searle as a teenager. On a number of occasions, he had cycled from his home in Hampstead all the way over to Searle’s house in Bayswater and stood before his big green door, unable to overcome his nerves and push the bell.
Many years later, Scarfe’s wife (Jane Asher) threw a secret birthday party for him in an exclusive restaurant in Provence. When they entered, he found that the only two other people in the place were Ronald Searle and his wife, who happened to live nearby.
“A beautiful little package sat on the table, all done up with ribbon. I said: ‘Oh, is this for me?’ And Ronald said: ‘Yeah, it’s nothing.’ So I opened it, and there was a brass doorbell with a note saying ‘Please ring any time’.”
Today Andrea and I made the first of what I imagine will be many trips to Black Mountain and Divis, the hills above Belfast.
I’m ashamed to say it’s the first time we’ve ever ventured up, despite much talk over the last couple of years. Of all the days to choose, today was typical of Northern Ireland – blowing a gale and with intense showers glittering through bright sunshine.
It’s hard to imagine such massive open moorland within 20 minutes of the city centre – it’s primal, raw landscape in its extremity, lashed today by the revolving door of Ulster weather.
There are a number of major broadcasting masts up there, so most of the journey is made on a well-finished concrete pathway that leads up as far as the antennae. From there on, it’s a combination of boardwalk across the marshland, and a carpet of plastic grip surface – it looks like old milk crates have been sunk into the soil.
We came up over the brow of Divis and there was a spectacular view of the city, with the Hardland and Wolff yellow cranes standing out gleaming in the sunshine and huge towers of rain marching across the distant east of the city. The wind was buffeting us madly, so we took a couple of quick snaps and turned back, thinking of cappuccino at the end of the rainbow.
On the way back down, the rain came on and the sun retreated to an angry white spot in the midst of a bruised sky. You could still see the sunshine glinting off cars coming in on the M1 in the distance, while the gusts peppered the sides of our faces with stinging rain.
We made our way back past the antennae and towards the car where we shook off our rain gear and made our way back down the Springfield Road and into town, watching the traffic lights through steamed up glasses.
TODAY Andrea and I decanted the sloe gin that we made during the autumn... We discovered some heavily laden sloe bushes in Victoria Park back in October and filled our pockets and even our caps with them, getting soaked by the rain in the process. We brought the whole lot home, washed them, pricked them with pins and threw them into two bottles, each half filled with Gordon's Gin and some sugar.
This weekend it's harvest time. Anyone who darkens our door over the festive season is welcome to a slurp. Here's a poem by Seamus Heaney on the very subject:
The Thai alphabet bristles with accents, underscores and umlauts. The letters are often rounded, and clusters and phrases are conjoined to make long single words - sentences roll across the page like a legion of wriggling, hairy little caterpillars.
The Thai language, like all the tongues of Asia, is enormously complex. Because of course, you not only need to know the words and the sentence construction and the characters, but also the musical tones in which they are spoken. Saying something with a rising inflection at the end of the sentence for example, can mean exactly the opposite of what you wanted to say.
There are points where all languages sonically and unexpectedly overlap, however - overhearing the guide and the driver talking to each other on the way down to Bangkok, for example, I distinctly heard one say to the other: 'handicapped dog'.
And a moment later, his companion finished one statement with the phrase: 'She's a minger.'
I’VE always had a small repertoire when it comes to culinary performances. Over the years I’ve collected a small number of recipes and I trot them out from time to time, offering to cook for family and friends when they come over. They usually come back, so I can’t be that bad.
But I have to admit they’re the usual man-in-the-kitchen bunch of recipes though – usually revolving around pasta. I do a really good Spaghetti Bolognese (a few steps above the student halls of residence version, thanks to a few extra steps I got from an old Antonio Carluccio recipe), some really good roast potatoes – and recently a very good salmon chowder thing, which I’ll tell you about some other time.
(and of course there are a million filthy saucepans lying around afterwards, various lids separated from jars, seemingly hundreds of spoons and forks, leading Andrea to describe me sometimes as 'Genghis Cook')
Andrea loves Asian food, and she grew up steeped in that tradition, so I’ve always been on the back foot when it comes to the world of pak choi, nam plaa and the like.
As part of the trip to Chiang Mai, one of the day excursions on offer was a full day’s tuition at a Thai Cookery School. Much to my own surprise, I jumped at the chance – fully expecting some Generation Game disasters as I wilted this and pan fried that while the sound of sirens came gradually closer.
It turned out to be a really magical experience. The format was fairly simple – there were about eight of us, and we all trooped into the classroom, a room fully equipped with a counter and a cooker with four gas burners, where the instructor would explain the ingredients of each dish, and why each ingredient was included. For example, a simple thing – he said, always cook the garlic and onion at the same time. The onion releases water as it cooks, and if it’s in the pan at the same time, this stops the garlic from burning. He had the most awe-inspiring knife technique I’ve ever seen. This guy could dice an onion in five seconds without even looking at it his hands. Do not try that at home.
After the instruction, and a demonstration, we would troop back outside to our station (a preparation area and a burner with a wok). There were rows of them – it looked like the school could take groups of 20 or 30 at a time, in a roofed-in area without walls, open to the gardens. We picked up our own ingredients, chopped ’em and diced ’em and got to work, with the instructors and helpers there to guide us when things were burning, or reminding us what order to throw things in.
The first thing we did was make our own curry paste. For someone first exposed to curry through the good auspices of Vesta (remember those little tear-open sachets of powder with bits of dried chicken rattling around inside? Yuk) this was quite a revelation. We threw the ingredients into a mortar and pestle and got pounding. Coriander seed, cumin seed, mace, cardamom pods, black peppercorns, red chilies, ginger, garlic, shrimp paste, lemongrass, kaffir lime peel, salt, coriander root… Ten minutes later we had our own curry paste. And we went on to use it (I won’t bore you with all the details – I’ll show you the next night you’re round at the house) to make a Panaeng Curry with Pork (proudly pictured, below left).
