SONGS AND SCRIPTS AND DUNKING BISCUITS
Every day tales of a winging-it creative
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Photograph by Paul Ariss. Mason Arms, Gilcrux, Cumbria -
This coming Friday I will be moving out of the house that I have lived in since I was eight years old. The biggest part of my lifetime has been spent within these walls and I am the only one of my family still living here.
It feels like the right time; I of course have many happy memories here but it’s a large house and in recent years the sadness of the time looking after my ailing father has left a melancholy tinge to it. It needs a new family making fresh memories and giving it a new vitality and reconstruction.
I am ‘down-sizing’ to somewhere new that will help give me a much-needed energy and independent identity. I’m eager to begin a more streamlined and focused future that is productive and creative.
Over recent months I have been too wrapped up in the processes of the move to have properly engaged in the emotional aspect of leaving this place I know as home, my sanctuary. But emotions have been starting to seep in the last few days.
I of course have vivid memories in every room of the house. However, there is a particular room that has always very much been my safe place, my home within a home, and that is the room I now write in and was for many years after moving in, my bedroom. It is the room I’ll miss the most.
Originally it had Batman and Robin wallpaper (hey, I was 8!) which I used to guard with a possessive pride, but this slowly got replaced by more conventional coverings of footballers and rock stars.
This was the room I left to take on the banality and the thrills of the world, the room that I left one morning for my first day at ‘grown-up’ school when I was 11, and my first job at 16. I can’t recall how I felt, but it must have been daunting.
It was here as a 17 year-old I was hit by my first real grinding processing of grief. Its all-encompassing pain suddenly drowned me like the collapsing walls of a dam, as I sat on my bed trying to understand how my mother less than three weeks after her 41st birthday had suddenly died, leaving my near broken father and my two younger sisters, cruelly bereft from losing a young wife and mother.
I went to my first gig from here, Elton John at the Liverpool Empire on May 4th 1976. I heard for the first-time albums that would wrap themselves into my psyche and remain there. Indeed I wrote my first fledgling song lyrics here, sat by the window dreaming of success, and went out plying my songs, co-written by my then song-writing partner Bob Mouat, to music publishers in London.
I’ve bounced out of here to attend hundreds of football matches, returning triumphant and ecstatic an obscenely high number of times.
On Sunday 11th October 1987 I walked out of here with a shoulder bag with a spare shirt, a spare pair of jeans and a camera and by the end of the day I was wandering the streets of Manhattan in the dark trying to find my hotel room on a month-long Greyhound bus inspired journey across the United States, finally getting to the California I’d been day-dreaming about for years.
Painstakingly I pieced together the jokes that gave me the indescribable thrill of hearing them on the radio in front of a live studio audiences at Broadcasting House at the BBC.
First date. First heartache. First teenage angsts, first disillusionments, so many Christmas mornings, family weddings, off to meet friends, all from these four walls.
When I do walk out of this room for the final time I won’t close the door behind me, as I’ll never close the door on the memories from this room that have shaped me and will forever sit in my heart and thoughts.
I firmly believe a good home over time develops soul and character that goes way beyond just bricks and mortar. I hope to find that again.
So in the process of moving I will be taking a sabbatical from blogs for the next couple of months. I will still dip in to read them and comment when I can, but I have yet to decide whether to continue writing them, as I concentrate on other creative pursuits.
In the meantime happy blogging, stay well.
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My grandfather Gordon Ariss from Birmingham UK, boarded the ship HMT Rohna on the 25th November 1943, along with 1,981 American soldiers.
The next day the ship was attacked by a wave of German aircraft. They appeared to have weathered the attack until they were hit by a recently devised radio controlled bomb. It proved devastating, hitting the ship just above the engine room.
Many things were wrong with the HMT Rohna, and one of those was the inadequacy of its lifeboats. My grandfather perished along with 1015 American soldiers, either by the direct hit on the ship or by floundering around in the ocean trying to get on board one of the overcrowded and under supplied lifeboats. A further 35 US military personnel later died from their injuries.
