Gender: Male
Status: Married
Age: 61
Sign: Aquarius
City: Edinburgh
State: Scotland
Country: UK
Signup Date: 9/12/2006
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Saturday 19/12/2009
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Current mood:festive
Category: Blogging
I can't believe it's been over two weeks since I last visited the Bluesblog. It's been hectic, is my excuse.
Radio
My first excursion into the world of local radio was undertaken on 10.12.09 at Sunny Govan Switchback (103.5FM) in Glasgow. The studio is just off where the Glasgow Garden Festival was held in 1988. A road now runs through the former festival site with a roundabout in the centre giving access to the Science Centre, the BBC Studios and Sunny Govan Radio. I reckoned the roundabout is exactly on the location where my Broom Milk Bar Pavilion was sited. I confirmed it on Garden Festival maps when I got home. I had never been in that part of Glasgow since 1988 Festival. There was spme discussion about retaining my Pavilion as a cafe in the new park to be formed out of the Festival site, but the masterplan had onceieved of the Science Centre and BBC Studios and the road design was set. Still it's cool to think that the Pavilion retains a ghostly presence in the shape of the roundabout.
I have alluded to my concerns about studios. I am the man who notoriously gets red light fever and can't play in a small room crammed with electronic equipment when signalled by the eponymous red light to start, though stick me in a rowdy bar anywhere and I'm instantly ready to rock. I was only able to record my first CD, incidentally in the same studios in which Jimi Hendrix practised when Chas Chandler first brought him over from the States, by imagining it to be a live performance. There were no separate tracks laid down for my or Ed Lauret's guitars, or my vocals: we just played as we would at the Bridge, the Green Mandolin or Offshore 44. The only difference was the rather large number of false starts I managed to contrive in the studio before we actually got anything down.
Radio is not so forgiving. When you're on, you're on, no hesitation or false starts, no comfort zone. Paul, the programme host, was brilliant at creating a totally relaxed atmosphere: just two guys in a room listening to and discussing the music they liked for a couple of hours with one of them occasionally breaking into song. Paul stuck up a webcam at the start since the programme was being streamed in real time. Within a minute I had forgotten its existence to that extent that I think I my have picked my nose at one point. Oops! But, hey, pretty fuckin natural you'd have to agree.
Paul had suggested I bring along some CDs from my own collection. On a whim I included the Ted Hawkins' CD with Who got my natural comb? which set up a lively real time email and text session with listeners and viewers. Amazing that so many people in Scotland should have heard of and liked TH. We also featured my current musical obsession, the truly amazing Son of Dave, playing Niketown off 03. If you've not yet cottoned on to Son of Dave, it's about time you did! I can't recommend him highly enough.
My biggest concern, as it turned out, was a zero response when I switched on the guitar and amp. I had brought the acoustic along as back up but I'm finding the songs just have a much better edge when played on the SG through the wee overdriven Vox. After messing about with some combinations I thought to try the acoustic through the amp. Likewise no response, so at least it wasn't the SG. I then decided to swap leads. That fixed it. From my days managing and roadying for Blues-son 2 Daniel's band Mayonnaise, I have carried spares of every kind in the gig bag together with a small toolkit and a big roll of gaffer tape. It's been a life-saver for me and many of the musicians I have played with. It still amazes me how some players will turn up at a gig without basic kit. "Anyone got a plectrum/capo/D string/guitar I could borrow?"
I played Label, Photographs, Venice and Cut away, which last had been specifically requested by Paul. It seems he'd downloaded it in the Emmerson/Trepka/Clarke Band version off my moribund website (I must get it operational again) and had been playing it a bit. For those who might wish to check it out the web address is www.thebluesfather.com. Informal reports on the programme from, possibly biased, family and friends reckon I was "superb and relaxed". Shit, I'll buy that!
Work
Work has consisted in large measure of travel with a meeting in Glasgow, a snowy drive to Kirkcaldy for a site inspection and two days surveying a Listed Building (under statutory protection for its architectural or historical virtues) in Tarbert in the Western Isles where I stayed overnight in the fabulous Hotel Hebrides in my same corner room. The owner and his wife separately questioned me about their future proposals for the hotel since they'd worked out I was an architect. This is where I have to be very careful professionally. Even casual advice given in the context of a friendly conversation carries with it potential liability in the event that that advice can be seen to have been instrumental in, say, a building failure or poor investment. Since the hoteliers were considering knocking through a wall I offered advice without really giving any. "Get a structural engineer to calculate the beam you'll need and make a Building Warrant application to the local authority." This last was met with groans as no-one really likes dealing with the Council but I noted that not to do so could devalue their property or prevent its resale if that became necessary. They seemed satisfied that they'd had reasonable advice. I spent a pleasant night and was fired up on the excellent breakfast porridge the following day.