Other delights were to follow: Between 10am and 4pm, Andrea and I also made: Chiang Mai Curry with Chicken, Fried Fish with chili and basil, sweet and sour vegetable stir fry, spicy glass noodle salad and black sticky rice pudding.
We went back to our hotel well-fed, sticky, sweaty, tired and with our mouths faintly burning. And thankfully devoid of any burns, slashes or cuts. And we each got a copy of the cookbook. Now the pair of us are all wired on Thai recipes, and keen to trot down to St. George’s Market and start asking for exotic spices.
ON OUR last morning in Chiang Mai, I watch from our balcony as the French couple eat their breakfast on the terrace below. They have been at the next table to ours for the last three days, ordering extra tea and coffee at each sitting.
He is slender and silent, serious-faced. She is more animated, small and stylish, talking with her hands, occasionally running her fingers through her thick, luxurious hair, cut in a rough, boyish style. He does all the listening, nodding and replying now and then in monosyllables, looking around the terrace at the other diners, poker-faced, like a character in a Graham Greene novel.
This morning she butters her toast with pinpoint accuracy, holding it with the long slender fingers of her left hand, spreading the butter and then the conserves with a knife held, like a pen or a paintbrush, in her right hand. She works it evenly across the surface of the little square of bread, coaxing it neatly into each corner. And then she pauses, looking at this little perfect tile of breakfast, regarding it in her hand, her little finger slightly raised.
Then she dips her hand, like the long neck of a swan - so that a corner of the toast slips momentarily into her black coffee - and brings it back to her mouth, biting off a perfect quarter circle.
All bad cab drivers, anywhere in the world, drive with their own particular style that makes them awful.
The Yellow Cab drivers of New York City, for example, and the taximen of inner city Dublin, will each have their own insane dodges that hold them dangerously close to danger and yet spare them from the awful collision.
(The worst cab ride I ever had in my life was with Ralph McLean and Bap Kennedy, on the way in from the airport at Austin, Texas. It was the maddest time of the year to visit the beautiful city of Austin - the week of the South By South West Festival, and we reckoned afterwards that the city fathers must have set dangerously insane prisoners free for that week and given them taxi drivers' licenses, just to make up the numbers and deal with the demand. Our driver appeared to be West African - he didn't seem to be able to speak a word of English, but he nodded frantically when we told him our destination, so we loaded our luggage and climbed in. Driving at terrifying speed, he would make heart-stopping three-lane changes without warning. Behind us the trucks and vans would blare off like the opening chords of Mozart's Trumpet Concerto, and he would turn his head BACK aover his shoulder and release an ear-splitting high-speed string of West African curses over our cowering heads at cars BEHIND him, while hurtling FORWARD towards the interchanges at 80 miles an hour. We clung to the bars and dug our heels into the footwells. He delivered us, sweating and shaken, and drove off in a roar. We went inside and found out it was the wrong hotel. 'It's all right,' said Bap. 'I'm just glad to be alive.')
I once compared the cab drivers of New York to bullfighters – they perform the same milimetre-perfect manouevres in tight spaces, with so much at stake. The cabbies of Dublin are more like wired suicide jockeys on last-chance racehorses. They’re sprinting towards the gap in a blinkered machine, trying to beat the lights.
The tuk tuk drivers of Chiang Mai are more like mosquitoes – they appear out of nowhere and seem to find a space or a way through all defences. The tuk tuk is little more than a souped-up golf cart, or a large pram with an engine. It's actually built on a motorcycle frame - the driver steers with handlebars - with a double axle, supporting a bench seat for two. They're adorned with all kinds of badges and lights and stainless steel railings and frames. You bargain a price with the driver for your destination, climb in the back and off he goes, with the kind of fimsy, jittery roar you’d expect from a large lawnmower. The secret is in the small size of the vehicle – he can nip down narrow alleyways, find a way past parked delivery trucks and find a space at the next stop - often all at the same time.
Between starting off and reaching your destination, you come unbelievably close to other road users. Chiang Mai is a city of a million scooters, and they spread through the traffic like a virus, filling in the spaces between all of the other vehicles. At the lights, you can actually smell the after shave worn by the scooter drivers as they pull up alongside. Everyone here drives perilously close to everyone else. And so, like all bad drivers everywhere in the world, the act of driving becomes an exercise in enormous blind faith – in this city, it’s an unshakeable belief that not one single vehicle, from this spot all the long way to the other side of the city, will brake suddenly in the next fifteen minutes.
When the lights turn green and you hear the engines start to roar, you realise that without anyone having ever discussed it, this blind faith is contagious - and the whole city is in on it.
Andrea wakes me in the middle of the flight, in the middle of the night, and tells me to come and see the mountains.
We’re just over the halfway stage of a 10-hour flight from Heathrow to Bangkok. I come back to life slowly, having been half asleep listening to music (Gil Scott Heron's Winter in America, which for some reason spooks me and gives me trippy, unsettling dreams). The cabin looks the way all long-haul flights look at the halfway stage – dead bodies in various poses scattered to the left and right, some with headphones, some with books spread open on their chests, some with eyeshades, with mouths agape, hunched in positions that you know they’ll regret in the days to come.
I’m groggy in the extreme. My brain can just about stand long haul flights - it’s my arse that gives me the problems. Despite the relatively comfortable seats provided by Royal Thai airlines, it feels like I’ve been sitting on a concrete block in the bed of a pickup truck coming up the Glenshane Pass for two and a half hours. I’m kind of glad to get up and walk around.
It’s almost completely dark in the cabin, with the occasional glow here and there of a laptop or a reading light. I’ve kicked off my shoes, and the pair of us pick our way gingerly up the aisle to the back of the plane. We stand near a little fold-down seat that is reserved for crew members. There are sleeping passengers all around us, and the lovely Thai cabin crew moving around among them in graceful silence. We must be close to the outside of the fuselage here, or there’s some air conditioning unit below – I can feel the cold under my feet through my socks.
