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impossible songs


impossible songs

Idiots guide to Progressive Rock

I think I’ve lost my way in music at the moment. I’ve been doing a lot of listening and background reading and web browsing but very little writing or playing. Of all our years of working together this one has been the least creative and productive. The good thing in all this is that I don’t feel too anxious about it nor have I the need to strive, wring my hands, sweat and kick and somehow produce something for the sake of it. It’s like a time of recharging or resting. I’m sure that the neurons and electrons and whatever buzzing things exist in the head are still in there spinning wildly but just making some different connections amongst themselves. The other thing is that we have a back catalogue of old half written, half baked songs that could be jacked up and worked on should some emergency occur but revisiting older material can be the hardest thing. Song writing needs to be generated from some place that is on an emotional edge, it can’t happen in a neutral or sanitised space or if lodged too deep in a comfort zone. Of course busyness and stress are creative killers if you let them reign and there’s been a lot of that this year so far. So what’s the next step? The darker autumn nights, the crack of the wood burning, the twist of the sobriety, the gate at the end of the garden, the sneak and scent of the hunt and chase, the closure and the openness, the pay off and the payout, the stretched perception and the withering backlog, some home cooking and a sharp frost on fingers and toes and the magic light in a loved ones eyes.

Recording music is the greatest thing – and then hearing it, fresh some time later: I was listening to some of our older stuff in samples on the web. I loved the little random chopped up songs sailing in from some clunking American server miles away. Mp3s edited by chance and ordered in no particular order. Heartburst sounded great and evocative and pink and the memories of the sessions back in Germany came to me, bright as buttons. That was a good time. Maybe this dip is no dip at all but a slow climb to the surface.

Simplistic Things

impossible songs

impossible songs

In praise of the simple things in life and digestive biscuits.

House to house cat searching isn’t all bad and some information has been uncovered and sightings confirmed. This is a long drawn out process. This is a long game but we’re in it.

Don’t be afraid of doing Pink Floyd or Abba covers.

A decent bonfire cheers up the entire countryside and provides new and intriguing smoke odours with which to colour the garden at dusk and of course your clothes.

Why is the moon so small? (From here).

Disturbing the home of a large frog is an unkind thing to do.

The forgotten lottery ticket haunts me.

The night flight of the aircraft is noisier than the day flight.

Give a rabbit and a guinea pig a straw tunnel and in no time at all they will turn it into a toilet.

Cleaning out the shower isn’t so bad.

Firstly it’s stir fried chicken with peppers, the curried chick peas and carrots, rice, salad potatoes and egg noodles. That was tea. Secondly we all ate our chocolate in secret (with coffee or beer). Saturday night TV is nothing to speak of and probably never will be.

I just know that finding my way around Glenrothes to seek out a football pitch will be a pain. (It was and we got beat 4 – 2 but a double cheeseburger and some funny voice practices cheered us all up).

A laser toy for cats.

Dock leaves cannot travel two miles from the sight of their picking without expiring.

When you’re wandering around in fields and woods the sun comes out and it’s all pretty good.

I’ve forgotten how to do many things but I still remember how to iron (unfortunately).

Reflecting on last week’s wedding is currently my favourite pastime. Some days you wish a Groundhog Day thing would happen, just once, but I have the photographs.

In handbag fight between Bebo, Facebook and Myspace who would win and would anybody really care? Once you get stuck into these things they build up an irritating inertia that starts to govern little chunks of your life: but that’s true of anything you like doing. It’s pointless to analyse what it is that gives you pleasure and meaning and a sense of well being. Just sip the wine, stroke the cat, look around and enjoy the warmth, from whatever direction it comes, for as long as you can.

Planes, trains and weddings...

Big dress in a bigger car.


A long stretch looks likely for both.


Emma Smith and Ali Graham display their head wear.

impossible songs



impossible songs

Planes, trains, weddings and...

