Not a Stone Roses T Shirt

impossible songs

impossible songs

2007 the year of James Blonde.

Friday: The surgical removal of a Christmas tree from a house is never easy, and so despite many careful measures a huge mess was made everywhere. A vast, new green carpet forming an ambient path of natural waste products from the lounge to the back door and beyond into the countryside was created. I have not informed SEPA yet. A passage from Macbeth springs to mind. The Hoover was red-hot but thankfully did not give up. On a brighter note myself, the twins and grandson number two, played a number of jumping games, ran along corridors and in a nearby McDonalds drew some pretty decent pictures of monsters in crayon.

Saturday: A visit to rainy Manchester via Mazda Lear Jet to see baby Thomas and his proud parents. What a good baby he is. In the afternoon (after a sleep in of sorts) we visited a load of what I used to call “head shops” in the artistic quarter of the city. It was good fun and thankfully nobody was injured by my vast golfing and unsuitable for city centres umbrella. We also went on a bus, ate cakes, were shut out of the Chinese Art Gallery and for a brief time were captive passengers in an1988 Nissan Sunny listening to Radio 4, not your normal Impossible Songs day. We had tea in the Led Zeppelin pub (or somewhere in Chorlton, Old Trafford) a haunt of Badly Drawn Boy who apparently lives next door. I’d recommend the fish pie as it contains lots of fish. As per Friday we all drew monster pictures during the early stages of the meal.

Sunday: Returned home in the small hours through a rainstorm that started near Preston on the M6 and didn’t really end, ever. The cat, who has been AWOL for a few days, welcomed us home in the usual clawy, clingy way and then we slept as best we could. A late breakfast consisted of scrambled eggs and toast (Ali style), mulling over John Lewis bedding options and getting rid of a hundred unwanted emails. Outside the wild birds are feasting and the deer are winter grazing in the nearby paddock. The time now is 13:15. Goodbye.

Editor's Note

impossible songs

impossible songs

A level playing field

Despite a comprehensive course of liquorice allsorts my testosterone levels continue to increase. This manifests itself in extra hairy eye brow hair and small yellow facial spots. All very annoying and slightly distracting for members of the public. In desperation I called upon the kangaroo god to see if there was anything he could do to help my condition. I figured he’d be free, as the process of creation seemed to have settled down now with only the occasional mild explosion occurring from time to time.

The trouble with gods is that the can be a little hard to contact at times, they may require rituals or complex communication procedures of some kind (even sacrifices) or they may be just plain indifferent about the issue you want them to deal with. There are many other reasons why they don’t engage with their people but I can’t be bothered to list them.

Anyway the kangaroo god is beginning to appear to me to a bit like some kind of character out of the Simpsons. Moody, unpredictable, hostile at times and to some extent preoccupied with himself. I guess that much of this is due to the way that the Cinderellas have continued on in worshiping him (generally speaking for doing nothing useful or measurable) when I don’t think he really deserves it. There is no easy way to have a rational chat with the Cinderellas about why they worship him, they just get emotional, stamp their feet and go into a silent huff at even the hint of any kind of disagreement over what they do.

So while the Cinderellas tried to maintain some control over things with their ultimate threat of some “silent treatment”, I decided to pop around to kangaroo god’s office for an impromptu visit. When I got there and after quite a difficult journey I may add, I found that he’d gone out to lunch. I couldn’t resist a wee peek around his office and at the things and papers on his desk. Generally in the universe things seemed to ticking over nicely albeit a few laws needed some minor editorial work. I had a quick read of a few papers but didn’t try to dig for anything. I was a bit worried that one of his minders might arrive but I knew that security had never been his strong point. One of the weaknesses of his regime was that way that people kept stealing his material, second guessing his initiatives and at times making him look silly with their “superior knowledge” and apparent anticipation of planned universal events.

One paper did catch my eye however, I read with great interest how apparently low-value property in the Balkans, the Middle East and the Indian Sub-continent was being acquired by one of the kangaroo god’s business partners for “development”. Just as I was getting to the juicy part in walked the minister complete with his black saxophone case and music stand. His wife trailed along a few yards behind puffing, wheezing and complaining. “Have you an appointment?” the minister asked me. “Well no, but I do have a complaint” I answered. “I think” said the minister, “you’ll find that kangaroo god has a full schedule for the afternoon, the Cinderellas all have appointments and he has important documents to sign. Good afternoon!”