Look at this, she says, and she lifts the window shade – blinding daylight floods in. I had totally forgotten that outside, of course, it’s broad daylight. Still on London time, it’s half past three in the morning and the crew have pulled down all the shades to create an artificial nighttime so we can sleep and arrive refreshed.
But outside the sun is blazing down on an extraordinary landscape. It’s a vast mountain range, capped with snow, shading down to deep sandy plains below, where wide, slow muddy rivers make their way across vast distances.
We ponder where we might be, and can only conclude that we must be over one of the ‘Stans’ - Uzbekistan, Afghanistan, Kurdistan, Pakistan... or perhaps Kashmir. In the distance we can see the icy contours of what logically must be the foothills of the Himalayas. It’s magical, this landscape below us, rumpled and veined - like silver paper used to be when you unwrapped chocolate bars in childhood.
After a while, we begin to see what look like settlements below, but we can’t determine their use – we can make out lots of little square structures, perhaps enclosures for sheep or cattle, lots of them clustered together. From here they look like little desk staples fallen onto spilled cocoa powder. Occasionally there is the glint, from a corrugated iron roof, perhaps. We take some pictures through the cabin window, and resolve to check the maps when we get a moment, and try and work out what we’ve seen.
We pull down the shade, and make our way in almost total blindness back to our seats, dazzled by the sunshine on snow and the bright band of clouds in the distance to the north. There are still four hours to go...
The closing scene - in ballpoint pen.SOMEONE ONCE said that the single most boring thing you can hear in the world is the conversation that begins: ‘I had a very strange dream last night...’
If you believe that’s the case, navigate away now.
My anxiety dreams have been fairly constant companions over the years. I can’t quite explain why I have them – I’m usually a fairly well-organised and balanced guy, but once a month or so I kick myself awake with my heart hammering. In the dreams a clock is always ticking. A gig or travel deadline looms – there’s a performance, and I’ve booked the entire band, but forgotten to tell the drummer where to go. Or I’m in an airport, wandering round the gift shop and suddenly realise I have left my suitcase somewhere stupid. Often there’s a mobile phone, but when I try to dial numbers, I find that the keypad is scorched and melted or the numbers are so small on the dial that they’re unreadable.
Stuff like that.
I hit a weird low/high last week. In this sleep movie, I’d been booked to play in a variety concert in a school on the outskirts of Belfast. An old red-brick school with tiled floors and shiny green walls and proper railings. There were literally dozens of acts – the event was going on all afternoon and evening. My father had picked me up at a bus stop outside Queen’s University and dropped me off at the school. I wandered around backstage and said hello to some familiar faces. And then I realised with a cold chill that my guitar was still at the bus stop.
Panic immediately set in – My father was still on the road, I thought, and had no mobile phone. I started trying to book taxis to take me back downtown to get the guitar. But none of the taxi firms had cabs available. It was okay, said the stage manager – ‘you’re not on for hours yet’. So I borrowed someone’s car – and as I tried to drive through the city, I came across all kinds of obstacles: Suicidal drivers, band parades, roadworks, multiple traffic collisions involving buses, entire schools of children crossing the road. I was thwarted at every opportunity, and started to panic about missing the gig, so I eventually turned back and resolved to try later. It’s OK, said the stage manager, as six foot women walked around backstage wearing feather headdresses. You’re not on for hours yet.
It was starting to get dark. My palms are sweating even as I type this. Somehow I got a cab and went back to the bus stop. The street outside Queen’s was now silent and dark, and the bus stop was - bizarrely - locked up, and dark as a garden shed. I peered in through the windows but could see no sign of my guitar or case in the darkness. I called the bus company. No-one answered the phone. It felt like it was getting close to the time when I would have to go onstage. I made my way back to the school, where the acts were now thinning out.
A strange thing now happened. The conscious part of my brain told the dreaming part that there was no real cause for concern – ‘the guitar is absolutely safe,’ it seemed to say, ‘in the room right beside this bedroom where you are asleep and dreaming this. When you awake, it will be right there on a stand facing the door’. And the figure of myself in the dream seemed to calm down. I strolled around the backstage area and found myself outside in an open area between two buildings. My friend, the pianist John McCullough was there, grabbing a breath of fresh air and waiting for his next appearance – he was playing with several of the performers who were on the bill. I mentioned the weird anxiety of searching for the guitar and panicking, when in fact everything was safe. He smiled at me and nodded.
- Yeah, he said. We wondered when you were going to wise up about it.
I asked him about the driving up and down to the city, the taxicabs, the phone calls to the bus company, racing back and forth from the gig.
- How long have I been doing this? I asked.
He looked off into the distance and then straight at me with slight pity.
- It’s been about a year, mate.
A year? The show had been going on for a year – hundreds of performers and audiences, right round the clock – morning, noon and night - for a year, and I’d been up and down the road a thousand times looking for my guitar before I could go onstage. I was stunned.
I remember thanking John and walking away on my own, through one of the buildings and out the other side. I came out of a door onto a set of concrete steps that led down to a pavement and a road. I sat down. Behind me there was a single storey, long, long school building: Red brick, slate roof with old-fashioned twelve-panel windows, and in front a low wall and railings. The building stretched off into the distance for miles and miles to the left and right without end. And across the road, lit occasionally by streetlamps, the grass also stretched endlessly in either direction, rising up from the pavement to form a hill, and into deep darkness beyond. It was completely and utterly still, a dark, warm, quiet summer night. I was conscious that behind me, on the other side of the building, lay the city, the glow in the sky, and before me was the country – endless empty miles of grass, trees, earth, darkness. And not a soul to be seen or heard in all of it.
The vision was so strong that I scribbled and scratched for days to catch it on paper and give some sense of it – and the above drawing was the closest I got.
Benbane Head from Dunseverick Old Harbour by Maurice Orr - 5' x 7', Fishleather, oils on canvasARTISTS ARE always supposed to stretch themselves in some way, they say – well I managed to pull myself into some strange shapes this year, by composing and recording a soundscape for an art exhibition by Maurice Orr.
