Cakes, baubles and baps.

Cakes, baubles and baps.

 

So I've just been into the bakery at the top of my road. It was a wonderland.

I love the local shops. There's a very pleasant parade of them closeby and over the last few years I must have become another of the Local Regulars that I see up there. The Green grocers, the Post Office and the Bakery are my favourite haunts, along with the bank and a couple of the now-soulless supermarkets, one of which used to be delightfully stuck in the 1970s - drab decor, higgledy-piggledy kind of feel, lots of old people in there and just about any food item or obscure household need you could ever dream of. Never obvious, but I never once came out of there without what I'd been looking for. It's now starchly lit like a midnight garage, displayed with zero warmth, and I rarely come out with everything I was looking for. Progress.

But the bakery next door is still the real deal, and this morning I strolled up to the Grove in the December sunshine to look for odd-sized envelopes for the Momo christmas cards but found myself standing in the middle of a sea of cakes, loaves, cream puffs, mince pies, iced finger rolls, oozing jam things, plump, swollen Belgian buns and more dustings of icing sugar and flour and general Christmas garnish than you could eat in a whole holiday season. I bought a humble tin loaf, but mainly because I couldn't decide how best to start over-eating to celebrate the end of the year.

So, yes, Christmas is approaching. And for the first time, I feel ready for the end of the year. Not in that I've Bought All My Presents way - don't be silly - just in terms of workflow. There's plenty for me to be getting on with, but I feel ready for a break. We declared the Bayley's Season officially open on Saturday, and the tree is already up and twinkling. Plus, we seem to have loads of booze in. Must be Christmas.

As the year ends, I'm mainly thinking of the people around me and the different things they'll be dealing with at Christmas. But I'm still of the opinon that the best thing we can often do is take a little trip to the bakery, buy yourself something nice to go with a fresh cafetierre of something Italian and stick on some friendly lounge jazz while you work.

These are the little things that get you through the big things.

Why the hell didn't I buy a Belgian bun?

Something old, something new.

Something old, something new.

 

Technology is great, though, isn't it?

Yeah. Hm. But.

It iiiiis, but it also tends to, well - make you its bitch.

If you've been making music for more than ten years, you'll know what a bottomless pit it was to invest in a home studio not so long ago. At my (still relatively taught-skinned) age, you were in fact not only exactly the right age to have to pay the UK Poll Tax as a student, but also just old enough to have scraped together the money beyond your graduation Poll Tax Debt for a brand new reel-to-reel eight track - about twenty minutes before digital became good enough and cheap enough to take to the bosom of your amateur studio.

There was no Undo in my day. ...And I know, >sigh< it shows.

Making it aside, listening to it is an even bigger chance for technology to pimp. I swore at the time that I'd never buy any music albums on cassette. (Oh for pete's sake don't laugh; how am I supposed to give this straight faced history lecture if you keep pointing at my sideburns? Cassettes really did exist and yes we managed to live back then.) Yet, as a steeowdent, away from the bulky homliness of my second hand hi-fi cupboard, I had no way of playing LPs... (What now? What about my 'rationing card'? ...No I did not Dig For Victory. Blighter.)

The point I'm making, sounding considerably older than I look – no, really – is that technology makes you buy your own stuff again. And possibly again. There are old gems on LP and even cassette (because it's groovy, okay?) that I may have to purchase again for the modern world.

To this end, I recently rediscovered something. My teenage years were wallpapered sonically with various electronic bleeps and wooshes but for a long while it was dominated by one particular collection of second-hand LPs from the late seventies - Tangerine Dream.

Well, this week, thanks to the good people of Amazon, I have been rediscovering what it felt like to be 17 and driving for hours in a dangerously old car to see some girl or other. A particular girl, in fact. And now it's our car, in fact. And it's a bit better. And we live in the same town these days.

It was inspired by catching a moment or two of Risky Business late one night. We smiled and stayed up a little longer to marvel at Tom Cruise's diminutive youth. But I found myself taking worryingly more notice of the reeeeally cool bit from Force Majeure playing over the top than of the fact that Rebecca Demornay had just slipped her dress off.