Gordon Frederick Ariss The scale of the tragedy was covered up until several years after the war and was a source of secrecy that meant it wasn’t acknowledged as one of America’s biggest military losses in the way that it should have been. So my link to the United States was indelibly written many years before I was born. It was linked by the shared sacrifice of a family member without whom I simply wouldn’t exist, his blood shed along with by those on board that ship.
ME AND THE AMERICA OF MY DREAMS
My relationship with America has always been, I believe, a healthy one. I’ve soaked up its endless highways mysticism, immersed myself in its musical diversity when as a working class English lad it would have been cooler to turn to the exciting rich heritage of my homeland, but something culturally always pulled me Stateside.
I dreamed of going there and experiencing it as fully as I could, to see whether the myth was simply that. And when I eventually was able to travel its highways and its cities and towns, I discovered it was anything but myth. Everything I imagined about America was real.
Yet I also saw its imperfections. Its struggling sense of self. It’s inabilities from the vast number of its population to envisage a world beyond its own borders. It’s paranoia about communism lying underneath its society, seemingly always ready to pounce. A constant if sometimes unidentifiable suspicion permeating beneath the surface of its psyche of anything it couldn’t recognise or directly relate to.
But I realise that I come from a country increasingly divided. A country at odds with an imperial past many refuse to acknowledge as brutal, sadistically cruel, racist and wholly self-serving. My father was in the RAF stationed in Hong Kong which was owned, or more specifically leased, as a direct result of British Imperialism. I was born in Hong Kong so I began life on Imperial soil. Our past greatly influences the way many British people see ourselves.
With America I’m not so sure. It still has a feel of a work in progress. But lately, under the current administration it feels like a work in decline. From those of us on the outside looking in, it is becoming difficult to recognise its face anymore. What does it stand for? Is it friend or disinterested acquaintance?
With its recent willingness to ride roughshod over its constitutional bedrock and relationships with like-minded allies overseas, its ideals are growing less clear daily, both from the outside and from within.
President Donald Trump only in the last few days, following on remarks made months previously by his lickspittle sidekick J D Vance, has belittled the sacrifice made by allied troops in WW2. This is a massively insulting not only to the millions who died defending the freedoms we all enjoy, but to my grandfather and to his continuing family.
What sitting American President would ever consider such behaviour?
OPPORTUNITY FOR CHANGE
The main chance for meaningful change, it appears to me, is in the desire of its millions of decent people, to face down the injustices being inflicted on their society. Not in violence or insult but in deciding where their moral compass is and heading purposefully in that direction. Invoking the laws that were put in place to stop dictatorial leaders and championing those laws, by speaking out in public arenas and online, in their communities and wherever they have the opportunity to do so.
This is not an easy thing to do and is easy for me to preach about sitting safely, but I hope not smugly, behind my keyboard. The problem for reasonable people is that they are inclined to behave in a reasonable way, whereas unreasonable people have no qualms about the ways in which they act and whether truth is at the core of their actions. It takes a fundamental and often uncomfortable shift of approach for a balanced and decent individual to stand up and say ‘no more’.
But the signs are that a shift may be happening. In the deployment of the National Guard and marines in dealing with largely peaceful demonstrations about draconian immigration laws, in LA, people are galvanising. Pushing back. A few days ago I saw a video of a young and morally courageous member of the public stood in front of National Guard soldiers and speak eloquently and passionately against their roles there, and question how it sits with their individual values and beliefs that lay behind their desire to wear their uniforms.
It struck me how this normal everyday individual was able to speak clearly, strongly and with an articulacy his nations leader has never possessed. But then Trump only needs to speak with a level of clarity his audience can cope with.
Remarkably this individual was wrongly identified as Wyatt Russell, son of Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn, even though Wyatt was away filming at the time. This didn’t stop the White House attacking the actor in a typical example of using a lie to further their doctrine.