I seems my face does not fit around here anymore. I retired to a nearby park bench and watched as kangaroo god came back from lunch in his stretched Hummer, complete with solar panels. The Cinderellas began a clumsy worship dance whilst submitting requests for new furniture and the minister played exerts from Carla Bley’s “Escalator over the hill” on his golden saxophone. Suddenly and for no reason I felt alone in this predominately black and dark universe.

Editor’s note: This material has slipped in from the Fairytale Management pages. A thread or a splinter may emerge from there at some point in the future.

Lost gloves

impossible songs

impossible songs

A primitive fantasy view of creation

A coach load of Cinderellas find their way into the picture. Their steps are tiny and insecure because of incorrect footwear. The trap has been sprung and despite their best efforts to stay on their feet, a strong wind from nowhere blows in and fells them like young trees crippled by weak roots. For a short time it seems like the end, they see no future or purpose, but elsewhere other plans exist. They recover, get up and quickly pass through a scented and flowered gateway.

The kangaroo court and their kangaroo god tell no lies, they only make educated guesses about life and it’s many meanings. A fuzzy note hangs at the end of the minister’s saxophone, a shame that he never did learn to play it properly. His wife is fat and lazy but has demonstrated some basic skills with the sliver and tin anniversary flute however. The children are mixed, that’s really all you could say about them.

The Cinderellas form a line and march into the court. The senior kangaroo tips his hat and the policeman takes scribbled notes. Everybody eventually finds the correct seat. The minister says a few words and the service and subsequent trial begins in earnest. The cat is first to speak but his comments are drowned out by the minister’s frankly crazy saxophone playing. No one really minds this but the tea is already stewing in a nearby pot. A stranger gets up and addresses everyone with a tale of exclusion, deliberate personal shunning, control and talking on and on behind the backs of others. Although it is clearly an allegorical piece aimed at the assembly themselves, it flies like a stray missile above each head. “Perhaps later on, some osmosis or something will occur”, thinks the stranger. (Of course this never happens).

Meanwhile in heaven the kangaroo god is very angry. It appears that his morning slice of toast was not quite the correct colour, “Damn you all” he whispers. He also receives a letter from a small boy asking why it was, being a god; he chose for himself the form of a kangaroo. This is a puzzling piece of correspondence, especially when it comes along so soon after a badly coloured piece of toast. Naturally it goes on to the middle pile of letters, in the middle of the pile.

We take a short break and enjoy the beginnings of a pleasant discussion in the panelled corridors. One Cinderella is unsure whether it is best to “Do as I say, not as I do” or “Do as I do, not as I say” or Do as I do and do as I say”. The other Cinderellas are deeply troubled by this whole line of thinking and don’t want any further controversy so they refuse to enter the debate. The minister is grinning and touching his saxophone, he has a twinkle in his left eye. A bell rings and we all return to the main hall, as you do.

The kangaroo god smokes a cigarette, stretches out and rests his feet on his highly polished desk. Today is the seventh day, depending upon where you began to count. He starts to daydream and thinks about increasing the wages of the cleaning ladies and how that might influence the economy. Then he changes his mind. It is still the seventh day whatever. Creation is a tiresome procedure at times.

In court the proceedings drag on, everybody is bored by the affair but no one would dare admit to it. At lunch the Cinderellas sit together and read glossy magazines about cars, make up and celebrity lifestyles. Some discuss how they might spend a young princes’ fortune on wild shopping sprees, retirement homes for their parents and holidays. (They forget they are all orphans). None of them seem to realise that as a member of a royal family and the ruling circle they may actually have some serious responsibilities. They just think an easy marriage into money is the straight answer to their vacuous and unformed questions. They are not prepared for what lies ahead of them, they are simply smug, self centred and stuck in the belief that their fairytale script will come true in due course and on their terms.