Driving back to Stornoway in the hired car, of which more in a moment, there was a beautiful rainbow arching over the road just south of Airdh a Bhruaich. The sun had been intermittently flitting out from behind the rainclouds as I had driven north through Harris lighting up the hills in an incredible palette of purple, tawny, ochre, green, black and silver, then disappearing again behind cloud, drawing down a grey veil over all. Breathtaking.
The hired car was a Chevrolet Matiz. This is not a vehicle I would recommend anyone to buy unless all it was used for was brief trips to the supermarket on level roads within a 30 mph speed limit. It struggled to get to 60mph (108kmh) at which speed it was on the very edge of unstability. Its high centre of gravity makes it lean uncomfortably into corners, always threatening to kick the rear end out. The speedometer shows a potential top speed of 120 mph (216 kmh). At anything even remotely approaching this speed on any road that was not absolutely straight and level it would be lethally uncontrollable. If for any reason one has to slow down - the not infrequent sheep lying in the middle of the road, for example - loss of momentum takes an age to recover and as for the hills, one is soon down the gearbox thrashing away in second in the hope that you'll make it to the top before the Council refuse van you just passed on the flat catches you up. Nightmare.
Flying home
On the way home, as we flew over Inverness, it was possible to pick from about 5000 feet individual houses with mega-Christmas-light displays. Quite astonishing amounts of light and I began to reflect on energy usage, what with the thoroughly disappointing, though not unexpectedly so, Copenhagen Climate Conference. I think it was entitled Cop 09 though Cop-out would have been a more accurate description. We can all play our part in a small way in reducing carbon emissions but we need an over-riding framework. Such is the level of international suspicion today, that it seems a mountain to climb.
At one point in the approach to Inverness the street lights of a small estate of houses formed the perfect outline of the United Kingdom. Our descent into Edinburgh was from the west, which during daylight features the uninspiring business and industrial estates stretching from Bathgate to Newbridge. At night, however, the serried ranks of regular planning defined by the streetlights set up patterns worthy of a fabric design by Anni Albers. This was some compensation for not approaching Edinburgh from the east. From the east the flight path is over the two Forth Bridges, followed by a sharp right turn, which then reveals the panorama of the city all the way from the Firth of Forth to the Pentland Hills hemming it in to the south. Spectacular during the day, magical at night.
Immediately off the plane at Edinburgh, glowing slightly from my two complimentary G&Ts "from the bar", I caught the Airport Express bus back into the town centre (the benefits of the over-60 bus pass continue to accrue) to meet Daniel for pints in the Oxford (see a recent blog). Good craic.
Christmas party
The office Christmas Party was themed "apres-ski", which was fine for those for whom "pre-ski" and "ski" form part of their lives. I joined in as best I could but I confess I ended up looking more ice-road-trucker or Canadian lumberjack needing beer than fresh from the piste and anticipating cocktails and fondue. Still, I thought I managed to maintain an appearance reasonably consistent with the snowy wintryness of the theme. The restaurant was decked out with little timber chalets with tables for ten, fake snow on the floor, Christmas music, fairy lights and the heating turned off. This last I thought was a masterstroke, which justified the big boots and thick socks, woolly bunnet, the gloves and the several layers of polo neck sweater, voluminous scarf and fleece-lined Wrangler jacket. We had barely consumed the first round of beers when we were asked by our Fraulein if we were "ready for our shots?" I was amazed that a restaurant had been called in to support our Government's programme of inoculation against the swine flue virus before I realized that this was a sales promotion to encourage us to buy mojitos or some such alcoholic concoction. I guess this is where the real profit is made. We declined and stuck with the free beer and wine: we are Scottish, after all.
Despite this unpromising start the meal turned out to be an amazing success and then it was back to the office for party games and more drinks. The event had started at 11.00am; I caught the last bus home about 12.45am the following morning having drunk steadily, though carefully, for nigh on 13 hours. I got up this morning hangover-free (should I be worried?) and sufficiently active to thrash the lad (Blues-grandson Ben) at badminton this afternoon.