Yesterday was a grim day for the most part. It started of well with me attending a very positive meeting in the Midlands and then on the way home buying a very comfy pair of Timberland shoes at a retail outlet. I was happy. After a quiet bite at Birmingham airport I boarded one of Flybe’s finest little blue and white jets. It left the stand a trifle late and then half way down the runway a few seconds before the full take off speed might be achieved, braked sharply. This gave all the passengers and staff a nasty shock and a few minutes of deep breathing and revisiting aspects of past lives followed. The rest the story is long and tedious, it involves over heating aircraft brakes, confused avionic systems, being towed a mile back up the runway and then spending three hours sitting in a plane going nowhere. This was followed by an hour in the terminal and then the slow realisation that the night would be spent in a hotel and not at home. I checked into the hotel about midnight and was up again at five to get my revised flight back to Edinburgh. I finally got home to collect a clean shirt at about ten this morning and headed over to work. All in all I’ve had about four hours sleep in the past thirty six. Thinking about last weekend has however kept me sane.

Wedding snaps are fun, here above are some I like.

Wedding of the century

Guy and Erin - married at Culross Abbey.
impossible songs



impossible songs

Wedding of the century

Erin and Guy’s wedding took place on the 15th and it was quite simply a wonderful day. The bride was (is) beautiful and the groom as smart as a new pin. I was in every way the very proud dad and really enjoyed each part of the ceremony and celebrations. Erin and Guy both have big and boisterous families and the reception and the subsequent party, disco and the drinking and blethering went on well into the wee small hours. Next morning (after a comatosed kind of sleep) those of us who’d stayed over in the hotel breakfasted and lunched together, relaxing and chatting after the previous day’s excitement. Erin and Guy are now jetting away to Thailand for a few weeks...

Complicated

impossible songs



impossible songs

Things are getting complicated. At the moment in order to get out of the house we have to check and feed the rabbit and guinea pig, feed the kittens, catch them and then put them in their pen (something that is getting increasingly difficult) as well as all the normal everyday early morning things you do. At all times, whatever we are doing we have to be careful not to let the kittens out. On the way home in the evening a Syrus search is carried out, generally at some local countryside spot. This involves dish clanging and a lot of trudging across fields and listening intently. Then once home the kittens need fed and cleaned out and the squeaky rodents need a salad prepared and laid out before them. Then they scratch you and the kittens eat your shoes.

Today is the day before my daughter’s wedding (gulp). Yesterday we had the rehearsal, which was fun; today some kilts were picked up, house and car cleaning done, a rodent pen constructed, shopping attempted and various odd jobs tackled. I also managed to complete my father of the bride speech; hopefully this short speech will come across as funny, neutral and sincere. I dare not however underestimate my own strange ability to be misunderstood by friends and family alike. I’m looking forward to the wedding the way that you’d look forward to a parachute jump, it’s going to be scary, exhilarating, great to look at, quick and (for the mean time) a once in a life time experience. The weather forecast is a bit iffy also, we shall see.

Why do nettle stings hurt for so long these days? I just need to look at a nettle now and red poppy mark appears on me and lasts half a day. Perhaps in my lifetime I had built up a high level of resistance to the native Fife nettle which does not now work in the strange sub-tropical landscapes and wide open spaces of West Lothian. I actually hate nettles, if they were insects they’d be wasps.

Four Symbols

impossible songs


impossible songs

Four Symbols

The truth is that I’ve never grown up, nor have I really wanted to. Despite my rather serious day job, my responsibilities, my relationships and my goals, a large part of me is still a stupid kid. I quite like the fact that I have this overage and under developed relationship with myself (which is not really unusual). I’ve had all the crisis times and questions, I’ve lost and ultimately gained, I’ve forgotten things and I’ve learned things. I’ve realised that most of life doesn’t really mean a whole lot, other than the moment that is now and how you feel and who you are with.

So I’m happy in where I currently am and with most of the things that are going on around me but I had to smile and extra smile when I heard today that Led Zeppelin will get together for a final (?) gig on 26th November. It’s that sweet song of youth, it’s memories and experiences you can still touch and feel, it’s reaching back to when everything is possible but nothing is quite ready. It’s 1970 again all the mystery of living still is just that. So what will you get for your £150? (As if money mattered). The broad and burnt out bridge back to yesterday, to a time when wrongs can be righted, vitality is natural and flowing, the sun is brighter and you could take a few strings of winning lottery numbers back as you travel in the Zeppelin time machine. Catch a glance through a glinting crack in space and time, a few minutes looking into a shattered mirror but with eyes part closed and tears misting the edges.