Just how old am I feeling? I'd like to say this was actually down to moral fibre - but it had more to do with air drums. The point is, I went to bed remembering how The Dream Is Always The Same and Love On A Real Train are classic examples of Tange' at their height - and how much this stuff lit my fire to make music with bleeps in it. I knew the band's albums inside and out (well, as many as any human could collect, anyway) and hearing them again - I started with Dream Sequence - was weirdly nice to hook up with old friends.

But you know what? Creatively, it's not a great idea to look backwards. Not sure there's been a time with more creativity going on around the world of music; I think I want to get back into today. And possibly even tomorrow.

So I took the plunge and bought an iPod. Yes, I know, yeeeeeeeeears later than the rest of humanity. There are people who's governments still can't plumb in a water supply who start the long walk to the municiple tap with a shuffle. Hardly needed one, did I? I'm at home all day or in the car all day - these are things that come with music-making devices built in. But it's shiny and nice and I've mainly just stroked it and rubbed it with a soft cloth to get off the instant fingerprints.

Thing is. Yeah. Will it ever let me out again, or am I condemned in manner of greek mythology to forever be loading my album collection onto the damned thing? And am I supposed to re-buy all my albums, so I can have the album artwork appear on the screen?

Rannygazoo.

Rannygazoo.

 

Word of the day. Say it with me: "rannygazoo".

Who knew? All these years enjoying the finest radio feature produced by eight decades of BBC output, Swannycazoo, on I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue, and I'd missed that there was an extra layer to it. Not simply the timeless format of reproducing popular songs and melodies using only a swanny whistle and a cazoo, but a play on words. Silly and cerebral, how marvellous.

Use it today .. rannygazoo. It means a jape. A joke. A prank. In the style of, say, posh edwardian chaps pulling the wool over a chum's eyes for comradely hilarity. It's origins, unsurprisingly then, are in PG Wodehouse or thereabouts.

Not to be confused with Hullaballoo, Runnyaspoo or Fannymcgrew. But try it out for size - as long as you remember health and safety.

Just divine.

Just divine.

 

Heros, by and large, are just you and me with better luck or makeup. ...Okay, or talent. I'm not being cynical here, it's part of growing up to grasp this terrifying reality - everyone's just someone like you, making it up as they go along, right? Which makes heros all the more important, ironically. (Apologies for spelling out any irony there, it's just that I hate to think of people missing it and thinking I've just lost my way from one end of the sentence to the other. Which, given the much-comma-ed length of many of my sentences would hardly be surprising. ...Where was I?)

Heros. One of mine is Neil Hannon. Not because I've stalked him anything like as much as I should have done to imagine I know much about him, but simply because of who I hear in the songs. The blissful, romantic, slice-your-arm-off-witty wonderful, many-level-lyrical songs of The Divine Comedy. And at last, on Tuesday night, I finally got to see him live.

Say 'The Portsmouth Pyramid Centre' to anyone who lives nearby and they'll snort. Mainly out of derision, but quite possibly to simply clear their synuses - for the Portsmouth Pyramid Centre isn't simply a down-at-heel spare room for live music, it's also a public swimming baths. Neat, huh? An afternoon AND evening out. With showers to go home post-gig clean.

Wandering in, still unsure we'd found the right venue, Caroline and I looked around at the modest hall and hand-made stage at the far end of the carpet and beamed. Really, what could be a better place to see one of your heros perform? We'd almost be on stage with him. The gents were opposite the dressing rooms and for one gloriously delerious moment, as I pushed on the smeery door, I imagined I'd be standing next to Neil before he'd had a chance to dab and do up, asking him enthusiastically if getting the word 'peripetetically' to scan and rhyme successfully into My Imaginary Friend really was responding to a bet by a friend as we've always imagined it must be. Sadly, I relieved myself without the company of stardom. Possibly this was a better outcome.

