Bristol calling

 

This time tomorrow I should be on my way to Bristol. It’ll be just a few days shy of ten years since I visited the city for the first time; I wonder how much has changed...

I went there then at the invitation of a friend, L, whom I had met at Chelsea School of Art where we were doing a part-time illustration course, and she used to travel down from Bath once a week just for the teaching sessions.  This would seem to most people to be quite a big undertaking anyway but I have no end of admiration for L for doing it because she also had some significant physical impairments, one of which affected her ability to simply breathe.   Yet she was one of the most driven, feisty and active people I have ever known, determined to squeeze the absolute most out of life even though at times it really must have been a struggle, plus she was very much a fighter for justice and equal rights.  Sadly L is no longer with us but I’ll think of her while I’m in Bristol again this week as it was thanks to her offer to take me to her MA Fine Art Graduation Show at UWE that I went in 2015.

For much of the time, though, I explored on my own.  I wandered, unworried about time or distance, got lost near Clifton, found my way again, was ambushed by some film-makers outside the Arnolfini (where I was persuaded to try out a prototype VR headset to walk right through the middle of Bosch’s ‘Garden of Earthly Delights’),  fell in love with a 50-year old giant lobster called Patrick at the Aquarium, met a cat on a wild hill near the Avon Gorge, and time-travelled in the Red Lodge Museum, amongst other delightful activities during my stay.  

Now a whole decade later I'll be there once more, and on this occasion I’m so pleased to be able to unite with one of the loveliest groups of people you could wish to spend time with: my fellow bloggers!  It’ll be something of a whirlwind trip but what a treat to be among such good folk, a couple of whom I’ve not met before.  Something tells me there’ll be smiles, anecdotes and probably drink aplenty, and that being back in Bristol may well feel like visiting an old friend too.

See you soon!

A sweet spot of sixties psych

I caught myself doing a bit of reflecting recently.  Not always a good thing, I know, but what it led me to was thinking about those little sweet spots in life.  I do like that phrase, 'sweet spot', and found the perfect definition here: "An optimum point or combination of factors and qualities".

And what that led me to was music, and how there had been one very specific sweet spot in several decades of my personal musical meanderings. An optimum point in the 1980s when I first discovered and became immersed in 1960s psychedelia (and similar pop, beat and garage obscurities) which came into my consciousness via some independent label reissues, compilation albums, as well as boxes of musty vinyl at record fairs in London hotels and the Record & Tape Exchange in Notting Hill Gate and Camden.  Oh, what aural pleasures there were to explore!

Much of these underground treasures were like nothing I'd really heard before.  All those various elements of backwards, or fuzzy, or jangly and melodic, guitars, of piquant melodies and swirling (is there any other type?) Hammond organs, of trippy lyrics and richly enunciated vocals.  Plus there were the soulful numbers infused with mod rhythms, and dreamy Alice-In-Wonderland experimental freakouts...  All I could do was to imagine what it would have been like to be 17 or 18 in 1967, hanging out at the UFO Club or buying my clothes from Biba.  And imagining it was fine - moulded to suit my will and unbound by reality, one foot in my tangible world and the other in the curated version of a past I could inhabit freely through music and associated ephemera and imagery.  

I think the thing was, nothing could come along and spoil it.  The bands and their records had been and gone; it was finite.  Punk had been my gateway musical genre (and a very important one), but living through it in real time also meant being there for its demise, being there should it get 'spoiled' - which, in many ways, it did.  From the characters who became parodies of themselves and the unsavoury transition into Oi, to the postcard studded-belt, giant Mohawked tourist attractions, it evolved alongside my contemporaries and me.  But by delving back into moments in music which had already passed nearly two decades earlier, there was no future unwritten.

It was a bit of a sweet spot in life for me too, really.  That stage when you have some responsibilities - paying the rent, etc. - but  not too many it seemed, and they were a fair trade-off for youthful independence.  My '60s psych obsession fuelled my creativity and I adored making my own fanzine, all hand-drawn and hand-written, an uninhibited expression from the heart.  Swapping some meticulously compiled tapes with a fantastic friend introduced me to other similar bands and musical side-trips, opening it up even more. I also inherited my mum's lovely 1969 Triumph Herald, one of those cars which epitomised the era, and found an original paisley top or two in the racks of pokey second hand and charity shops. 

Being only 20-something in the analogue world to which I'm still best suited may have a lot to do with it too, but this isn't meant to be nostalgic - just a celebration of one of those sweet spots, and some music to dream to.  Here are three favourites, then and now....

Ruperts People: Dream On My Mind

The End: Cardboard Watch

The Factory: Try A Little Sunshine

Do you have a musical sweet spot too?

Tubthumping fun

Chumbawamba got it right, didn't they?