So will it just be some old guys strutting around on a stage stirring up a nostalgic storm and an audience believing for once everything they see? Well I’m sure it will (and that’s not bad) but for a few short hours it would be the best place to be in, whatever time the clock in your heart is stuck at.

The slugs don't work

The House of the Evil Eyes, Culross, Fife - the ladder is
not always parked in that position I presume. The Crisp Hut
is located in the nearby car park, it promises and delivers gourmet
crisps cooked before your eyes and salted or dusted in a variety
of unexpected flavours.

impossible songs

impossible songs

The slugs don’t work.

Last Monday we spent a few hours searching for the cat in fields (in fact a series of fields) over by Winchburgh. The search was of course fruitless and during the trudge across the badlands I picked up a healthy splodge of dog shit on my boot. I only noticed this on my return a left the boots outside to mature or at least dry out. Then the next evening I spotted a clump of slugs all engaged on boot soul cleaning, a natural and no-pain solution to soiled footwear, or so I thought. After a few days however I realised that even slugs have their limit and now it looks like the lollipop stick solution will be required. Perhaps, while I gather my thoughts together the local frogs, squirrels or rodents might care to take a shot at the cleaning up operation.

Saturday night alive.

We had a pleasantly crowded house for Saturday supper this week: Ann and David (CBQ), Erin and Guy, Paul, Joe and Liv and us. There was a shed load of good food on the go prepared by Ali, we picked at it till two in the morning: crusty breads, herby oils, fish casserole, fresh vegetables, plum crumble and nice wine – and a wee drop shandy. The kittens stole the show by exhibiting a worrying amount of cuteness and remained aloof to the visit of a rabbit and guinea pig (Pippa and Milo) who are to be staying with us for the next three weeks. The meal was disturbed by the visit of another neighbour who has lost his cat and was looking for assistance; the Bermuda Triangle of cat disappearances in this area is getting wider and deeper and there are other more sinister overtones.

Church.

Sunday morning was spent in the chilly, stony and possibly ancient surroundings of Culross Abbey checking out the scene of next Saturday’ wedding and also confirming the “House of the Evil Eyes” actually did exist. I was trying to explain my childhood fascination with this strangely ocular building (featured in the Sunday Post, forty years ago I recall), at last night’s meal and not astoundingly nobody believed me. The proof is on this page somewhere.

Fighting couples and couplings:

Who would win a fight between...?

Fred Flintstone and Scooby Doo.
Marlyn Manson and Ozzie Osborne.
The Marx Brothers and the Three Stooges.
Predator and Optimus Prime.
The Shake and Vac lady and the Bisto mum.
Charles Darwin and Albert Einstein.
Bananarama and the Shangri-La’s.
Lenny Bruce and Bill Hicks.

Warhol steak bake

impossible songs

impossible songs

Andy Warhol’s plagiarant material steals the show every time, fame is a fragile game that must be played to the very end but I’m bored with it now.

Thursday and I’m at OOTB reviewing and slowly expiring in the heat of the cellar bar of the Cannons’ Gait. On a fairly average night the best and probably most shambolic were “Withered Hand” a boy/girl cello and guitar duo who stumbled through their songs, pulling in different directions and seeming quite under rehearsed but pleasantly unconcerned. I liked their extra indie style, their humour and lyrics and their attack, it beats the hell out of the introspective Nick Drake show and tell parade that many performers participate in. Sparrowhawk aka Spambourski were in fine and fully atmospheric form, they’ve cottoned onto something. Filthy Pedro was also fun, a refugee from Anglesey and the inventor of “Rock and Roll Points”, a bit like credit card points but awarded for mindless, bad and inappropriate behaviour. Rock on Pedro.

The week grinds to a halt with a visit to Livingstone to buy trainers for my daughter and a housecoat each. The sun is high in the sky and we munch a Gregg’s steak bake al fresco. A Brain Training Wii game is also purchased by Joe and we head back via the back roads doing our “find the cat, bowl clanging” routine and pushing “lost” posters through miscellaneous letter boxes. You always expect to see or meet some one when you do this but really it’s as if you are invisible, like H G Wells’ postman.