An unwise man once said “the kind of thing that annoys me is the kind of thing that would not annoy even the kangaroo god himself, if you were driving around in a fancy car”. After that there was a good deal of swearing and some actual punches thrown, behaviour which was quite unheard of. Some Cinderallas burst into tears, others tore up their magazines and others simply stared ahead, wide eyed.

As luck would have it most of the girls did meet handsome young men, some of whom played football and some who were property developers. Alas there were no princes to be found amongst them, despite extensive testing and the taking of samples and specimens. Contrary to popular belief a number became happy for a time and a small percentage for ever after. The remainder settled into their uneasy marriages and took comfort in collecting shoes and ornaments and buying large books to place upon chunky coffee tables.

2007 and all that

impossible songs

impossible songs
New Year

In the picture a falcon hovers above my head at Myers Castle, Auchtermuchty. A great start for the 36 hour long New Year party we attended there. We participated in falconry, clay pigeon shooting, snooker, music, dancing, listened to pipers, ate endless fine food and drank good wine, rainy dog walks, watched DVDs and fireworks, saw storms and enjoyed good humoured and hospitable company. The kids had the time of their lives as the adults boogied and blethered in the magnificent surroundings, Scotland’s hidden treasure? I think we’ve found it.

The rich drama of life of course never ends even during holidays, news of unmentionable things filtered through but we took them in our stride and bounced back as you have to. A power cut however had torn a black wound across West Lothian and when we returned home from Myers our stone cold house had been cut off for 24 hours, as had the nearby villages. We made a few calls, had a few thoughts and returned to the warmth of Fife for few hours of couch life, TV and chat with my oldest son and his wife (and grandson) and a Chinese carryout.

Highlights of the weekend:

Ali’s 15 out of a possible 20 at clay pigeon shooting (just don’t argue with her anywhere near a loaded gun).
Joe winning four out of four games of snooker on a full sized table (don’t put your money on the table).
Liv’s treasured trinket turning up, under a leaf on a muddy path half a mile away, a day after being lost (don’t ask).
Very small children running, jumping and repeating everything you say.
The power coming back on, just as we were about to give up on things at five past ten last night.

Christmas

impossible songs

impossible songs
Christmas Blur

This week has been a complete blur of the usual confused and meaningless but well meaning Christmas celebrations. We’ve had a crowded house with small, excited children running everywhere whilst their adult minders occupy couches, drink and play video games and watch DVDs. No snow, no frost, no real seasonal weather hints or reminders whatsoever, just tasteful plastic holly on the door and a fridge full of food that must be eaten by the 29th. The poor cat, confused by the activity and normally warm and comatosed 20 hours a day, has taken flight and stayed outside for long periods, narrowly avoiding the attention of the holiday hunter’s shooting parties in the nearby woods.

This morning I was up at 6ish preparing a chicken and sweet potato curry amid baby bottles, burnt toast and kettle steam, then away to work. It’s been a similar pattern all week, a mad mix of holiday, work and feeding the family non-stop.

Bob Dylan on the radio

His Bobness on Radio 2: The recent themed radio shows by BD have been a great mix of music and Bob Dylan’s rolling, irritating and engaging chat, a relief from the usual mid-evening fodder. Listening to him and his wide choices of music made me ask myself, what music do I really like and want to listen to these days? Whether it’s the chart videos running endlessly on free view TV, Beatles re-mixes, Frank Sinatra’s Christmas tunes, some unknown singer live in the Cannons’ Gait, random button presses on the car radio, I don’t know. The stuff comes in from all directions and I feel incapable of filtering it all in any way. So what would I choose to listen to if I was sitting down, alone, simply listening for pleasure? A Bob Dylan themed selection? It might just work.

Obvious Trees

impossible songs

impossible songs

Trees in the woods,
Wood in the tree,
Stones on the ground,
Stone all around.
Twigs and scrapes and mud misshapes,
Walking and looking,
Bending and picking,
And turning your back,
For a quiet moment.