It was so good, even better than I'd expected, to see them again on the recent BBC Four repeats of  'Top of the Pops' episodes from August 1997.  'Tubthumping' is one of those songs that's so familiar it's easy to take it completely for granted.  But Chumbawamba's two performances on the show were pure joy.  There's the one where they're all clad in black and another where the line-up are dressed immaculately in distinctly non-anarcho white, apart from vocalist Dunstan in a mad brick wall pattern suit.  In both, the studio's teenybop audience go wild.

There's loads I could write about Chumbawamba but others can do it so much better and I don't feel I could do the band justice, so I'm here just because I'm bursting with a newly energised appreciation of them all these years later.  And because something in my head is going: this is what anarcho-punk should have been like all along.

I suggest this only from my own perspective and experience, but I think it'd be fair to say that there are some things that Mr SDS regrets about his time in another anarcho-punk band, perhaps the main thing being the lack of...  fun.  The same goes for me, being immersed in it at the time too.  I still think it's great that the bands (and followers) were fired up and angry enough to express and promote beliefs, support countless under-represented people and causes, etc. and what better time than in your youth when you have all that energy and the genuine conviction that you can change things through music, through coming together, spreading the word and so on.  But I don't think there was enough light to help offset the justified yet depressing darkness in this particular genre.  Black clothes became - rather ironically - a soulless uniform, after-gig conversations often continued political debates with little humour; there wasn't much frivolous relief.  And that's not to mention a degree of the "I'm more earnest than you" self-righteousness and judgement within its ranks too.

There's also the glaringly obvious fact that most bands by their very nature were only appealing to a few, a minority who wanted their music loud, shouty, angry, dischordant or whatever.  Music that reflected the seriousness of the lyrics, music that your parents wouldn't like.  Thus there was a continual loop of preaching to the converted, and everything staying within its own parameters: underground.

But then you get Chumbawamba.  Upbeat, musically diverse and genuinely talented and melodic - they actually smile, they dance, they make you... feel good?  Is that ok, to feel good?  It doesn't mean you don't still care.  For a while in anarcho's most intense period during the '80s, it seemed it just wasn't ok to enjoy yourself.   Whilst maybe I shouldn't compare Chumbawamba's success in 'Tubthumping' with the anarcho scene from around 15 years earlier, I wonder if it still serves as a valid example of what could have been?  

Chumbawamba had been a big part of the '80s anarcho punk movement, playing numerous benefit gigs and writing songs about the miners' strikes, homophobia, etc. but it was their signing to EMI in 1997 which perhaps caused the most controversy.  Did they 'sell out" or did they do exactly the right thing by accepting an offer that would propel them into the charts and give them access to hundreds of thousands more listeners and potential converts around the world?  They argued that, in a capitalist environment, almost every record company operated around capitalist principles - even smaller ones were motivated by profit - so the move to a major label brought them much bigger exposure plus the funds to do more.  Soon after,  'Tubthumping', with its singalong chorus (and prolific use of the word 'pissing'!) hit the charts, and I remember thinking at the time, "whaaat?  An anarcho punk band on the BBC?!"   

Watching them again on the repeats though, I'm so charmed and impressed by everything about them.  They really look like they're having...  fun. Smiles!  Dancing!  Loudhailers!  A trumpet break! 

I think guitarist Boff Whalley puts it really well in an interview with the Guardian from 2016.   "To 99% of people we just had that one song, but there is always the 1% who listen to the rest of the album and like it enough to listen to more.  I still really like 'Tubthumping'.  I don't feel embarrassed by it at all.  I know some bands who hate their songs being popular, but I just think, 'Get off your high horse!'  The whole point of art is to have an audience."

Vocalist Dunstan Bruce adds, "I never gave a shit about people saying we had sold out.  It was much more important to be part of popular culture as a political band.  We gave a lot of the money away and it was a real opportunity to do something positive."

So positive that it unexpectedly made my day to see these two performances again...  I hope it does yours.

Big bird

I hear it before I see it.

A whistling call, slightly eerie.

Tilt my head upwards…

Oh wow.  Flying low, wheeling, above the gardens.  In the cloudless sky its plumage is unmistakeable – the barred underwing feathers, the forked russet tail, the white head.  And then it soars right over me, that whistling call on repeat, and angles its head down to survey.  Does it see me?  I think it does.  I’m disproportionately (and, I know, ridiculously!) moved to the point that my eyes prick with tears.  I can’t really explain why, except I think it’s something about the wonder of seeing such a huge, majestic bird in the wild, and of knowing its bittersweet back story.

…

Look up!

Something compels me to look up... even though I haven't seen it yet.

I’m wandering down the slope, on the way to the shops.  But it’s what’s above which now has my attention.  The circling – wings outstretched, so wide! – and the tell-tale shape of its tail.  As I keep walking, the bird’s effortless-looking spirals move ahead of me incrementally and it feels as if it’s leading the way.  I follow, but it has the advantage over me; its speed reducing it to a mere speck, and then out of sight.  I want to fly!