Hope in Mid Hope

impossible songs

Mid Hope - where are all the residents these days?



impossible songs

The search for Syrus carries on sporadically, determinedly, on the web and across the wide open and closed up spaces of West Lothian. We’ve had a sighting in the south over past Winchburgh; we’ve plodded across fields and down country lanes but found nothing. We’ve re-explored Mid Hope (as in the picture) and leafleted the scattered the dwellings that run across the estate. Now we know how big a place this is and how small a cat is in comparison. We also know a lot about the other cats lost in the area, many more than you’d think. Some disappear altogether, some return after a few days sporting and injury or two, some saunter back in and plop themselves on the couch as if nothing had happened. In our case it’s been one fruitless and frustrating search after another with no sign of the cat returning so far.

An alien finger in my Peri Peri

impossible songs

impossible songs

The Captain Beefheart mysteries

Hit that long lunar note and let it float, they say, others just freak out in a moon age day dream, oh yeah. I approve of both opposing positions and dead artists. Van Gogh’s art is in a weird style, to the uninitiated anyway. Meanwhile and coincidently an art exhibition takes place next door in the village hall, wine and Pringles flow freely and across the stained wooden floor; none of the artists present had a bandaged ear but we are in the strange position of having a village hall but not a village. The exhibit’s titles are many and various, some are more meaningful than others, some titles are better than the paintings.

Blips

History is all around, as is geography generally. Picasso breathes the same oxygen as all the others and his work is quite popular in Hollywood I understand. Perhaps his technique was more focused. Monet was an enigma and a skilled and popular gardener. Potato scones are also well liked around here, eaten raw with a little butter (?) or fried or grilled. My favourite chord sequence is Am, G, F, Em, G, Am, it can be played for hours without being boring for the player though not the listener I’m afraid.

Kittens attack innocent trees masquerading as house plants. Occasionally a dwarf giant is felled by their mighty claws. Squeals of surprise and stilted pain follow but the hard lesson is never learned. In the morning I shall vacuum up the fallen and part chewed leaves without ceremony but with silent respect, apart from the drone of the hoover.

Happiness is easy for Clive James to define but that is nothing to do with his nationality. Meanwhile I continue to empty the dishwasher and rub down the George Foreman in order to seek out my own tortuous route to happiness and self actualisation.

An alien finger in my Peri Peri (yawn!)

A bottle of Peri Peri sauce, purchased locally but we suspect it may contain a severed human finger in its darkest, secret heart. The question is, or should be, “at what point do we stop using the product?” Some might say use the sauce until the upright, rigid, dead digit appears in full view. Others may beg to differ and reject the sauce without any further ado, quite naturally. Some might enjoy, in a way they can’t explain, some subtle new aspect of the sauce’s flavour. Others may drain the bottle only to find small slivers of broken glass down at the bottom and wonder what the fuss was about but worry about consuming glass (a modern practice that many world religions are now against).

Almost peace in our time

The view from Creg-Ne-Baa in Freuchie, near Cupar.

impossible songs



impossible songs

Another busy week has passed, everyday crammed full with the ongoing cat search (exploring different, protracted and generally unsatisfactory lines), football, kids homework and exploits at their new secondary school, Transformers, Life on Mars, South Queensfery Comedy Nights, kittens in everything, Emma’s return from Sri Lanka, Paul on a mission to find Syrus, many meals and a few bottles of wine. I also spent a few anxious days tracking down my lost kilt, a particularly relevant item as we slide inexorably towards my oldest daughter’s wedding - now only a few weeks away. My precious Black Watch kilt had found a temporary home in a shop near the Hawes Inn, the reunion was almost emotional, thankfully quick and only cost £16.

Empty Headed

impossible songs



impossible songs

My head is empty.

Despite it being a busy and in many ways successful week our missing cat remains the primary concern and despite our natural optimism for all things, an air of gloom is prevailing. My own head feels strangely empty; I don’t think I’ve managed to have a single colourful thought or inspirational moment. Not having a head full of thoughts might seem like a good experience, like some deeper level of peace but actually it’s more like continually staring at a blank sheet of paper that you can neither move away from or write on or shade in. Of course like all things this will pass with either a happy ending or the realisation of an uncertain and sad outcome, we wait patiently. In the mean time the two kittens are sparring, running wild and growing bigger everyday. Their ongoing manic antics almost fill a certain gap.

Cover versions.