HOPE FROM NEAR MY HOMETOWN
Last week I attended both concerts from Bruce Springsteen in nearby Liverpool. When I first saw him play back in 1981 he was a scrawny livewire still very much carrying a persona shaped from the streets of his New Jersey upbringing. Now he has grown into an elder statesman not only of rock ‘n roll, but of American values.
To a thunderous chorus of cheers on both of the sell-out nights, Springsteen told the huge audience on Merseyside: “The America I’ve written about, and has been a beacon of hope and liberty for 250 years, is currently in the hands of a corrupt, incompetent, and treasonous administration.”
He carried on: “Tonight, we ask all who believe in democracy and the best of our American experience to rise with us, raise your voice and stand with us against authoritarianism and let freedom ring.”
I yearn for the imperfect but stridently aspirational America people like Springsteen speak and sing about, to return. I have no idea whether it will. But I know it has the capability to do so. Quite possibly it is still there, just learning how to shake off the smothering bully that is MAGA.
Like all of us trying to understand how a democratically elected administration with such low morale core can hijack America, I’m reminded of a few lines from the Springsteen song ‘Long Walk Home’.
‘That flag flying over the courthouse
Means certain things are set in stone
Who we are and what we’ll do, and what we won’t’
Each of the 26 times to date I have seen Bruce Springsteen I have felt invigorated. Last week I felt galvanised. For the first time since January I feel there is an opportunity for hope. Only time will tell whether that hope will be realised.
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Currently my blogging, be it publishing or reading, is struggling as my house move comes closer.
But you’ve all been there right? Long periods of little happening and then suddenly everything comes at once and you feel as though you still have mountains of stuff to work through and fitting in any creative pursuit feels frivolous and unnecessary when there is legal and financial things that need to be right, items that need to be packed, donated, thrown out, recycled or sold.
Image from Pixabay So forgive the brevity of this and its slightly boastful nature but after years of trying to get a short story published I achieved runners-up prize in a national competition for Writers Magazine recently and the short length of the blog will be made up for by the reading of the short story.
‘Guitar Gods and Downward Dogs’ is a comedic tale of a young band who have their perceptions upturned by a seemingly unlikely candidate for their new lead guitarist. Should you wish to do read it thank-you, here is the link:
https://www.writers-online.co.uk/writing-competitions/showcase/funny-situation/runner-up/
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Any creative process can be a question of trial and error, and that includes blogs. Not many of us write a piece in one flow, make a little tweak before considering it good enough to go and excitedly click ‘publish’.
Well some may, but they have clearly made a pact with the devil. Or they are a genius. More likely they just put out terrible blogs.
For the majority of us we are constantly adding in or taking out, moving parts to different places, then just before we send it out into the blogging world we see a gap or glaring error we had missed and thank the blogging gods we saw it in time. Then we are surprised when we look over to the right hand column (on WordPress anyway) to see how many revisions we have made.
Or maybe that’s just me.
For a song, it’s all that but bigger. Some songs just come out all in one big go and that is just fabulous. Some very successful, memorable songs have come out that way. Famously Paul McCartney woke up with the song ‘Yesterday’ in his head, then made some necessary lyrical tweaks and he’d created the most covered song of all time.
That’s Paul McCartney. But then there’s song-writers like me.
In fairness to myself, for most song-writers it’s a tentative start when we find, or stumble upon, a nice chord progression and then go along with it to see where it leads. Parts progress in a nice rush then stop. Some stop permanently, or get used in another song altogether. Or we add a bit, discard some ideas, swear a lot, then add a bit more.
The best part is when something comes and sets free the rest of the song. Suddenly you realise you have something. It can be so exciting. But the process can take weeks, or even months. And in the end you don’t know if it’s actually any good before you put it out.
My latest song, ‘Ask Me Again’, which came out on April 21st, was very much like that. Once I had it closer to fully written, I recorded a very rough, slightly nervous demo on to my phone. Being just a phone propped up against something, the sound levels are off, the playing stumbling, the vocal patchy. I was at this point still discovering the song myself.