…

I’m hanging the washing out on this still, intensely bright, cyan blue March morning, when a movement pierces the skyscape. Rising upward over the roof, gaining height, higher, higher - and then a graceful glide, henna-hued tail fanned - over the ridge tiles and away.  But what a sight.

…

Once again, I hear it before I see it.  Oh, that call.  I’m tuned in now, that'll be it forever now, my ears have instinctively diverted to it, over the sound of cars and jackdaws.  That whistle is really evocative – a sound that taps into something deep and primeval  – as if I've been here before, centuries ago.   I wait in the garden for it to pass over, oh please do! - and yes it does –  coming so low I can see its detail, the yellow bill, its eyes swivelling to look down.  Ohhh! Then off again over the fields, the whistling getting fainter.  I feel a thrill.

…

For four days running now I’ve enjoyed the spectacle of the red kite.  I’m sure it must be the same one.  I said it came low, but then I thought, how low was it really?  Considering this bird of prey has a wingspan of up to 6 feet, it was probably still quite high up.  I’m trying to imagine it landing in the garden and how much space it would take up…which really puts things in proportion.... 

Is it that direct connection to wildness, to nature and a relatively unfamiliar creature which excites and delights me so much?  I think it must be, but as I mentioned above, it's also the back story.  If you don't already know about the red kite's history here it really is noteworthy.  Centuries ago they were common but, as with so many birds of prey, they suffered from severe persecution.  Sadly so much so that, by the late 1800s, they were extinct in England.  But in 1990, efforts were made to reintroduce them - and it all started off with just 13 pairs, who were flown over (in a British Airways jet!) from Spain.  Those 13 pairs did well - breeding successfully in the Chilterns, their young continuing the generations, more birds then being introduced, and gradually they've spread further out across the country.  It's now thought we have nearly 5000 pairs of red kites - maybe you already see them regularly? - but if you haven't yet spotted one, I'm sure they'll be coming to a field or garden near you soon, they're doing so well.  I hadn't seen one here until the last few years.

Everything's alright, even when it isn't, when these moments happen.  I'll be happy to stop whatever I'm doing, to be moved and exhilarated, breath-taken, grateful and in awe of this big, beautiful bird any time.  I hope I see it again today.

Simon Dupree & The Big Sound: Kites (!)

Eddie Floyd: Big Bird (a different kind of big bird, but what a song)

That eerie sounding call

Clearing the bank

That weekend my world was one of bearded men with chainsaws and women in pinnies.  The men wielded their tools, the women replenished melamine trays with mugs of tea and home-made rock cakes.  The children, me included, looked on, wide-eyed, from a safe distance.

It all felt very communal.  Everyone getting on in this neighbourly effort to clear the bank, a steeply sloping strip of wild ground opposite our three houses.  Here the trees and brambles, cow parsley, dock and nettles taught us kids their own nature lessons, lessons learned through the experiences of itchy legs, scratched arms, and knees stained chlorophyll green.  It was here that I learned how to produce an impressive whistle through a broad blade of grass by making a split with my fingernail in the top to blow through, and where I learned the names of  birds who gorged on the blackberries amid the thorns.

But that weekend it was all about clearance – some roots had spread into the garden on the other side and were threatening the foundations of the adjacent house.  One of the trees would have to be cut down and The Men of the neighbourhood were going to do it.  Now, I’m not sure that I could truthfully describe any of the three males involved as being hurly-burly, hairy-arsed, lumberjack types – quite the opposite, because they were our Dads, and our Dads were all of scientific and mathematical persuasion and watched 'Tomorrow's World'.   But two out of three sported hairy chins (Dad from No. 3, and mine) so that was a start. 

Not my Dad

Old garments were donned and implements oiled whilst inside each kitchen, the aforementioned rock cakes were baked by The Women, and mixing spoons licked clean by The Kids, before the ominous revving of a chainsaw broke through conversation and work commenced.  Then, every couple of hours, out came the trays of tea and sugary sustenance, the noise of metal teeth on wood subsided and excited chatter resumed.  Wow, look at that huge branch!  How much more to do?  Another cake?

This memory stays with me, not because anything spectacular happened (all human limbs remained intact) but it seemed like an Event.  There was something about the mood, the camaraderie, the collective effort of three families, where all the members were of similar age and had the same aim, that puts me in mind of documentary films I’ve watched about communes and co-operatives around the same time. Although a bit different this was still just so... so early '70s.  I get a special feeling mixed in with these recollections and it’s a nice one.  Picture, if you will, bohemian stoneware mugs, fisherman’s sweaters, bold flowery aprons, macrame wall-hangings and eight children who were free to play and be a little wild outdoors.   As with most things in life, it didn’t last - the family from No. 3 moved away and mine fell apart - but I still bask in the warmth of childhood reminiscences like this.

My Mum planted a large strawberry patch on the newly open ground and that Summer the fruits were abundant.  We shared them with our neighbours, of course - and the blackbirds and robins helped themselves.

The Sweet: Chop Chop (1972)