If you like live (recorded) music and ambling and rambling covers you could do worse than invest in The Saturday Sessions from the Dermot O’Leary Show. Forty four eclectic live pieces on one of those CD things from all sorts of interesting and naturally groovy acts, showing off and sounding pretty raw and no over dubs.

One lost cat

impossible songs



impossible songs

Syrus.

Sad to say our beloved cat Syrus has been missing for a full week now. We’ve searched all his known haunts but in the large wooded and agricultural lands that surround our house it’s not easy to cover all the possibilities. We’ve knocked doors, leafleted and used various cat web sites to advertise our loss but nothing has come of it so far. Losing your cat or your cat getting lost is not good.

Pulp Friction

impossible songs - flintstones fans.



impossible songs

Yes we have no Pop-Tarts.

In my regular sorties to swoop, hunt, gather and pillage in the supermarkets and of course be baffled by the choices and offers, I’ve also been noticing the disappearance or non-availability of certain key products. Supermarkets sell the illusion of choice and variety but actually fail to offer it. Some items have all but disappeared from the shelves or now come in other, foreign forms. You can’t just blame the product life cycle theorists or supply and demand. It is of course the Food Police hemming us into brands and products we only think we want. The confectionary and crisp aisle seem to suffer the worst and I also have concerns about their cereal stocking policies. This vague, bad but still living feeling is the result of trolley denting in Asda, Tesco and Morrisons. Trips to the Coop and Sainsburys are to stressful even to count in these, the wobbliest of statistics.

The appliance of science.

Why is there no cooking pot that, by using centrifugal force spins the contents so that they don’t stick to the pot during cooking? I have studied this medium at various theme parks: Alton Towers, Disneyland, Busch Gardens, Universal Studios to name but four and not counting Codona’s fun fairs of the sixties. Answers on a postcard please...

Happy Trails.

Without the Flintstones there would be no Red Hot Chilli Peppers, king ribs and dinosaur chicken bits or Simpsons. They are the spiritual source and traceable ancestor of many fine and misguided media creations and whacky barometers of modern life. Fred, Barney, Wilma, Betty, the Water Buffalos and Dino (so brilliantly named after a red Italian flop of a sports car) have changed all of our lives. I’m now trying hard to think what exactly Top Cat and his gang might have influenced. (Top Cat, Brains, Fancy, Choo-choo, Benny and Spook were their names).

Ugh.

Davy Crocket: A man who killed a bear at only three (was that the time of day?) and then went on to become the King of the Wild Frontier, where ever that was or is. Born on a mountain top in Tennessee, no maternity wing or emergency room in those days. None of these things explain why his song is going around inside my head like a cartoon merry-go-round this morning.

Contractually obliged blogging

impossible songs



impossible songs

The 2nd Ferry Fringe Open Mike event ran last night in South Queensferry’s Stags Head Hotel (the Stag). A little delay on the PA , a little twiddle on the controls, some tangled leads, a couple of shandys and few willing performers and a surprisingly enthusiastic audience, some local and some refugees from the huge cruise liner currently parked under the Forth Bridge. We’re all sold on song down here and we’ll repeat the event next month, around the 20th at the same venue.

The cat (the big adult one) has yet again gone awol. I spent the early evening hunting for him in what I think are his favourite haunts, how do you ever know these things? So it’s five days and counting since he dropped a mouse on the kitchen floor as I looked down at his grinning cat face - it's 6.30 am and I'm still in my pyjamas.

Dress down Friday. I’m now working on a site that offers the odd (for me) option of a dress down Friday. This means that if you turn up in your automatic choice of school uniform as it were, you look a bit of a chump. Suddenly I’m having to rethink my meagre wardrobe to see how it can cope with this cultural change. Thankfully there’s little if any sartorial effort made by my fellow workers, well the male ones anyway and there’s only three hundred and twenty working Fridays left for me to fret over.

In between brewing large amounts of Bolognese sauce and other magic potions for the weekend, hoovering and daydreaming I’m musing over the possibility of building a kit guitar from, err... a kit. The idea being to obtain a unique and well put together plank and all the accessories that I can then finish and customise in my own eccentric style and then brag to various musos about. I’m not wholly enthusiastic about the Airfix and Mechano aspects of this but the design and finish bit has a certain appeal. Something to pass onto the grandchildren so they can shove the neck through a 4x12 at the high school dance.