Sunday
Off to Cosmopol in Glasgow tomorrow night. I hope the snow stays off.
 | Currently listening:
03
By Son of Dave
Release date: 2008-04-08 |
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Friday 04/12/2009
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Current mood: ambulatory
Category: Travel and Places
Sir John Summerson, in his book The Classical Language of Architecture, described Edinburgh's New Town as the "greatest classical-romantic townscape in the world". Time Out has newly published a book entitled The World's Greatest Cities in which Edinburgh comes 34 out of 75 and second in the UK after London, scoring a whopping 9 on the architectural rating, not bad overall for a city of fewer than half a million population. The heart of this beautiful city is Princes Street, which mediates between the Gothic-Renaissance secrecy of the Old Town and the openness of the Classical-Enlightenment New Town. Sad to say for residents and visitors alike Princes Street has been a building site these past 9 months as the city has struggled to divert infrastructure and lay tracks as part of its ambitious tram project. Significant, photogenic views have been obscured by metres of Heras fencing and yellow diggers, bulldozers, cranes and other assorted site traffic crawl backwards and forwards, seemingly to little purpose.
There has been much grumbling in the city about the inconvenience to traffic and shopping, an inconvenience which has spread like a blight from the airport to Ocean Terminal at the Port of Leith. There is barely a major or even minor traffic route through the benighted city, which has not been coned off for all or part of its length as contractors wrestle with intractable pipes and cables. There is a YouTube video, which has some of Hitler's closing scenes in Downfall overdubbed with dialogue directly related to the trams chaos. Some of it is of local interest only, but enough will strike a chord with any city-dweller who has been subjected to the full horror of what improvements actually mean. I am a great supporter of the tram but even my faith has been tested. Most locals have fixated on the cost of the venture. As Adolph says in the YouTube clip, "£500 million just to replace the number 22 bus!!??"
On Sunday past the contractors quit the main section of Princes Street and buses and taxis began to run again. Over the next few days Princes Street was thronged with locals, acting for all intents and purposes as if they were tourists, just thrilled to have their street back. They wandered around, gawking, as if they had never seen it before and many, for the first time possibly, were drawn to the realisation of how beautiful and unique this odd, one-sided street is. Views of the Castle and Old Town were now visible without an intervening skein of metal mesh. And as they walked along Princes Street there could be heard behind them an audible sigh of relief from shopkeepers, reassured that the street was open again for business in time for Christmas. Every lunchtime, now, I'm out of the office and promenading, joining in the joy of re-acquaintance.
The trams will be along in 2011, so don't wait at a tram stop just yet.
| Currently listening:
03
By Son of Dave
Release date: 2008-04-08 |
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Sunday 29/11/2009
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Current mood: motorv8ted
Category: Travel and Places
The week started with a flurry, proceeded in a blur - barring some standouts - and now it's Sunday again and another week beckons. I took Monday and Tuesday off to try and eat up some untaken leave before the deadline of 31 December. This gave me time to do further research on the life and works of Matt Steele, a Scottish architect, for which I have been commissioned to write a short monograph. Steele is pretty elusive with little documentary evidence of his life apart from the buildings, some drawings and a diary from the last year of his life. Not a lot to go on, so I've been coming at it all tangentially through his clients, their contacts and stylistic or professional parallels in his life and work.
On Monday night I was playing one of my favourite venues, PivoPivo in Glasgow, opening for not one, not two, but three bands. To be honest I only really noticed the last band on, Dougie and the Desperadoes: terrific, with a brilliant foregrounding of the Scottish component of Americana, Check them out! A Monday night opener is generally problematic but there was a capacity up-for-it audience who, with a bit Bluesfather-engineered audience participation, were ready for anything. I could hardly get off the stage at the end and so many people came up to say thanks and offer drinks, it was just overwhelming. I must be doing something right!
On the way home we were all shepherded off the M8 at Townhead by the Police and told to find alternative routes as emergency vehicles in numbers flashed past. So I headed northheast to Falkirk along the M80 and then on to the M9 to Edinburgh adding about 30 minutes to the journey time. It turned out that a 70-year-old guy had been driving the wrong way along the M8 and ploughed into oncoming traffic. The pictures on the television news the next day were of carnage. The poor guy was killed. I reckon I must have missed it by bare minutes. The news reports suggested that he had been seen earlier going the wrong way on the M80. This didn't surprise me one bit as it was coned out for about 10 miles and was incredibly confusing even under arc-lamps. I had to slow right down to follow instructions for lane changes.
I put the car into the repair shop on Tuesday morning to have the damage caused by the hare repaired, thinking that I had just about been involved in something altogether more serious. I got the car back on Thursday looking as good as new, admittedly I was £125 lighter although only in a technical sense. Earlier that day my Winter Fuel Allowance of the same amount had been paid into my account by HM Government since I'm over 60. I tell you, get to 60 in the UK and all sorts of benefits start flowing your way. I never thought growing old could be so much fun!