Neil's music doesn't fit the usual categories that turn me on. It's not beat-driven or production-driven. It's about songwriting. But the key thing to remember is.. well, the three key things to remember are:

1: The songs are shot through with that rare commodity in popular music, wit, whilst also being hopelessly romantic.
2: The melodies are flow-perfect. Gorgeous. Lush. The string arrangements, stop me if I get dull, are just what I would do. Given the talent and the budget.
3: Neil is a baritone, which means I can sing his songs much more easily in the bath.

So, nerd of nerds that I am, I couldn't help myself cheering like a teenage girl when TDC's main man sauntered onto the stage with a wry grin and flung his arms open in perfect time to a huge cymbal crash fanfare in his huge, camp, orchestral Sauntering Onto Stage music. I then proceeded to bellow every last syllable of his songs into Caroline's ear for an hour and a half, adding some nice harmonies and generally enhancing the whole marvellously entertaining experience for her.

He had a sickeningly talented, well-orchestrated team around him; all of them multi-instrumental and making an amazingly effective live arrangement of his album tracks. A violinist, a cellist, a percussionist, lead guitarist, two key board set-ups, plus drummer and bassist - and it sounded just great. He banged them out and we cheered louder every time. And he finished with National Express and the crowd went home grin-ache happy.

Talent. Right there. Everyone in the little audience there was undoubtedly some sort of fan, so that he only had to look at us for long enough and we were poised to laugh. I'd hoped for a sort of Dylan Moran with a guitar and a string section and that's pretty much what we got. And what more do you need?

We first picked up a copy of A Secret History six or seven years ago and embedded it into our memory of driving round Tuscany than summer. Ever since, it's been hard to get the Divine Comedy's words and melodies out of the happy place in our brains. We whooped, we sang along, we imagined ourselves buying him a Guiness one day and being a showbizz chum. Well, only I did the last bit of course. But hurrah for a whole evening of sumptuous Between The Wars Cabaret. I think that's how he describes it.

A little bit of inspiration makes all the difference to a dreary Tuesday evening. They might be making it up as they go along, just like you and me, but it's WHAT they make up as they go along that makes heros heros.

The Divine Comedy's songs don't just put a smile on the face, they work rather like a comedy in the original sense of the word - they make you think everything will one day work out okay.

Cheers for the heavenly noise, Neil. You're a bally hero.

Sunday work and Wednesday hi-kicks.

Sunday work and Wednesday hi-kicks.

I like Sunday afternoons.

When I was a kid, I think a whole generation of us hated Sundays – a vaguely stupified day, where youngsters the country over were unable to really go anywhere, do anything, or watch anything decent on telly. And all the time knowing it would soon be Sunday night and you’d be told to get your uniform together for - utter depression - Monday morning school.

But now, the world is different. Shops are open. I don’t have to go to school any more. And telly is equally rubbish any day of the week. Is this progress? Feels like it for me.

Sunday afternoons now lead into long Sunday evenings and Sunday evenings tend to be when we feel able to sit down with a decent Brain Film. You know - stuff you have to concentrate on, or bleak French productions with subtitles you basically don’t understand. Refreshes the old cerebellum for Monday. Reminds me I’m not completely brain-dead just yet, despite the endless comfort food of Friends repeats and Radio 2 in the afternoon. Like popping on some mincing Baroque from time to time, it’s encouraging to periodically pretend you’re clever.

Actually, I’ve often treated Saturdays as the day off this year, the time to aim not to work - a proper Sabbath. Sundays can be very peopley and feel more kinetic, which may be why my brain feels strangely more able to cope with Franco-German cinema by tea time. On Saturday tea time what I want is Doctor Who with inane banter and a curry.

This Sunday, Caroline and I wandered past the garden and saw our much-loved neighbour, Mary, sitting on an old bench in the middle of her lawn, nursing a rusty nail hole in her foot. A couple of forlorn planks of splintered shed lay beside her on the grass, next to a claw hammer and a clawed-at packet cigarettes. Her old shed, depite it’s shabby chic, however, looked resiliently standing.

We glanced at eachother with patronising tips of the head, then turned to Mary.

“Do you want a hand?” I asked politely.
“Do you want some savlon?” Caroline asked politely.
“No, no, I’m fine” Mary answered politely. Then added: “God, yes.”