‘The Screaming Silence of the Wind’ is on show at the Braid Arts Centre in Ballymena until October 29th, and will be on tour to a series of venues after that, including a visit to Flowerfield Arts Centre in Portstewart in 2012. Wherever it goes, the slightly strange 20-minute suite I put together will go with it.
I first met Maurice when he brought a series of Australian landscapes to Flowerfield Arts Centre a couple of years ago. He was very taken with the idea of having some appropriate sounds in the gallery to accompany the images. Maurice is a bundle of energy, a passionate and driven man who just twinkles non-stop. He’s an inspiration and a truly gifted artist – and I find it almost impossible to say no to people like that.
In a swift but probably illegal move, I downloaded a couple of MP3s – a sound effect of some cicadas and a didgeridoo track, mixed them together and created a 45 minute loop that repeated all day in the gallery. It was pretty effective. Looking at the blazing colours of the pictures with the noise in the background made you feel strangely sunstruck and thirsty.
Maurice at the lectern on opening nightAnyway, fast forward a couple of years and Maurice becomes the first artist in Northern Ireland to be commissioned by the Unlimited project for the Cultural Olympiad. Unlimited celebrates disability arts, culture and sport.
During a four week residency painting the extraordinary landscapes of Iceland, Maurice was struck by two things – firstly the similarity of the Icelandic coastline to that of his beloved Causeway Coast. The second realisation came after visiting a fish processing factory.
One of the by-products of the process are the fish leathers – the dried and cured skins of the fish, which feel soft and leathery and wonderful and can be died and used for clothing, shoes etc. Maurice began painting the skins and laying them on the canvases alongside his traditional brushwork.
The results are stunning – huge canvases that work as major works of art, but which are designed to be stroked and touched. At the opening night last Thursday, blind visitors ran their hands over the canvases and listened to the accompanying audio descriptions. In the background, the sounds I recorded to accompany the images played on a loop.
The fishleathers on display at the opening of the exhibition‘A blind lady once asked if she could touch my paintings,’ says Maurice in his introduction to the work. ‘Watching her explore my paintings with her fingers was a significant moment of realisation for me. Perhaps I should involve other senses, not just sight, to evoke atmosphere and convey ideas. I looked for ways to make my music more sensory, through the use of music and touch.’
Maurice and I met several times and he played me samples of music that he thought was appropriate. It was a huge challenge for me – the biggest hurdle I had to get over was that all the structures had to vanish. All of my songwriting rules had to go out the window. So I found myself listening to what sounded like droning, unpredictable atmospheres and thinking... It needs a melody. And some percussion... And a chorus...
But less is more. The results are very sparse – the sound of a howling wind with one lone piano playing some ascending repeated notes in search of a home chord. Some shimmering minor-key rumble with distant drums appearing at random. Maurice is thrilled with it, and so far everyone who has walked round the exhibition has been very complimentary.
I love these - the quick oil sketches of landscapes that Maurice completed in all kinds of weather in the wilds of Iceland.It’s been a wonderful experience – I hope it won’t be my last. Many thanks to Maurice for asking me, and for the support of Ballymena Borough Council and the Mid Antrim Museum for making it happen. At the minute the only place you can hear the music is at the exhibition. If I decide to make it available or downloadable, I’ll let you know.
This exhibition is part of Ballymena Borough Council’s programme of events to celebrate the London 2012 Olympic and Paralympic games. Braille, large print, and audio MP3 players are available for this exhibition. Visit the Braid website for further details: http://www.thebraid.com/exhibitions.aspx
IT’S HARD not to get all your fuses blown by Apocalypse Now, no matter how many times you may have seen it.
Before the lights go down at the QFT, I take a quick look around me and see an audience that is almost totally male, of a certain age. It’s picked up a reputation over the years for being such a boy movie, after all. Some of them are here in packs, groups of four or five buddies taking their seats and settling themselves in again for the long ride up the river. You can sense their lips moving in time with the famous lines: ‘some day this war’s gonna end...’. The guy beside me chuckles low and soft under his breath in recognition as Willard intones the opening words: ‘Saigon... shit’.
Each time you see Apocalypse Now, you feel immersed in that world of heat and madness and chaos again. However, this was my first time to see the movie on the big screen – and it surprised me what a ravishing thing it is. The colours and the lighting are nothing short of superb. There are several moments when everything is seen through coloured mist, or in dappled light through leaves, that are breathtaking when seen on a big screen. The light on the water as the boat sails upriver into the night. The central performances remain impressive and the setpieces are still as spectacular today as they must have been when this first hit the screens in the early 70s.
The action scenes involving Robert Duvall’s airborne cavalry, remain some of the best sequences from any war film I’ve ever seen: Random violence and madness on an enormous scale, with ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ as the soundtrack.
There are many more things you notice though, when you get the chance to pay attention, in a silent theatre, away from the distractions of the phone and the family - and the million other things that get between you and your concentration when you watch a movie at home.
I notice most of all the back-to-front construction of the film. It offers up its biggest setpieces in the first half – the first exposure to Robert Duvall’s unit, and their subsequent attack on the beach, and then the dazzling concert with the Playboy bunnies, way up river.
All of those are given away in the first half. Now, the years spent watching a million movies tells us that blockbuster films always build and build and build, towards an enormous climax. Instead, Apocalypse Now gets quieter and more philosophical, deeper into the jungle, into personal madness - and it becomes a very intimate, one-on-one meeting of minds between Willard and Kurtz. Note how the methods of killing become more antique as the movie progresses – we open with napalm (ordered in by radio like a pizza delivery), rockets, bullets and grenades - and we progress through to arrows, spears and finally knives.
As a piece of art, reducing the scale as the narrative progresses is a very interesting approach. As a movie, it’s an enormous gamble to take with the flimsy attention spans of a modern audience. These days, you can be sure that no major studio would allow the film to go out in this state. There would have been calls for a mammoth showdown, an apocalyptic bullet festival with a ten-minute moral tacked on at the end before the credits.