Other good news this week is that Sunny Govan Switchback, a local Glasgow radio statio, whose presenter had seen me play at the State Bar a couple of weeks previously (see a recent blog, Edinburgh/Glasgow) has asked me on to their Americana show on 10 December. Now I'm feeling nervous: quiet rooms with a mic and a red light and nothing else are a challenge to the Bluesfather. Finally, this Wednesday it's another Blue Wednesday at the Forest Cafe with the fabulous Emma Forman and Fitzroy Soul. I'm really looking forward to this as they're pretty rock-paced performers with a nice wee blues tinge. Blue Wednesday is such an indulgence as I get to hear and play alongside the people I want to hear and play alongside. Hmmmmm-mmmm!
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Sunday 22/11/2009
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Current mood: speleological
Category: Music
Channel-hopping the other week I managed to see, within the space of two days, The Assassination of Jesse James by the coward Robert Ford and The Proposition: both set in frontier country of implacable beauty and unforgiving climate, both concerning violent acts, which took place around 1880, the former in Missouri, USA and the latter in Queensland, Australia. These two films prompted a couple of thoughts.
The first, I suppose, was chronology. The house I sit in, writing this blog, dates from 1880. It is part of a co-operative housing venture known locally as the "Colonies", which constructed some 5000 homes in Edinburgh between 1860 and 1910. They are permanent, stone-built structures, ordered and regular and were provided with all amenities and are now classed as architectural conservation areas. They are so different to the clapboard communities shown in the two films.
The second was how the incompetence, moral confusion and indiscriminate action of the perpetrators and the dogged resistance to dying of the mortally wounded showed violence in all its random, messy, crude and relativistic brutality: such a stark contrast to the choreographed, balletic, soft-core violence of Peckinpah.
The third, was how the landscapes were central to the drama of the futility of human events being acted out against it and how in both films the elegiac quality of the landscape had been reflected in the music score. To my surprise, although I knew he had written the screenplay for The Proposition, both films had been scored by Nick Cave. This was clearly the link. Cave had simply passed me by in my musical interests, save for an uncomfortable, embarrassing and over-the-top version of I feel so good on Wim Wenders' The Soul of a Man in the Scorsese presentation The Blues: a musical journey. So I've had an interesting week of catching up on all things Cave. It's really good to find a whole area of music that you just hadn't connected with before and which has something to say.
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Sunday 15/11/2009
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Current mood: inclusive
Category: Life
The Pale Rider and I have successfully completed our compatability dates having had an enjoyable and incident-free trip through on the M8 to Glasgow on Friday the 13th(!) to play That Devil Music at Craig Hughes event of the same name in the State Bar. This was a compelling evening of in-your-face music and not-that-old-chestnut-again social commentary on the Edinburgh/Glasgow divide. First the music.
That Devil Music
The basement at the State Bar is perfect. It's small, low-ceilinged and the stage area is in an ideal orientation within good view from the bar seating, far enough away from the route to the toilets and within arms-reach of the bar. I got there early after some confusion over a one-way street and a taxi rank, which had me circling round in Holland Street to general traffic dismay until I managed to extricate the Pale Rider and find a legal parking place. I always arrive early at unfamiliar gigs as you never know quite what the set up will be. Fortunately TDM was pretty straightforward and I was able to load in and get the amp sorted immediately. Well almost. As I switched between bridge and neck pickups I noticed that the sound was fading in and out until it finally died, only operating on the neck pickup. I guess there's a loose connection in the switch. With the neck pickup switched on and a bit manipulation of top and bottom on the amp and I got the sound reasonably balanced and with a nice dirty edge.
I was on first, as a newcomer, and you really have to work that slot. I have a routine, now, when playing new venues outside of Edinburgh to kick off with a bit of throwaway spraff, which goes something like this: "How're y'all doing this evening? You alright?" This is always followed by a totally lukewarm audience response, which I follow up with: "That was crap. I've just driven through from Edinburgh and I've had to show my visa at Harthill (a local joke about the Edinburgh/Glasgow divide to which I will return shortly) just to be with you guys tonight, so are you alright!?" Huge response this time and I know they're on my side before I've even played a note. They were great from then on in and I just had a ball.
Next up were The Dirt who did a set of murder ballads in a beautiful sub-Americana style with fabulous harmonies and interesting instrumentation. I had a long conversation with them during the night and I'm determined to have them come over to Edinburgh to play Blue Wednesday as early in 2010 as I can arrange it. They'd had a poor experience in Edinburgh at the Wee Red Bar the previous evening playing to 2, that's right 2, disinterested punters and I want to show them that not all Edinburgh events are shit.
And then it was Craig Hughes, whose album launch was the principal point of the evening. He has an agressive slide guitar style not unlike Dave Arcari though not with quite the same sheer raging manic abandon that is Dave's trademark. He had a terrific set and seemed to have shifted a fair bit of product by the time the evening closed.