Friday: Got up early and decided to eat something – boiled eggs and toast. I was tempted to eat some leftover Christmas Pud and cream but decided against it. Ali and Paul left an hour ago to drive to Manchester to attend an imminent birth no less, so I have an hour or so to kill before leaving for work. Hopefully a healthy new niece or nephew will appear today for the first time in some bright and clean Mancunian Hospital. I just noticed that the eggs had a sell by date of 5th December on them. Funnily they tasted great and I feel strangely invigorated by this eating experience, what else is lurking in the fridge?

Work sucks more than usual at the moment, I’ve been handed some crappy tasks with deadlines like 5th January and to add insult to injury every time I email somebody for help I get an “out of office – back on the 8th” message. Lucky for some. This kind of thing didn’t used to happen or am I even more deluded than I think? Whatever, by 5.00pm tonight I’ll be well and truly switched off to the world of work, for four days anyway.

Building a better tattie scone

impossible songs

impossible songs
Baked Alaska V the Tower of Tattie Scones.

In a straight fight which one would win? The internally cool, glaciated, raspberry beret desert sauce and mysteriously crustational BA, (as served up by Henry from Detroit at the Hawes Inn, South Queensferry – who’d just bought an 1815 copy of Dumas’s the Count of Monte Christo). OR, The Central Scotland traditional, tattie scone sandwich and architectural folly of thick cheese sauce/blackest of black fest puddings/three scones triangulated by a Stanley Knife and piled high as a tyre stack, (as served up by a pleasant waitress wearing a little too much eye liner at the Bay Inn). In a height contest the BA wins by about 1cm. The width of them both looked about the same. Of course one is a starter, the other a desert. In a competition it doesn’t really matter anyway.

Wednesday: Various things turned up via the post, lunch at the Hawes (hence the Baked Alaska), a puzzling episode of the Simpson’s, a lost cardigan, a gift from a secret Santa, lighting the coal fire for the first time in months. I also discovered that I’m the only person on the planet who hadn’t realised that Torchwood is an anagram of Doctor Who, a reality check there. The spectre of Christmas getting closer but not seeming perhaps quite as daunting as it did last week – arrangements are coming together and I’m coming to terms with the inevitable. If there was no Christmas we’d just invent something else, possibly even more expensive, artificial and tacky to fill the solstice gap. We’re stuck with it, make the best of it.

Thursday: Thankfully amid the current chaos I’m not travelling anywhere, but some loved ones are. Fog and cold paralyse the nation easily it seems, or is it all just jacked up a little more these days?

The Christmas Angels are bored

impossible songs

impossible songs

Short diary of unrelated events

Saturday: Bought large Christmas tree and erected it in the lounge. Ali festooned the crippled fir tree with numerous flashing lights and bright shiny things. Meanwhile I poked a cable through the toilet window and nailed a series of Star Trekky light strips outside. From the outside the house now looks like a pizza shop on the Costa del Sol, but that’s ok. In the evening we snuck into the Priory to hear Norman L perform some fine new songs, a Robert Fripp guitar solo piece (really for a quartet!) and a Geordie folk song. We then were invited up and did an impromptu and polite version of our song “Rainbow” and also cleaned up some red wine that was spilled upon the floor by Santa Claus. Then it was a late night run up to Freuchie to view the new gas fire in all its glory.

Sunday: Awoken by an early morning phone call from work (I reacted to it at about 4pm). Visited Abercorn Church and the surrounding woods to forage for materials for Ali’s latest art project. A quiet evening in with the kids watching Mr H Potter.

Monday: Up sharp to take the kids to school, all on a light pop tart and tea breakfast. In the evening some frantic Christmas shopping at Craig Leith then down to Easter Road for an OOTB meeting at Scott Renton’s place. After a decent chat with the rest of the committee it was back home to help out with Ali’s artwork – which had moved on a pace. Will it be ready for Christmas?