Instead, Kurtz is slain in a shadowy, obscured way – and he puts up no struggle. The film turns convention on its head the further along it goes. We move from daylight into darkness, from outer chaos to inner madness, from slash-and-burn warfare to close-quarters one-on-one conflict, from all-out war to an intimate human sacrifice, from The Rolling Stones to TS Eliot. The characters move out of the sunshine and into shadows, from the city and civilisation into the jungle, from the delta into the inner landscape. They put camouflage paint on their faces and lose touch with their identities. The last scene is Willard walking calmly through the silent, massed warriors, before getting back onto the boat and slipping away into the darkness. The face of a stone idol watches as the screen goes to black and the titles come up.
Towards the end of the film, there’s a scene with Kurtz reading from TS Eliot, and a brief reference to his famous line – ‘this is the way the world ends... not with a bang but a whimper.’
Having seen the film again for the first time in years, the line felt more and more appropriate: a sense of intimate, shadowy ends to extraordinary and dazzling stories.
LAST NIGHT'S car journey home was a welcome reminder to me of the importance of Paul Simon in my life.
In particular, it was a reminder of the importance of There Goes Rhymin’ Simon, his 1973 solo album. I was listening to the just-released, beautifully remastered and expanded version of the album, which has come out on mid-price this week.
I also purchased the brand new Paul Simon album, So Beautiful or So What, which is a typically sunshiny, African-influenced, percussion-drenched affair. But I’m afraid like so many of Simon’s recent releases, it is refusing to leap out of the speakers and grab me.
There Goes... is a different proposition entirely, though – from the moment those crisply-remastered drums rat-a-tat at the start of ‘Kodachrome’, I’m hooked again. It takes me back to the late 80s, when I bought a scratchy vinyl version of this album in a charity shop and it became one of my major favourites.
By that stage I already had Graceland, and like everyone else of my generation, I’d grown up listening to Simon & Garfunkel. And I was under no illusions about the main’s writing abilities. Even in my teens, beginning to take literature seriously, I knew that ‘America’ and ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ were as worthy of the word ‘masterpiece’ as any epic poem or Shakespeare play.
In a charity shop in Antrim I found Simon’s eponymous 1971 solo album and There Goes Rhymin’ Simon and I bought them out of curiosity, and (I suppose) to fill in the gaps between Bridge Over Troubled Water and Graceland (I always one of those nerdy ‘fill the gaps in the collection’ kids).
The thing about There Goes... is it’s such an uncool invitation to the listener – it has that AWFUL title, the kind of album title some granddad record company executive would have dreamed up. It also has what I believe is the worst cover of any Paul Simon album – that high-school-art-project style collage which supposedly represents each of the songs pictorially.... Ugh.
But there are so many glorious songs on there – ‘American Tune’, which will remain one of Simon’s greatest achievements, ‘Take Me The Mardi Gras’, ‘Something So Right’, one of the best love songs ever written, ‘Loves Me Like a Rock’... But also glorious little gospel nuggets like ‘Tenderness’. It’s wonderful. Lyrically, I believe Simon is treading water a little bit here. On the next album, Still Crazy After All These Years (also out on midprice this week), he would start stretching his muscles, reaching for images that would bite deeper. And that incisive, smart writing would continue through One Trick Pony and Hearts and Bones and beyond. Here, ‘American Tune’ remains the high point for imagery – ‘the Statue of Liberty sailing away to sea...’
But I hadn’t realised how much Simon has seeped under my skin over the years. As I was listening to ‘Was A Sunny Day’, I realised how much I’ve always coveted his images and his use of language: ‘not a negative word was heard, from the people passing by’, he sings. And I realise one of my recent songs contains the line ‘people stand aside as you go walking by, negativity just dies upon their tongues’. The shared sense of a street scene, people moving, sunshine and positivity. Of course, there’s no way you’re conscious of these things happening, but it’s interesting that it enters you in 1987 and stays there without you knowing.
And the whole thing is soaked in the soulful, groovy atmosphere of Muscle Shoals, Alabama, where much of it was recorded with the famous Muscle Shoals house band – pianist Barry Beckett, bassist David Hood and Roger Hawkins on drums. If you take Simon’s vocal off ‘Take Me To the Mardi Gras’, it could easily serve as a Staple Singers track. The drum sound and the arrangement and vibe are deeply familiar.
(If you want to know the value of remastering, listen to the sound the Dixie Hummingbirds make in the closing moments of ‘’Tenderness’ and tell me that’s not audio heaven – to be closely followed by the ravishing sound of the acoustic guitar which opens ‘Take Me To the Mardi Gras’... My ears can die happy now)
A couple of years ago, I had the honour of visiting the building where this album was recorded. With a Sunday to kill in Nashville before we caught our flights, Ralph McLean and I had been invited on a road trip down to Alabama by David Briggs of ASCAP. Briggs is a Muscle Shoals native, who has spent a lot of time in these studios over the years.
The site of the former Fame Studios, 3614 Jackson Hghway is the same space where the Stones recorded ‘Brown Sugar’ and ‘Wild Horses’ and much of the Sticky Fingers album. It’s a long, fairly featureless shoebox of a building that stands behind a patch of grass at the side of the highway. The frontage is covered in stone cladding that gives it a kind of prehistoric, snakeskin look. Across the road is an old, old cemetery. They say that if you go right down in the back of the building, you can see Mick and Keith’s names where they wrote them on the wall.
The building is now privately owned, and on the Sunday we visited, the drapes were closed and no-one was around. So we stood where they stood, we posed for pictures in front of the building and we got back in the car and drove off, our Muscle Shoals pilgrimage ending as the light started to fade.
About half an hour later, with my eyelids drooping in the backseat as we made our way back to Nashville, we passed a highway sign. I took out my phone and texted Andrea, back home in Ireland: ‘I just crossed the Alabama-Tennessee state line,’ I said.
1977. I WAS twelve years old. A strange piece of graffiti appeared in my neighbourhood. On the gable wall of my Auntie Pauline’s house, someone with an aerosol can spraypainted the words ‘Never Mind the Bollocks’ across the bricks.