There was a grudging review of the event by the usually conscientious Bluesbunny. I was amused at his observation that "the Bluesfather plays blues on a shiny red guitar. He's from Edinburgh and mannered and polite. I'm not sure you can be mannered and polite and play the blues." I don't intend to overly deconstruct this comment for an analysis of how to play the blues nor to remind the Bluesbunny that he has been rather more complimentary of the Bluesfather in the past, other than to say that some of the greatest blues players I've seen live showed a controlled passion, were modest in presentation and eschewed histrionics to profoundly moving effect. Contained within the above review, however is a juxtaposition which leads me neatly into the second part of this blog.
Edinburgh/Glasgow
After I had come off stage a number people came up to say how much they had enjoyed my set and I was bought a pint by a guy standing at the bar by way of thanks. I sat down at a table near the stage so I could see The Dirt best when it was their turn to play. Also sat at the table was a guy of about my age who leant over to shake my hand and say how much he had enjoyed my set. This was also very gratifying although at this point the conversation took a familiar turn. "You're from Edinburgh, too," he said. So much meaning that little word "too"; the implication being that since I was from Edinburgh I couldn't possibly express raw emotion, lay my soul bare on stage, play searing bluesharp or dirty guitar, and have an audience totally silent and hanging on every word through Venice and Photographs (a song, incidentally, that the Bluesbunny has commented very favourably upon before - not his night, perhaps).
"Of course, Glasgow people are so much more friendly than Edinburgh people," was his next observation. If I had a fiver for every time I've heard this piece of defensive shit, I'd be a millionaire. It's simply not true but seems to satisfy the need in some West-coasters for validation. Being from Edinburgh, however, I am polite and I merely offered that perhaps Edinburgh people were reserved and cautious to begin with. "So Jimmy Logan (a local Glasgow comedian, now dead) was right when he said that the Edinburgh greeting was 'You'll have had your dinner, then?'" The not-too-subtle implication being that in addition to being reserved Edinburgh-folk are also mean. Being mannered, I let it pass but did wonder whether, in any social occasion with new people, I had ever indulged in a putdown of my visitor or his/her hometown. I think not. I must have evidenced some irritation at this line of dialogue as he switched to something to the effect that "of course, Edinburgh is an international city" as if this was a valid explanation for his characterisation of its inhabitants as emotionally-stunted, unfriendly and mean.
He then introduced the topic of Dave Arcari who, before his move out of the city and recent European touring, had been a regular at TDM. I thought at this point I should indulge in a spot of revenge. I let him carry on a bit about Dave and his electrifying stage performance before I noted that he's such a quiet modest person offstage. This had my West coast friend gasping a bit to learn that I knew of his hero so I quickly followed it up with how I'd first seen Dave over two years ago supporting Seasick Steve and had then opened for Dave in July this year at Henry's at the request of Dave and his management as a means of saving a gig where the promoter had walked, leaving chaos. West-coast-man was now so confused that an Edinburgh guy could have the balls, the cojones, the chutzpah, the ability to open for the force of nature that is his hero, Dave Arcari, that he was reduced to silence. Was I angry? No. I felt sorrow; sorrow for this desparate West coast need, which thankfully is not universal, to contrast their imagined openness against an imagined East coast reserve to the detriment of the East. I had studied for two years at the Mackintosh School of Architecture in Glasgow, contributed architectural work to the Glasgow Garden Festival of 1988 and the European City of Culture in 1990 and had grown to love the gritty city as a contrast to my home town, but never in a way that was less than complementary and complimentary.
I feel neither an Edinburgher nor a Glaswegian and I'll be back playing in Glasgow on the 24th of this month. Just try to keep me away.
An explanation
For readers unfamiliar with the geography and mythology of Scotland I should note that Edinburgh (pop. ca, 460,000) on the Firth of Forth to the east and Glasgow (pop. ca 600,000) on the River Clyde to the west are just over 40 miles (72km) apart in an area known as the Central Belt, which contains around 80% of Scotland's 5 million population. It's the intellectual, service, banking, computing and manufacturing area. Frequent attempts have been made over the years to harness the two cities and the many towns in between as a City-region much as has been done elsewhere particularly round Frankfurt in Germany or the Benelux countries. Ocean-span from the 1980s is the one I remember most clearly, which was to act as the link between the Atlantic and North America and the North Sea and Europe. Ingrained attitudes, such as the above, have tended to cause these efforts to founder. Matters have been complicated in recent years firstly, by the creation of a devolved government in Scotland with the Parliament located understandably in the capital city, Edinburgh and secondly, by the net decrease in population of Glasgow by emigration and the redrawing of the city boundary compared with the net increase in population of Edinburgh, still, in these difficult times, one of the fastest-growing and most popular cities in the UK. Harthill is a motorway service station that straddles the M8 halfway between Edinburgh and Glasgow and fondly, punningly, but unrealistically, describes itself as the Heart of Scotland.