Tuesday: Christmas lunch in Dalgety Bay with some colleagues from my office. A party seated next to us were from the “Angina Club”, that got me a bit worried. Then I thought, well it’s better than being next to the “Irritable Bowel Club” or the “Sexually Transmitted Diseases Club”. The tattie scone and black pudding tower, over which I had fantasised for a few days, was only just ok. I had visions of a real tower of tattie scones (ideally topped with a fried egg), a bit like an American pancake stack. What I got was not quite that, it was three tattie scones sandwiching black puddings with cheese. I guess it’s just the half hearted way we do things here in Scotland that bothers me. I recall visiting a series of pubs in the midlands in the 90’s called Mad O’Rouke's Pie Shops. Their speciality was an actual cow pie complete with horns, (a la Desperate Dan) and the traditional starter of Black Pudding Thermadore and the Pogue’s music thundering in the background – they knew how to please a punter. Hmmm...Home again for more wrapping, a cool Baileys and an invigorating spot of ironing.

Liberty

impossible songs

impossible songs

I flew in a helicopter over the Statue of Liberty one sweet and silver lunchtime. Strapped and trapped in a whirling Volvo above this welcoming lady. The blue islands and city scapes beat out their heart's rhythm way down below. They were crying for some Indian braves or French refugees, some Scottish clansmen from the clearances or pilgrims running from unbelief. Calling out for them to come, pass through and go away. The brave Indians built these skyscrapers and looked out for buffalo ghosts, down deep from the girders. Perhaps all were built a little too short to catch that horizon. Now Donald Trump gazes down at herds of yellow cabs and vendors, pavements strewn with gum and cigar butts and yesterday’s lottery tickets. Our crashing Volvo of the skies veers between these pillared canyons and Art Deco buttresses, glassy walls and a storm of cell phone signals, heaving and circling as we look down to study the carrion. We flew in a helicopter over the Statue of Liberty, something changed and something changed me.

Polish Violins

Impossible Songs

impossible songs

impossible songs

Wednesday night: Played a short set at the Jazz Bar in Chambers Street Edinburgh as part of the Emergenza festival. It turned out to be an unexpectedly good night with Confushion (Fraser and John) taking the honours, though overall the standard with all the acts was pretty good. It was certainly much better than last year with a better sound system, a quieter and attentive audience and more even performances from all the bands. I really liked a duo called “The Radar” who really deserve a bit more exposure and recognition. We had a drink and chatted with friends Norman, Fraser, John and Karen afterwards whilst a Polish violin quartet closed the evening. I’ve no idea quite why they came to be there, music nights in Edinburgh can be strange at times. Ali was reluctant to leave mid-way through their set (about 11.45) but I’d had enough so we hit the road.

Earlier in the day I trekked across to the Gyle to collect the kid’s new laptop from a courier firm, I missed the home delivery on Monday so naturally had to queue in the rain to pick it up. Next a trawl of Christmas shopping venues and then back home to spend the afternoon setting up the laptop and generally fiddling with it. I also ate a strange tea consisting of six bits of haggis cooked in the George Foreman. Sometimes being home alone is not so good.

Nothing in particular

Impossible Songs

impossible songs

impossible songs

List of nothing in particular.

Knowing lava lamps are uncool and not caring.
The familiar sound of rain.
French cafes.
Losing it.
Getting it back.
Living your own life.
Sitting in the dark.
Milk and brandy.
Thinking Sandy Denny isn’t dead, (I heard her on the radio).
A song about Scientology.
The mystery of radio.
Being at peace in a mad world.
Not bothering about the consequences.
Playing at the Jazz bar tonight.
Fiddling around with guitars, tunings and capos.
Boiling eggs and not counting the minutes.
The silence of the countryside in the early morning.


Podcast update. We got a nice mention and a “top of the set” play on Independent Music’s Podcast from somewhere in the deep American Midwest. He described us as “mysterious” – happy overall but a bit puzzled over that description.

Lava Lamp

impossible songs

impossible songs

Far away birthdays

Saturday: Another long run up to Aberdeen for my daughter’s birthday lunch. Still with quite a few months to go until her wedding next year she is currently looking fantastic. The air, ambience and lifestyle offered in Aberdeen is clearly doing her good, as is having her fiancé close at hand also. Best present? Well from my point of view the lava lamp is hard to beat. Those red and purple globules of oily stuff ascending and descending like strange malformed plum tomatoes and surreal hot air balloons. It was great to have my three sons, three grandsons and two daughters all together in the one place, something that, due our busy lives and commitments seldom happens.