(for those of you who missed this period of rock’n’roll history, the Sex Pistols' troubled one and only 'proper' album bore the title ‘Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s The Sex Pistols’)
In late 70s Harpur’s Hill, Coleraine, there was no shortage of graffiti, you should understand, but this was something of a departure. It didn’t mention football teams, or seem to include any sectarian ambition at all. I didn’t know it at the time, but it spoke for a generation for whom ‘ambition’ was a meaningless word.
I haven’t been round that way in years – maybe it’s still there…
I never got the Punk thing when it was happening. I was too young, and those guys scared the living daylights out of me. I was still listening to The Carpenters or Leo Sayer at that point, I imagine, or my parents’ collection – Simon & Garfunkel or Glen Campbell. A few years later, I plucked up the courage and bought the Sex Pistols’ single ‘Silly Thing’, when McLaren put out the barrel-scraping ‘The Great Rock’n’Roll Swindle’ album. By that stage of course, it wasn’t really the Sex Pistols any more. Johnny Rotten had left the band and Sid Vicious was beginning the slow motion car crash of his last year.
Punk was a badge of cool at my school, Coleraine Inst. By then, of course, it was all over and it was 'safe' to be a punk, like professing to have worked for the Resistance after the war was over. It was an all-boys grammar school where the sons of middle class businessmen flirted with the outward signals and codes of a gang that would have pissed in their flower beds and shot their Labradors, given the chance. Looking back it was kind of absurd to see these sons of car showroom owners, captains of the First XV, sporting 'Anarchy' badges. But at some point, I suppose, we all have to stand apart from the generation that went before.
By the time it caught my interest, it was already over, and everything was being called 'New Wave' – Talking Heads, The Jam and so on.
It’s been utterly fascinating to read England’s Dreaming, Jon Savage’s story of the era – a well-written and pretty exhaustive account of the punk movement, as seen through the shape-shifting role-play games of Malcolm McLaren, Vivienne Westwood and the Sex Pistols. The book does for 70s Britain what Iain McDonald’s remarkable Revolution in the Head did for The Beatles and the 60s – it’s an unputdownable social history of the time, and shines a light on a dark little corner of contemporary culture – an alleyway where you could quickly get your head kicked in if you weren’t careful.
One of the early pieces of artwork associated with the Pistols was Jamie Reid's publicity image for ‘Pretty Vacant’ – two buses, with destinations clearly visible above the windscreens: ‘Boredom’ and ‘Nowhere’. Not a good time to be growing up – lengthening dole queues, failing social services, the sense of pride that followed the Second World War on the wane and nasty public housing.
As for the Pistols, the early explosion of energy and pent-up bored aggression quickly hit the brick wall of the establishment, where record sales figures were deliberately manipulated to prevent 'God Save the Queen' going to Number One. And all of the councils across the country closed ranks, preventing the band from playing anywhere. Meanwhile, the internal tensions of the band threatened to pull it apart at any second, and their relationship with McLaren was an awkward dance of domination, threats and instability.
This is a wonderful book, but it often makes for uncomfortable reading. Towards the end, I felt like an onlooker at the exhausted, blood-soaked end of a bullfight, as Sid Vicious came apart in public, Rotten sued McLaren and together they let everything freewheel off a cliff. And everyone stood back and watched as the world they had created smashed and smithereened into pop history.
The movement they had created spun off within two years into something else entirely – s scene that had to be based on something with a more long-term future. And THERE was the ticking time bomb that lay at the heart of the Punk aesthetic. The whole point of it was that it couldn’t, by its own definition, last. It was all based on short punches to the solar plexus. And to succeed meant that you had actually blown it. This was the dilemma that The Clash had to face up to. The fact that they actually had an interest in selling records, and making a long term career out of it, meant they had somehow sold out on the early promise – the conviction that punks were losers, going nowhere, and they therefore spoke on behalf of all the losers, the nowhere kids who had been rendered voiceless by their own society – fit for the dole queues and not much else.
Here’s Savage's key paragraph on the subject:
'However, contained in this package were problems which would take years to work out. How could you be tough and a loser at the same time? How could you play with right-wing imagery and not get trapped by it? How could you take a script from Rimbaud and avoid the mythological trajectory of that poet's life? Built into punk from the beginning was not only a tendency to self-destruction, but a short shelf-life. Despite what many of the groups professed, the movement enshrined failure: To succeed in conventional terms meant you had failed on your terms; to fail meant that you had succeeded.'
Note: The fact that McLaren died last year has rendered this edition of Savage’s key text already out of date, so you can pick this up in HMV for less than a fiver. It’s hefty, but if you have even the slightest interest in this rich little slice of pop history, I urge you to make the investment and stick with it – it’s a must-read.
(This completes the series of blog posts about the new songs... thanks a million if you've been reading for the last ten days. I hope you've enjoyed the journey)
ON THE JANUARY trip to Nashville, I was still recovering from a bad flu and chest infection that had laid me low at the start of the year. The city was frozen, with snow along the highways and no-one coming out to the gigs. The trip was a mixed blessing – some of the shows were uplifting experiences and others felt like a waste of time and energy. And sometimes you couldn’t tell one from the other until you were on the way home.
I had tried to line up some meetings. One e-mail contact who had promised a meeting stopped answering my e-mails as soon as I landed on US soil. Another hot contact turned into an e-mail that bounced back. Two others didn’t answer their phones. All entirely typical Nashville. I was visiting one of the remaining leads, a contact, at his office in the city – and we began talking about the music industry.
- How many songs have you written? He asked me after a while.
I considered for a second. About... 49, 50? I said.
He nodded and thought for a while.
- How many of them, if you were honest, do you think are suitable to pitch to publishers, labels, recording artists and agents in Nashville?
(How do you answer that question? The songwriter is the LAST person to ask – the most finely crafted thing you think you’ve ever written could lie DEAD ON ITS BACK as far as the audience or the industry is concerned. It’s almost impossible to tell)
I wracked my brain. I thought about songs that I thought had potential. I tried to imagine Garth Brooks singing them. I imagined Faith Hill singing them. I imagined Kenny bloody Rodgers singing them.