A hope
Simply, Edinburgh and Glasgow are stronger together and their complementary attributes a foundation for success.
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Monday 09/11/2009
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Current mood: numerological
Category: Blogging
300
No, this blog is not about a recent film on ancient Greek history. It's simply my rather pathetic interest in numbers with zeroes attached, the significance of 300 being that this is the 300th entry in the Bluesblog since the Bluesfather started charting the small triumphs and tragedies of his life. It's a kinda nice number, 300, neat, tidy, not too small or insignificant and not too large or over-stated. Rounded; yeah, a rounded number made up of two comfy 'O's and welcoming, bosomy '3'. I suspect a fair share of the 300 has been repetitive: accounts of gigs; occasional political rants; social observations; the odd funny story; trials and tribulations with transport; strange characters at work and their odd doings; travelogues; the business of song-writing; infrequent snatches of poetry and lyrics; the Bluesfamily's activities, etc. And I don't suppose the next 300 will be much different.
10
A few blogs ago I mentioned that I'd stayed in one of the boutique hotels featured in a Guardian or Observer survey. Ben and I were thrilled that Friday's Guardian survey of the ten best Indian restaurants in Britain featured our favourite, The Valley Junction in Newcastle upon Tyne. Well done to the Guardian for keeping up with the Bluesfamily style-leaders. If only Kushi's in Edinburgh hadn't been destroyed by fire about a year ago, I'm sure it, too, would have featured. Kushi's is an Edinburgh institution in that it was the very first Indian Restaurant in town opening in 1947 or 48. I've written before about Kushi's and how the cheap, simple but filling food - no-one could ever accuse it of sophistication in 1966 - sustained us as students at the University of Edinburgh.
1948
Well there's another significant number that just popped into this blog as it did into Saturday's Guardian with a rather stupid article about how, if you were to pick a great year to be born in, it would have to be 1948. The Guardian justified this sweeping claim with the fact that this was the year the National Health Service started (American readers please note, the NHS is NOT a communist conspiracy to deprive us of democratic freedoms), that the Welfare State got into its swing, that early retirement was now de rigueur with spectacular pensions, etc. The point is that just about any year is either the best or worst to be born in; it all depends on your chances in life. It's like this sad obssession with the 1960s, particularly expressed by those not around at the time. Yeah, it was cool, it was also seriously shit at the same time. Selective remembering is something we're really good at, but really, there's no such thing as a 'golden age' except in an un-nuanced retrospective view. So while I'm glad I was born in 1948, it's largely not for the reasons given by the Guardian but rather that as a starting point it allowed the crazy trajectory of my life to throw up so many fabulous opportunities and dismal disasters in almost equal measure that right now I'm content to say, "still ahead, just!"
3
My employer has suggested that with my considerable experience of working with old buildings I should be looking to acquire a qualification in Architectural Conservation. I never thought that at this time of my life I'd be looking to acquire a new qualification though I do understand that individuals in their 90s are completing Doctorates and not just doctorates they started in their 20s and couldn't be arsed to complete till now. As part of the application process I have to write case studies about 3 significant or illuminating projects where architectural conservation was the whole or major part of the work. It's interesting recasting projects as work in architectural conservation, which, for me at the time, represented a completely different aspect of architecture to conservation. We shall see whether it all adds up to anything.
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Thursday 05/11/2009
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Current mood: Scottish
Category: Music
Newcastle
The Pale Rider has passed the first of my compatability tests by getting me safely, economically and enjoyably to Newcastle upon Tyne for my Monday gig at the Tyneside Cinema. This was a new driving experience for me: smooth beyond belief with none of the Silver Bullet's nervy quirkiness. I have a slight nagging sensation that I could be entering the "pipe-and-slippers" zone of motoring if I'm not too careful where flat cap and string-backs in a miasma of beige loom uncomfortably close. For the moment, however, I'm able to balance the cool whiteness of the Pale Rider with the stark blackness of the Bluesfather in a multi-medial, musical/motoring op-art. Nonetheless, I will be maintaining a daily beige-vigilance, ready to pounce on anything in the taupe spectrum, which has appeared by chance, overnight in my wardrobe. As the well-known proverb makes clear; "Absent-mindedness makes the hat grow fawnder."
Ben and Lucy's monthly event at the Tyneside Cinema is a wonder. Staged in the new air-rights extension behind an external wall of shimmering, silvery plastic, it has an ethereal quality. This was emphasised by their Fleetwood Mac-influenced band, Black Mosse, and Natalie Stern, the Norwegian enchantress whose electronic loops set up a trance-like vibe. And then there was the Bluesfather, raw and raucous. I like to think it was a compensating contrast for all the hippy niceness that surrounded it. But then I would, wouldn't I?