We put the kettle on and put the gardening gloves on and put our comedy-old clothes on and it was all I could do to hold Caroline back, out there in the Sunday autumn sunshine.

“I didn’t realise you could HIT it...” Mary grinned.
“This is in my top five list of favourite things to do ever” Caroline beamed, swinging the hammer with a neighbourhood-shaking smash.

As we demolished the old shack, enjoying ourselves in showers of splinters far more than if we’d been working in our respective gardens separately, I pulled at old nails and reflected on how nice it was to get some dirt under my own nails and do something outside, after a week of intense comings and goings, interspersed with intense sittings-around...

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Getting back up to Birmingham on Wednesday morning was straightforward enough, arriving at the stage door of the Alexandra Theatre in midlands drizzle, only twenty minutes or so behind target. David Rann, artist co-ordinator for the Give Back Project, was there at the top of the windy little staircase with a clipboard.

“Hi, mate - you’re in with Mowglee, next floor up” he smiled. Bands of various haircuts were squeezing past eachother on the stairs and vans were double parking up the road outside, but as I carried my solitary keyboard and x-stand up into the spiralling loft of the Alex, everything around me felt pretty chilled.

Maybe it was just me projecting. I’ve spent so long infront of a Mac, either tickling typography or shuffling sound files, it occured to me I’d quite forgotten how at home I feel in a theatre.

As the day stretched out, I’d find myself stalking the corners and rafters of this old showhome as though I owned the place, and it took me some hours to realise this. I think I was standing in the wings just before curtain up, in fact, when it struck me I’d been subtly talking to the other acts as though trying to welcome them into my home - stopping just short of actually offering them a sherry and explaining that they could help themselves to anything in the fridge.

What a cheeky blighter, I thought, watching the stage lights spread across the boards that night; I’m a guest here too. I’ve never been here before.

Ah, but that was what was interesting about the whole day - it was a music event, but it felt much more like a theatre event. And this suited me fine.

Mum and Dad, in case you don’t know (and really, why should you) were professional singers. They met and travelled the world with the D’Oyly Carte Opera Company, founded by Mr Richard himelf, theatre impressario and mate of Gilbert and Sullivan. Who are not the same thing as Gilbert and George. Not at all. Every time the company rolled into the West Midlands, it set up shop in the Alexandra Theatre, Birmingham, where my mother would get into her fairy wings and my father would pull on his tights for another prance through Ruddigore, or somesuch. Trust me, the stories. The boys had a telly in the dressing room under the stage on one occation, watching a cip final. Goals were apparently not always timed with orchestral numbers, much to the stage manager’s fury, apparently.

I did wonder if I’d spot any Peach graphiti as I peered around in the shadows.

Momo’s music is probably more about theatre than pop music anyway - and goodness knows I don’t know how to be rockstar cool on stage. But the whole workings of a theatre production make sense to me, and I think it’s useful to keep it in mind when putting on a gig. Professional, I guess. Organised. And most importantly, very Luvvie.

From prowling the wings, to running along the seats up in the gods, to peeping past the dressing rooms under the stage - darlings, I felt at home hanging around the Alex for an afternoon. And as I first walked into the dressing room with my name on it, under the word ‘Mowglee’, I knew it would be a fun, weird day out in Birmingham. The four indie poppers from Brum turned and grinned as I walked in and demanded chocolates.

------------------

I’ve gigged and performed plenty of times before. Enough perhaps to forget how long it’s actually been since I was on a stage or practicing my mike technique infront of an audience. This was just another on-going gig for many of the acts, but as Marcus, Patrick, George and Gabriel opened the lemon slices, these seasoned performers looked a little bemused.

“It’s a big event, but it’s hard to know what’s going to happen out front” Patrick said, dealing some cards and inviting Caroline and I to sit in. Caroline has a thing about cards but I have a thing about exploring old theatres, so I let her play to her competitive instincts while I opened the kettle chips.
“Yeah, I know” I said, grabbing a handful and moving to the door, “I think we have to see this as like a TV show; we can’t really take control of the show or the crowd, we have to turn up get on, play and get off as efficiently as possible. It’s weird, but it’s the thing for this. Watch my wife, she’ll clean you out, by the way.”