- I’m not sure, I said honestly, after a pause. About nine or ten?
- Hmmm... How long are you here for?
- Until Tuesday.
- Tuesday, huh? He said, and looked out the window.
- You see, he said, starting to explain gently, the guy who brought you here today in a CAB has 25 songs ready to pitch to the industry, and he’s here banging on my door 365 days of the year. You’ve got NINE... and you leave on Tuesday.
I know he was only trying to give it to me straight, in case I had some rose-tinted version of the Nashville fable in my head. But the enormity of the task suddenly became clear. You’re a songwriter, and everyone says you should take your songs to Nashville. But of course, the blindingly obvious thing that occurs to you every now and then is... They’ve already got a million more songs in Nashville than they know what to do with. And every hopeful kid who gets off the bus brings another couple of dozen. It sometimes feels like trying to knock down the Empire State Building by throwing rocks at it. I’m not saying songwriters shouldn't go to Nashville. But they should all be aware when they arrive of how many other people got here the day before they did.
I remember going back to the hotel and looking out the window at the snow on Broadway, and this song kind of unfolded itself in about an hour. I felt very dispirited, and I missed my baby and I was convinced that the best thing I could do was just go on home. Because whatever I was going to do would start with me. It would start in my own hands and heart, so I should just go home and do good work.
Within a week of coming home, I was in the studio making a start on the album. And this was the first track we recorded.
The musicians on this track are:
Anthony Toner – vocals, guitars
Clive Culbertson – bass
John McCullough – piano
Paul Hamilton - drums
NASHVILLE SNOWFLAKE - lyrics
From my hotel room in Nashville,
I see it starting to snow:
both sides of the Cumberland River and Music City Row.
Falling on the sleepless and the homeless,
on the geniuses and fools,
on the parking lots and the backyard swimming pools.
And it makes me miss my baby,
a little bigger than the day before.
And whatever was important between us, is just a little more.
CHORUS:
Every song is a snowflake that wants to live forever.
WHEN I WAS growing up on the Harpur’s Hill housing estate in Coleraine, my parents had a friend who lived nearby who would call round every now and then, sitting in the kitchen smoking with my mother and drinking tea. I don’t know how she became a friend. Maybe one of those conversations at the local shop that turns into a companion, I don’t know. I must ask my mother.
In that way that families do, we started referring to her as my ‘aunt’, although there was no family connection at all. She was a lonely, tragic kind of figure who had already lost her husband, and who herself died way too young. I have a shapeless memory of her as a figure in a fur coat who handed me 50p coins every now and then and at Christmas, bought me inappropriate gifts for a 12 year old. A Jim Reeves record. Six pairs of socks. A joke book.
The reference to The Great Escape was the memory that the movie - starring Steve McQueen - was on Ulster Television every three or four weeks, usually on a Sunday afternoon. And like all boys of my generation, I never tired of watching it. I must have seen it eleven or twelve times and I'd still watch it if was on telly tonight. But when visitors called on a Sunday, you always had to turn the TV off - and if The Great Escape was on, that was just... awful. To sit on the sofa sipping tea and answer questions from older relatives about how you were getting on at school, when you KNEW that right at this moment, McQueen would be roaring across the fields on that motorcycle, leaping towards that barbed wire fence and freedom.
Harpur’s Hill wasn’t such a bad place to grow up – there’s a picture here of me with my cousin Hazel, standing outside the house on Hawthorn Place. I’m wearing my Stoke City Football Club top. That’s a whole OTHER story.
When my mother and father and I first came to the estate, moving over from Killowen on the other side of the river, we lived in the maisonettes near the shops, and they could be grim. I was very young, and have murky, vague memories of dark alleyways and being surrounded by railings and concrete.
Then we moved to ‘the Wimpy’. So-called because it was built by Wimpy Construction, it was an extension to the main Harpur’s Hill estate that consisted of endless ribbon streets and back squares, all named (apparently) after freighters that used to come into the harbour at Coleraine. We were on Hawthorn Place, but there was also Silverthorn, Blackthorn, Quickthorn, Redthorn... And each of them had multiple personalities: Blackthorn Place, Blackthorn Close, Blackthorn Avenue, Blackthorn Terrace... it was a nightmare trying to find anyone. The houses were breezeblock and pebbledash, constructed without central heating, as I remember.
The layout of the estate threw up strange patches of greenery – triangles, trapezoids, long rectangles - and we would bravely throw down our jumpers and try to imagine them as football pitches. Quite often there would be a telephone exchange cabinet in the middle, or a lamppost to be negotiated as you lined up a free kick.
I grew up in front of the TV, lying on my stomach doing my homework while toasting my feet at a three-bar electric fire, one eye on my sums and the other on Blue Peter or Scooby Doo. I was an only child, and I had a big bedroom at the back of the house that overlooked the back square, so I could see what all the kids of the neighbourhood were up to.
(I could also occasionally see an attractive neighbour who brazenly sunbathed topless on occasions. That’s something I haven’t seen from the back window of ANY house I’ve lived in since)
I’m digressing. My ‘aunt’ passed away suddenly one afternoon while I was out at school. The whole drama was over and gone by the time I came home. I remember feeling a fleeting sadness. I think that in dealing with death, teenagers cross a line around the age of sixteen. Before that, they don’t quite have enough connection with family friends and relatives for death to really sting. They shrug, and they stand at funerals tugging at their collars. After sixteen, they’re tasting adulthood - and death is like the ultimate opportunity to gush tears and get all morbid and philosophical. Some of them write poems and turn into Sylvia Plath or Edgar Allen Poe.
I don’t remember it making a big impression on me, but the narrative and the set design must have stayed with me over the years. Once I started writing this song, it gushed like an oil well. It began life, believe it or not, as a slow waltz called ‘Yesterday’s Whiskey’. But it quickly became this Young Dylan pastiche. When we recorded, I battered hard on a tambourine for four and a half minutes and my arms ached for days afterwards.