If you are interested in part or whole, here is the demo on the link below.
Despite its un-promising beginnings I felt I had something. Studio time was already booked. From this basic demo the hours in the studio elevated it to its full potential. Thankfully I am fortunate enough to be able to work with a fabulous producer John Kettle. We discussed the song and it’s sentiments – how a victim of controlling behaviour in a relationship finds the strength to push back – and how it could be best served by the production.
At Johns hands we created a tension to the track. Layers were put down, foundations built. Guitar parts added. At this point obsession kicks in; nothing else matters other than what we’re doing in the studio. You want people to hear this.
Then over the next few weeks doubt has taken root. Is it actually any good? Will it connect? Yet despite this I’ve created the artwork. I’ve sent the song to Distrokid who distribute it to all the streaming platforms. Bit by bit I’ve created a video to compliment as well as promote the song, which in itself can be a creative trial.
Then it comes out, and that’s the exciting bit, but I’ve also steeled myself to the potential thud of indifference. Most people, friends, people I know, aren’t universally interested. The majority of the people who play the song are strangers and with no axe to grind and if they like it, that’s a real testament to whether what I’ve made is any good.
Here is the video for you to hear the leap from initial demo to completed recording and video:
Thankfully the song is being received well and streams are starting to rise rapidly. Since its release on April 21st it has become my most streamed song on Spotify, to date double more than any song I’ve written. Monthly listeners have gone from around 40 to; at present, 1,819. Music bloggers are taking notice including this one from Clive Pilcher at Take It Easy who I am grateful to say is very supportive of my song-writing.
Yet it all feels a long way from when I picked up the probably slightly out-of-tune guitar in my bedroom and stumbled into the beginnings of the song. But then like most things worthwhile, if it was easy, it wouldn’t be as much fun.
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A local cinema years in decay now refurbished, re-loved, and ready to open it’s doors again
For Debbie’s One Word Sunday
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All of us, myself included, to some level like to cultivate a musical identity that is eclectic, knowledgeable and a little edgy.
Oh we’re in sync with what is happening right now. Too right we are. We may not like it, we may not get it, but we like people to know we are aware that it’s a thing.
Electro-fusion-pop-what? Ice-rock-synth-eighties-retrorap-classic. Really? Metal-mix-pot-alt-country crossover who? Do we get a doggie bag with all that?
We have our streaming platform sorted. We may nod sagely at new artists, we’re aware of Sabrina Carpenter even if we can’t name more than one of her tracks. Our playlists may include Mitski (top Indie band of 2024, but you knew that, right?), be peppered with a little Arctic Monkeys, Hozier and Tame Impala.
Or maybe you’re too clever to be dragged into all that nonsense. Maybe your tastes are ‘classic’ artists for whom cool is part of their musical DNA – Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Billie Holliday, Floyd, Aretha, Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash. And on vinyl, of course, and none of that bright shiny over-priced new vinyl taken from digital recordings anyway. All our albums are weather beaten, have six different kinds of bacteria on the sleeve and have what some may call scratches but we refer to as battle scars.
But what if when we’re alone, when no-one is listening in, when no-one is watching, we like to go rogue. What if we like to indulge ourselves in something others would consider as irrelevant, musical pap. Something we know we shouldn’t like but just makes us feel good. Guilty, but a nice, naughty guilty.
This is my musical confession time. Here are my top three , totally uncool bands/artists that I listen to but wouldn’t normally share with anyone. Here are what many would consider to be musical sins, but they are sins I don’t intend to shed.
FOREIGNER
Foreigner are so uncool, I would be hard pressed to ever hear them on any radio station, particularly here in the UK. Real rock fans would never have them in their collection, they would look down their incense loaded noses at a band they would probably consider as pop. Foreigner fall between so many musical stools they may as well stay on the floor where most feel they belong.