And it was the thing for this. The organisation behind getting eighteen bands, many of them inexperienced, on and off smoothly with slick segues was no easy task, and it would demand concentration from everyone.

In the event, it moved through amazingly well, especially considering this was a first event for this combination of people. We all soundchecked through the afternoon, grabbing conversations with eachother and swapping genres as we each took the stage. The acts all had professional potential and one or two voices or acts particularly stood out. But no-one else was making Electro, I realised as I climbed the steps to join the Give Back dancers. I hoped the audience wouldn’t find the opening number misleading.

Because yes, Momo:timo and the Give Back dancers were opening the show. The first thing the bemused public would see of the very first ever Give Back Project event would be some floppy haired tit, dressed vaguely like the owner of the TARDIS, shouting: “Hey you! Yes you, right there in your seat - we just KNOW you’re going to love this. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed; we know you want some, because we know you’re WEAK...” in obscure live homage to the opening sample of Sweetseeker.

Well, although they may have had some adjustments to make to get used to the real stage setting of their performance, on the night the dancers did a great job of making Momo:timo look much more interesting on stage. I nearly took a foot in the teeth a couple of times, but this was only because it can be a bit of a trick trying to engage audience members two storeys above you in the inpenetrable darness beyond the footlights, while avoiding tripping over wires that would send you vaulting smoothly into the orchestra pit, or walking into ten people throwing themselves at your tottering keyboard, or remembering your queues, or your words or your best I Know What I’m Doing expression.

But, in truth, it was the easiest gig I’ve ever done. Really. Caroline commented on it first. All I had to do was turn up with one keyboard, a backing tape and the usual cheeky willingness to be myself infront of people. The hard work was done by the much-drilled dancers, whose dressing room looked like an exciting and theatrical place to have your hair starched to within an inch of its life, every time I popped in. The well-oiled production team made the show happen, while a very nice lady called Nicky, from BBC Birmingham or somewhere, gave me queues to be funny in a little interview after my second number. Then Caroline drove me home to Mike and Emma’s in Worcester.

What effort did I make, exactly?

Afterwards, packing the gear and roaming the Mailbox for an after-show drink that would have me smashed silly in moments, spilled as it was into a stomach lined with a few biscuits, a few crisps and a small slice of lemon sponge, we heard that the theatre had been reasonably filled and the show had been positively received by audience members.

But for me, the best comment of the night - the one to take home and write on a mental post-it note - was from a girl I passed in the foyer as people were leaving. She looked at me as I approached and simply blurted out: “You’re really funny!”

Well quite. Hours of painstaking studio work dims in the light of such a compliment.

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We still don’t know why exactly the NIA show, for which this was a kind of rehearsal, has been cancelled. I think the Give Back team are licking their wounds after so much work.

Shame, of course, as so much effort went into the show and it ran through very professionally. All I know is, that apart from anything else, it gave me the chance to make friends with Mowglee, who I fully intend to hang around a theatre with again as soon as possible. We chewed over life and creativity and fascial hair and styling gel in a dressing room for much of the day, when Caroline wasn’t beating them at Rummy, and they played a significant part in making our Funny Day Out In Birmingham so enjoyable.

I also met countless other people, making a lot of new MySpace friends and getting a fair amount of un-asked-for encouragement.

As we slept in on the Thursday, and hung around with Mike for a gloriously well-timed Sick Day (not that I was, literally, thank goodness) in a coffee shop in Worcester, I figured that it couldn’t hurt to have a few enforced days off, even if I did have to work until 2.00am the night before, in order to free up Momo to come prat about in the Midlands. Sharing the experience with Mike and Emma in particular was just the right thing; if there’s one person who’s been made to carry my gear and listen to my demos almost as much as Caroline over the last seventeen years, it would be Mike, poor guy.

So, hey. The unforgivably fab thing about working for Momo is that you’re never quite sure what you’ll be working on next. From property advertising, to website design, to vaudeville karaoke and garden clearance all in one week.

Still, it’ll be Sunday afternoon again soon.