As I was refuelling at the bar a guy about my age came up and asked hesitantly, "It is Roger Emmerson, isn't it?" I'm OK with faces in that I can recognise those I have seen before and I was certainly familiar with his. Ask me to connect a name or context to the face, however, and all you get is blankness. Such blankness must have been my evident expression as he followed up his query with, "I'm Paul Hancock." Paul Hancock was/is a Planner with Newcastle City Council with whom I had had a protracted negotiation of nearly 18 months, attempting to obtain planning permission for a residential development on a sensitive site in the heart of the Gosforth Conservation area some four years ago when I was working in Newcastle. Planning permission was obtained and the first phase is now complete and looking very stylish (no false modesty here, as you well know).
Paul went on to say how the buildings were highly regarded locally and that even the most vociferous, not to say vituperative, of the opponents of development now had nothing but praise for them. He also went on to say that they are known locally as the "Scottish flats", though few, if any, are aware that they were designed by a Scottish architect. The site is in an area of distinctive English Free-style houses of the period 1880-1920 and my aim had been to infuse something of an Arts and Crafts Northumberland character into the new development but plainly my Scottish heritage was just too strong to be gainsaid. I must admit to a real pleasure at the description, Scottish flats. If you want to see what Geordies class as Scottish flats go to www.spacegroup.com, click on "Live" in the menu and search Elmfield: that's them. If any of you can be bothered venturing a little architectural criticism I'd be interested to know your views on how Scottish or otherwise they appear to you.
I've put this encounter down with the very many figures-and-events-from-the-past that have popped back into my life over the past three years. All a bit scary, I can tell you.
Edinburgh
Returning to Edinburgh up the A1 at about 1.00 on Tuesday morning I manage to take out a hare, which leapt out from the road edge straight into the path of the Pale Rider. Hares are big and rangy animals and, as I surveyed the wreckage that was my bumper and lower radiator grille the next morning, pretty heavily built.
Still the Pale Rider is drivable, which was handy as Blue Wednesday loomed and guitar and amp needed transporting to the Forest. I've headed up this site with my appreciation of Hannah and Jym, they are such consistently good performers. Hannah had a fabulous song about underwear, which said everything you needed to know about the female mindset during a relationship and after its breakup. I suspect Hannah would take exception at my crass simplification. Jym was grumpy, which is the way I like him before goes on stage, and complaining about the sound, the way the vocals were being given reverb, the big orange spot, which I got turned off and then the white spot, which I did not as the stage would have been plunged into darkness. A grumpy Jym is an agressive and arrogant Jym, which means a great performance. He is of course as pleasant as you could imagine afterwards as he gave me a big hug of thanks, lovely man that he is.
The Bluesfather was back on the 'lectric after the acoustic set in Newcastle. I'm really enjoying playing the SG through the Vox with a nice bit of gain on top. I noticed, as I had down at the Tyneside, quite a number of people bopping their seats to Medea, Photographs, Gaffer tape, Blue star and My babe. I think I need to up the ante on the rocky, danceable numbers, perhaps even reconsider my stalled band project.
Unfortunately Sparrahawk from Glasgow was unable to play due to a serious hospital-type emergency. I wish him all the best for a speedy recovery and extend the open invitation, "Whenever you're feeling right again, man, there's always a berth waiting for you at BW."
Glasgow
That Devil Music in Glasgow beckons in a week's time. Really looking forward to it.
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Sunday 01/11/2009
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Current mood: educational
Category: Jobs, Work, Careers
I've referred a number of times to my work on the design of the new school at Tarbert in the Isle of Harris in the Western Isles, so I thought I'd throw in a couple of images so can you get some idea what I've been on about.
This is the main entrance to the Sir E Scott School. It sits bewteen two low sheltering granite hills with a sea loch to the west, which opens out into the Atlantic Ocean. The next bit of terra firma is Newfoundland in Canada.
This is the pupil entrance identified by its more informal shape and brighter colours (I do love purple!) and with the sports hall and sports field on the right.
The design had progressed through a series of public consultations with pupils, parents, teachers, local residents and councillors initiated in December last year. This process meant that many contributions from the Harris community were wrapped up in the design and in which they now have a huge stake. This is very much a collaborative effort.