Music of the day: Should have been the Beatles “Love” album but I forgot to put the disc in the sleeve so it ended up being The Feeling and the Story of Punk on Radio 2 (how weird a phrase is that?).

Meal of the day: Chinese carryout minus rice – we forgot to order it.

Purchase of the day (almost): I was going to buy my daughter a copy of “Asian Brides” magazine – stupidly I didn’t realise these niche/cultural markets existed. In the end it was a routine wedding mag with a free music CD and loads of tips and flyers – Ali stepped in to administer the usual good sense.

Purchase of the day: Tiny, naff Christmas tree sprayed in sliver, £3.99 from Tesco.

Shock of the day: Well not for me really but the long haired guy in the X Factor getting the bump was a minor surprise to most of my family.

Parallel Universe of the day: Probably the one where William Wallace marches through England conquering all in his wake and eventually stopping at the Mediterranean settles down to rule over the new “Auld Alliance”. What’s modern Europe like today as a result of that? Would there be a Franz Ferdinand, a John Logie Baird, a Claire Grogan or a John Byrne?

Working Lunch

impossible songs

impossible songs

Secret Eye

Once again I met with the Secret Eye in a small Chinese restaurant in the port of Rosyth. Thankfully the rain had stopped. At first I listened intently to his opening tales, there was light and there was new colour, but as lunch progressed they became increasingly far fetched and my interest waned. My attention span has never been particularly strong – as I’m sure you must know. I munched through Crispy Wan Tan as he began to bore me with details I didn’t need to hear, I trawled the fork around the dry plate of my main course, (Red-neck of chicken) and felt myself stumble into one fuzzy day dream after another. It was becoming a long meal.

Finally when we reached the banana fritter stage, the Secret Eye began to share with me some of his more relevant and up to date information. He had inside knowledge (he believed), he said he had contacts, he had capability and he had taken notes. His jigsaw puzzle description fell from its open box and was scattered across the patterned table cloth. I recognised many of the pieces and though I had not seen them for a long time I could still make sense of their shapes and place them accurately together. The Secret Eye said, “This is what I have seen, you have it and now my work is over, what you do now with these pieces is your affair.” I thanked the Secret Eye and passed across the customary forty pieces of silver, a fair wage for a job well done. “So what do you plan to do next?” he asked me. I just laughed and took a sip from my orange juice. “There is no next, there are no actions to take, these puzzle pieces don’t belong here with me or with you,” I said. “Take your money and spend it for the good of your lifestyle, then take your information and hide it away forever, like dogs bury bones and postmen lose letters. Think of how climbers hang from ropes and petals float and how the woodpecker feeds from the tree bark. Swing a little in some warm summer breeze and relax about life.”

As we rose from the table and settled the bill an ambulance sped past on the road outside. Its siren was blaring and its blue lights were flashing. “We don’t know who is in there,” said the Secret Eye. I looked at him directly and whispered, “I know, but you need not worry, for it is just another lost angel that you can never now know”.

We love the BBC

impossible songs

impossible songs

BBC v OOTB

I arrived late at Out of the Bedroom (in the cellar of the Cannons’ Gait Bar, Edinburgh) on Thursday night to find sweetly organised musical chaos taking place. The BBC were filming three “sponsored” musicians for a slot in a new BBC2 Gaelic arts show due to be screened in the new year. Of course the very scent of a TV camera crew had produced numerous wanabees and OOTB strangers all hoping for their five minutes of fame. In many ways it was interesting to consider all of the OOTB regulars (and supporters) who didn’t show on the night compared to those who did. Anyway the place was heaving and all available open mike slots were unusually swallowed up by about 7.30. From what I saw and later heard about, a few good performances did take place despite the evil eye of the camera. Some lucky people were also interviewed by the TV crew. Of course there were highs and lows and mild terminal boredom at times but certainly it was all worth while. It was curious also to see how some optimistic and naive individuals had equated the presence of a camera crew with the opportunity to “do an X Factor”, imagine thinking the Beeb would film a whole night at OOTB and then screen it? I’m pretty sure that when the show gets an airing OOTB will only really feature in a small fraction. Anyway Ali and I took some belated satisfaction from selling the BBC producer four CDs. I’m just thinking that the next time the numbers are a little down how effective it would be to start a “the BBC’ll be in again on Thursday” rumour.