They don’t possess the sex appeal of Bon Jovi, the laddish blokes-next-door-done-good credibility of Def Leppard, they don’t have the dirty son-in-law from hell vibe of Aerosmith or have the dues paid reputation of Van Halen.
But they could write a tune could Foreigner. I would argue they could write a tune better and more consistently than any of them. And in Lou Gramm they had a hugely underrated lead vocalist who’s soul-tinged voice could hit a ballad better than any and still have a rock edge to satisfy.
‘Feels Like The First Time’, ‘Waiting For A Girl Like You’, ‘Urgent’, ‘I Wanna Know What Love Is’, ‘Head Games’, ‘Cold As Ice’, these are, in my opinion, brilliantly crafted rock songs which admittedly aren’t musical Shakespeare, but many in their field would struggle to replicate. Hard but clean guitar, great choruses, and they resisted the tendency to litter them with self-indulgent guitar solos.
Simplicity in song writing is so hard to master and Foreigner knew how to do it. Inane lyrics, but I don’t care belting them out when driving. It may only be a once-a-year indulgence, but I do love a bit of Foreigner. So there.
GLEN CAMPBELL
Glen Campbell came into me and my sisters lives via our parents who were big fans. Back then in the 1970’s Glen came to epitomise a musical genre known as ‘Easy Listening’. You’d find an endless stream of artists in this section of a record shop and I have no problem with the genre, some great artists got lumped in there.
But none greater than Glen. Glen was a fantastic guitar player who earned his crust in the early days playing on a endless stream of big hits from artists such as Cher, Frank Sinatra and The Beach Boys. Glen however had something more special again than an ability to quickly know what was required from a studio session – he had an insanely fabulous voice.
Glen Campbell’s voice could soar with a purity and a power that was instantly recognisable. He knew how to interpret a lyric and his partnership with song-writer Jimmy Webb was legendary, both able to feed off the others individual strengths, bringing a stream of hits in the 1970’s that stand the test of time. ‘Galveston’, ‘By The Time I Get To Phoenix’, and the peerless ‘Wichita Lineman’.
‘Wichita Lineman’ can still move me emotionally after five decades of listening to it. It represents better than any other song that restless, ever-moving spirit of the US of that period. It has had books written about it, and has influenced many artists of different genres. It is one of the greatest songs, and the greatest contemporary recordings, that I’ve ever heard.
Towards the end of his life Glen’s albums featured covers of songs from The Foo Fighters, Green Day, Travis, U2, Tom Petty, and were tremendous. His ability to make any song sound like a Glen Campbell original is staggering.
His right-wing politics aside, I’ve always got time for Glen. I managed to see him twice in concert, and each time was a treat.
BREAD
Of my three guilty choices Bread is probably the least well known from anyone born from 1980 onwards, and also from some may have the least credibility.
They are spurned when people talk about the great groups of their period, despite their many hits. Bread didn’t trash hotels rooms, have tabloid reputations, or hang around with their contemporaries much. They didn’t have an image, though some consider them twee.
But I just loved their song-writing. Their melodies we simple and fabulous. In James Griffin and Robb Royer they had two fine song-writers but constantly existed under the shadow of David Gates who penned most of the bands hit’s ‘Make It With You’, ‘If’, ‘Baby I’m-A Want You’, It Don’t Matter To Me’, ‘Guitar Man’ and more.
But my favourite David Gates song is the wonderfully moving ‘Everything I Own’. Written for his late father, this song was murdered by Ken Boothe and chopped up and put in a bin bag by Boy George, neither of which I can stand to hear.
The original however, feels as touching and as beautiful today as when I first heard it in my early teens.
So there you go, my favourite musical guilty pleasures.
Are they really that bad? Maybe you were expecting Boney M. Billy Ray Cyrus? Right Said Fred? Or maybe they would be your guilty pleasures. Go on tell me, I won’t share, I promise.
SONGS AND SCRIPTS AND DUNKING BISCUITS 