I was in Tarbert and Stornoway on Thursday (4.30am start - aaargh!) and Friday last week for a number of meetings, including a public presentation and exhibition of the latest drawings, connected with the schools project and spent an overnight in Tarbert. Some weeks back the Guardian or Observer, I forget which, had an article in a Travel section on outstanding European boutique hotels; and there it was, amongst the glittering tourist locations of Europe, Hotel Hebrides in Tarbert with a glowing report, which, having stayed there on Thursday night, I can confirm. The hotel is incredibly stylish with very voguish interior design, just up my street. I had a beautiful little corner room with a window in each adjoining wall. This gave a fantastic view over Tarbert and the ferry terminal. When I went to bed at night there was a large Caledonian MacBrayne (Calmac) car ferry outside my window, when I woke in the morning it was gone, sailing to Oban on the Scottish mainland.
Food in the bar (there is also a gourmet restaurant) was excellent and there was a great selection of Scotch ales alongside the more regular Euro-lagers we have come to expect in boutique hotels. There was a particularly good pint of McEwan's 80/- on offer, a beer not as widely available as it once was and a staple of my evenings in the Maltings at St Leonards.
A busy and successful two days with many outstanding issues resolved and lots of praise for my employers, 3DReid, and (no false modesty in the Bluesblog), myself for the conduct of the consultation process and the achievement of a truly popular design.
The Bluesfather felt tired but content as he got home at 9.00pm on Friday.
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Friday 30/10/2009
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Current mood: numeric
Category: Blogging
Sometime just before 9.00 tonight, someone became the 15,000th person to visit the Bluesblog. Thank you for your interest or is it merely curiousity? Usual non-prizes, but if you catch me in the Oxford, the Kenilworth or the Abbotsford after work some evening next week, a pint is yours.
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Sunday 25/10/2009
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Current mood: exploratory
Category: Travel and Places
Bluesmobile 1
I have written of the Bluesmobile, sometimes known as the Silver Bullet, from time to time in the Bluesblog. Some of you have experienced its somewhat limited charms: limited, that is, if you're not driving, which, of course you weren't. Gigs in Newcastle and Glasgow with three up and all the guitars and shit on board have been cramped although, I hope, rewarding experiences where some of you were introduced to the particular pleasures of ZZTop and AC/DC full volume on the in-car stereo while negotiating the A68 at speed or the M8 at a crawl due to roadworks. The Bluesmobile had its own eco-system in which small creatures survived on what they could forage from the deep forest-floor litter of Greggs bags and empty Dr Pepper cans, performing their own special form of vehicle cleaning; their only natural predator consisting in a side-swipe from human footwear as you cleared a space for yourselves in the relative comfort offered by the airline ambience, which was the rear seat.
The Bluesmobile took me to perform at gigs as far afield as Cupar, Melrose and Sunderland, to festivals in Leicester and brought me home again in one piece. It's one recent failure in May this year was patched up successfully by the enormously helpful Tom at the Mistletoe Garage in Jesmond, Newcastle, saving from immediate disaster my mini-tour of the Northeast. Such was my confidence (over-confidence?) in the Bluesmobile's proven capabilities that I had arranged a whole series of gigs outside Edinburgh right up to Christmas. The consequent failure of the Bluesmobile finally to clear the MOT hurdle, without, that is, the application of huge sums of cash and no real guarantee of success, has compelled me to do what I have known in my heart since that prophetic May incident what I must do and send the aging and tarnished Silver Bullet, now the Black and Bluemobile, to scrap.
I've been asked if I shed a tear about the loss of the Silver Bullet. I think I've been quietly weeping inside since it turned 100,000 miles just outside Berwick in the summer of 2008, knowing deep down that this relationship, like so many in my life, was not to last: the holiday in Ardnamurchan this summer past simply the last weekend, the last consolatory, sympathy shag of something going nowhere.
Bluesmobile 2
I'm not car-dependent, though I do like the occasional convenience of having one around and I must confess to a real joy in motoring despite our increasingly congested roads. Driving west into an incredible sunset on Thursday past was simply amazing. It seemed to say, for a brief while, freedom in a wholly unreflective, non-political, non-judgemental, harmless and self-centred way. So how was I driving, you might ask, given the extended angst above, which has described the passing of the Silver Bullet. I have alluded elsewhere, I think, to the imminent appearance of Bluesmobile 2.
And so, the Pale Rider takes the place of the Silver Bullet: a sleek, white, sporty Grande Punto with sports shit and stiffened suspension and more computer crap than I would know how to or, indeed, want to use. The Blue-tooth manual is only half the thickness of the car manual itself. I am now driving around trying to get the Silver Bullet out of my system, like a previous girlfriend, while I adapt to the Pale Rider, a much more sophisticated creature who demands rather better behaviour and greater care and attention from me than I have given in the past. We're going on dates to Glasgow and Newcastle in the next few weeks, so I'll get some idea of compatability. Stay tuned.
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