Clear air turbulance

impossible songs

impossible songs

Air travel is really ok most of the time.

Things – performance issues that you don’t know about or understand the details of, in aircraft handling shouldn’t really worry you (or you shouldn’t let them worry you).
The old airbus doesn’t perform so well going into a 45 knot wind, or does it? Thursday evening coming into Edinburgh courtesy of Easyjet was bumpy to say the least. I suppose you could certainly argue that if it doesn’t crash and you land in one piece at the correct airport then it’s a pretty good aeroplane. I think, that I’ll decide that it is a good aeroplane and that despite having had a slightly awkward flight based on this experience I’ll not worry the next time I’m in one. It is no doubt a lot better than an Islander, a BAC111 (ah memories), a Dash or one of the early 737s. Then of course there was the Tri-Star with that enormous engine in the tail and the weird “condensation” problem inside.

Never better.

Getting older and losing energy, anybody up for that? Older isn’t better but it is tolerable, less things fit into the time he way they used to and reactions and processes no longer flash across and spark as they once did, and I tend to forget things. But losing energy? Well yes and no. Time flies by and there are always things to do to fill it even the smallest gap. When was there ever a slow time? Was there ever decent thinking time? Probably not, so much of my perception of things now is a confused mixture of illusional and delusional blurred by my need to keeping up contacts and the spinning of the plates. Anyway after a few glasses of wine and weighing up the pros and cons the truth is; things were never better.

Henley and the Beatles

impossible songs

impossible songs

Get your Bentley down to Henley.

I spent most of last week at the Henley Business College being wined and dined by a rather large UK contractor and “reflecting” on a number of issues and challenges (so the usual kind of training course things prevailed!). Once I’d recovered from my luggage getting lost in Heathrow (Mo had it somewhere under Carousel 5 for about 45 minutes apparently) and a fevered and frantic drive along the M4 to Henley, everything settled down nicely and I had quite a good time. The highlight of the week (apart from the Celtic game viewed on the college cinema screen) was a booze cruise up the Thames, in the dark and at times in differing sizes of circles - followed by despatching a crate of wine in the college bar. They also have the best ever coffee machines there and a riverside location to die for. Education? Well just ask me about the adventures of Trafalgar House, BP or Budweiser.

The Beatles are back on my stereo.

Yesterday we (the kids and I) headed up to McDuff for my grandson’s birthday party – something I never dreamt could be so much fun or so rewarding. On the way up we stopped at Tesco in Dundee and I bought a copy of the “new” Beatles CD “Love”. Only once I’d popped it into the car stereo did I realise that in all my 52 years I’d never bought a single Beatles record, tape or CD. Now I’ve always loved the Beatle’s music, God knows I grew up with them and like most of my generation was shocked, embarrassed, confused, in love and blown away by so many of their activities that not having bought any of their material seems like a huge sin and omission. Looking back I must have been the one buying Cream or Jimi Hendrix records and then swopping them on for furtive and prolonged listens to Abbey Road or Sergeant Pepper. Anyway “Love” is an interesting mix of familiar tracks, a soundscape based on a Las Vegas circus show, remixed and at times bled together with samples from their best songs. Strangely it’s Ringo’s drums that in my opinion come out best as they pound through every track. Of course the songs are far beyond criticism or comment other than to say that the George Harrison material stands up pretty well against those other two song writing powerhouses. Funny how time slips way... and a pity they didn’t remix in a little more of the second side of Abbey Road.