On the day that my ‘aunt’ passed away, a bunch of concerned neighbours kicked in the front door and found her literally dying on the kitchen floor. This would have been 1977 or 1978, in the pre-mobile days, when only a couple of people per street would have a telephone connected in the house - so you used the phone box up the street. The one at the top of her street had been so badly vandalised that it was unusable. My dad remembers running down the street to the next available phone box, knowing that precious seconds were ticking away. By the time ambulance arrived, it was too late.
I drove up around the estate a few days ago, but I couldn’t find for sure the street where she lived. Once I left the immediate streets where I lived, my grasp on the geography of the place was slippery. I could find our old house, and the back square where I played. I could even remember most of the names of the people who lived in the houses backing on to the square. I could look up and see my old bedroom window. I could find the triangular, sloping patch of grass where we played football. All of it seemed a lifetime ago. Which of course, it was – three and a half decades. It’s funny how much you hold onto when you think you’ve left it behind, all those years ago.
The musicians on this track are:
Anthony Toner – vocals, guitars, percussion
Clive Culbertson – bass
John McCullough – electric piano
Paul Hamilton - drums
THE GREAT ESCAPE - lyrics
Well she came from good people, but no-one was with her,
and she moved to our estate to get her act together,
and if our lives are a novel, hers was torn at the edges,
sitting crying in the kitchen, smoking Benson & Hedges.
They were painting up the kerbstones for the 12th of July
My mother said I couldn’t join in, but she wouldn’t say why.
She wore this fur coat that always smelled kind of funny
And every time she came around she would always give me money
And at Christmas she’d get blue and let the film unwind
Sad tears and bad years and Blue Nun wine
We called her my aunt but we never were related
She gave me a Jim Reeves record, I don’t think I ever played it
(Welcome to my world)
Did we still win the war?
I was sleeping on the sofa when they called the final score.
And I’ll miss ‘The Great Escape’ for this.
Somebody blow me a goodbye kiss.
She’d lost her husband Willie to a heart attack,
and she was told she’d go the same way if she didn’t cut back.
Everything in her house was made of plastic and nylon-
when you looked out her back window there was a fence and then a pylon.
Sometimes the house was spotless, other times it fell apart:
Tobacco stained ceilings and the Sacred Heart
(Hail Mary full of grace)
Did we still win the war?
I was sleeping on the sofa when they called the final score
And I’ll miss ‘The Great Escape’ for this.
Somebody blow me a goodbye kiss.
I was just a little kid but I knew it couldn’t go on,
I came home from school one afternoon and she was already gone.
The neighbours came running and they kicked down the door,
and they found her lying gasping on the kitchen floor.
When your heart’s that big and broken, it can’t always be trusted.
My father ran to call for help, but the phone box was busted.
(Is anybody there?)
Did we still win the war?
I was sleeping on the sofa when they called the final score
ANDREA AND I moved to Belfast in September of 2009, and we rented a tiny little house on Hillfoot Street in Strandtown in the East of the city.
By the time we crammed our furniture and books and my guitars in, we found we had to go through doors sideways. We shared a spare room as a study, and when we worked together we would sit almost literally back to back.
I’d never lived in a city before, and I became intoxicated with it in the first few months. The limitless possibilities of where to go, things to see, the buzz of the traffic and the happenings.
It was an Indian summer, and we seemed to be spinning through the city on our bikes all the time, rattling down Mersey Street and under the Harland and Wolff cranes, making new friends and trying new places for coffee, for drinks.
It was the first time we’d made a new home together, and it felt like our first big shared adventure. With Andrea it always feels like that. It felt like we had taken ownership of the place – hence the line: ‘We’ll walk this city hand in hand, from Strandtown to the Holy Land, and all the restaurant windows shine down on our plans’.
Musicians:
Anthony Toner, acoustic and electric guitars, harmonica
WHEN MY DAUGHTER Sian was in her teens, she went through a phase of going out to Kelly’s night club in Portrush on the weekend. It was a huge club complex with about eight bars and venues, and it attracted vast crowds every Saturday night.
The worst thing about going to Kelly’s was always the struggle of trying to get home – by the time she was leaving, there were no cabs to be had. I used to beg her to just call me, even if it was three in the morning. I would rather have got out of bed and driven over to pick her up than left her to hitch a ride home with some random stranger. But occasionally she would wander in at dawn, soaked to the skin, having walked four miles home in the rain in her Converse sneakers.
And the lyrics are all about that north coast nightclub scene, and the great little rock bands that blossomed up there in the early 90s. I got the phrase ‘it’s hard to believe that they’re still unsigned’ in my head and it wouldn’t go away. It’s ironic – there are fewer places to play than ever up there these days - and even less chance of anyone getting signed.
The musicians:
Anthony Toner – vocals, guitars, percussion
Clive Culbertson – bass
John McCullough – piano
Paul Hamilton – drums
Linley Hamilton – trumpet
David Howell - saxophone
STILL UNSIGNED - lyrics
It’s too cold to be out in her Converse sneakers.
And her head aches from standing too close to the speakers.
Now she’s out in front of the club with the oblivion seekers,
and the taxis are passing her by.
She got a mark on your neck from a boy who kissed her,
and then he said she went to school with his older sister.
He sort of offered her a lift, but he must have missed her,
and now it feels like it’s starting to rain.
CHORUS:
Oh the band are so cool, but they’re still so young.
They make everything sound like they’re having fun.
And when they sing, you can taste the water turning to wine -
It’s hard to believe that they’re still unsigned,
it’s hard to believe it but they’re still unsigned.
She should’ve taken that ride with somebody’s dad,
with the radio playing something warm and sad,
and he’d be teasing her about how many drinks she had,
and trying to look down her dress on the sly.
CHORUS
It’s just two guitars and bass and drums.
They keep rocking all night ’til the kingdom comes.
And when they bite down hard, they could really hurt someone.
When the parade had passed, the crowds broke up quickly and we pulled our suitcases through the narrow streets to our hotel, close to the broad, pale open space of the Plaza de Merced. The hotel is an oasis of cool, tiled calm, a maze of corridors and shuttered windows.