Podcast explanations

impossible songs podcast

Podcast

The Gcast Podcast currently playing on this page (and also on the Fairytale Management Blog and on Impossible Songs Garageband page) is made up as follows:

Hunter (Remix) - from the “Roughboys” CD. “Yes! This (Hunter) is like Belle and Sebastian with a Casio keyboard - that’s a good thing because I love Belle and Sebastian and I love Casio keyboards, nice melody, nice voice. I love the simplicity - so not overwhelming in any way. I think this is a well crafted tune and kicks a bit of ass. – sergius gregory from Homer, Alaska on 30 Oct2006” Well this how Gregory reviewed the track a few weeks ago, one thing’s for sure there is no Casio keyboard anywhere on it, to my knowledge but I’m glad he liked the track.

Let’s make Pearls - from “Scapes”. Described as “sublime alt-pop reminiscent of Electrum” by Podcaster Threefromleith. Who am I to argue?

Butterfly on the Moon - From "Hearburst", the song and title are really nothing to do with one another, it was just a great title to use (we thought). I love Ali's double tracked vocals and the whispy guitar.

White and Red (Remix) - from the “Roughboys CD”. The raspy, underlying guitar sound in the middle passages was my desperate attempt to copy Jimmy Page’s sound used on the album “Houses...”.

Bite the Baby - a bonus track from “Sneakin’ out”. The tune (?) came about from my kids and I making up a song about a Nintendo game we used to play regularly, strangely this song is currently our second best selling download!

On Nonsense - instrumental guitar stramash from “Social Enterprise”. Two separate tracks mixed together for no particular reason. Kind of an ongoing riff on “Whole Lotta Love”.

Silence – remix of a never properly released track firstly done on “Early Eurosongs” and then in this form on “Sneakin’ out”. Recorded only on DAT tape and in a hurry one Sunday afternoon in Germany. A heavier guitar was added and remastering done about a year later.

Nobody Jones – original mix from “Border Crossing”. This song gestated for about two years before we finished it and recorded it, then it got remixed, voices were added, extra guitars and synths were added and so it was lengthened by about a minute and was finally put out on “Roughboys”. Nobody Jones is a brilliant singer/songwriter currently living and performing in Edinburgh, the song is nothing to do with him; it was just that the name scanned in really well.

East of Z – East African and exotic sounding track from “Social Enterprise”.

Tokyo Skyline – from the CD “Heartburst”. Occasionally blamed on the film “Lost in Translation” but to be honest I can’t remember what came first, I think the song may have been Pittenweem or Baltimore Skyline at some point.

All songs are Barclay/Hutton compositions for Impossible Songs; production is mostly the work of Martin Freitag except when the Roughboys get involved. Martin also plays bass and has done most of the drum programmes. Siggi Richter is also in there on keyboards. Ali Hutton of course provides the main vocals and most of the lyrics; John Barclay plays a variety of guitars and twiddles with sliders and buttons on the desk. Impossible Songs’ use Cubase software and Zoom equipment to record and mix and from time to time I contribute a pot of home made vegetable soup and Ali arranges flowers. There is something quite soothing and reassuring at times in the way we choose to exhibit our muso, stereotypical patterns of behaviour.

All your secrets

impossible songs

impossible songs

All your secrets are out there, you just don’t know about it yet, like the flowers in a Gypsy garden, like a tree hanging over your sleepy head, like a shadow hiding in a corner. All so unguarded and unremembered. Secrets that float and talk, that takes no encouragement. Grave and static, hollow and dangerous, creeping in and around the edges. Wherever you live you are seen when you think you are unseen and followed when you think the road is clear. Lights shine in your rear view mirror, occupants grow uneasy, and somebody sits on your back bumper for miles and then is gone, quickly. A phone rings in a room and then stops as you pick it up, a curtain wafts in the breeze, a door closes by itself, a dog barks. Where did the lipstick on the coffee cup rim come from? How is that paper in the bin? Where is the loose change I put down on the table? Who sent that letter? Where am I really going? All your secrets are out there, fighting for a place and fighting for space in a drowned pool. You think you are a hunter, but then you are hunted, you think you are on top of things but then you find yourself far behind the pack. Wolves and sheep meet and hold long conversations, sticks and stones build structures, names are written on walls in graffiti islands and public ruins. Posters are torn down or plastered over boarded up windows. Decay is structural and steady; truth is at the end of a tunnel that you never can reach. All your secrets are out there, all your secrets are mine...for I saw them first.