29-May-08: Generations

Jules and I met with the Administrators at St. Nicholas' Cathedral in Newcastle yesterday and the discussions went very well indeed. Consequently, we now have a date for the Generations concert - 5th December 2008.

This will be concert number 4 and my gut feeling tells me that this is one concert too many. Hence, I've decided to drop out of the line-up for the Hampshire Jam Jam. I'm not a key player and many other players have already signed up who are far, far better at improvising than I am. Much as I'll miss the social side of the concert, I need to concentrate fully on the Generations event. Shame really but we already have Awakenings and Dundee Live to think about.

The next step is to get a formal project plan pulled together, so that we both know what we're doing and when it has to be done. I'm determined that this won't turn into another Alfa Centauri gig. As a result, Jules and I have already agreed some changes in priority. Organ master, Scott Farrell, wants to feature both the organ and full choir and so adding extra musicians to this already busy throng might just be asking for trouble. So, we're limiting the number of participants to just Jules and myself for the moment. We need to keep this whole adventure under our control for the time being otherwise it will just run away with itself.

There are other issues to worry about - technical, artistsic, personal. Do we release another disc or just stick with the one we have, maybe remaster and/or repackage it? What about programmes and promotional documents? Who takes care of those? When do we hand out a formal press release? How do we deal with the publicity? Scott gave us a couple of contacts within the local radio and TV stations who he's worked with on other Cathedral related matters though I think we need a strategy in place before we start announcing details. At a minimum, we need to get some web pages designed and installed before the publicity snowball starts to roll.

  27-May-08: Stupid

Of late, I have noticed a tendency to become somewhat negative rather more often than I would like in these blog entries, probably as a consequence of living and trying to do business in the UK at this point in time. Frustrating doesn't really describe it.

So, instead of moaning and complaining about the world in general, I will now detail something more positive, something more cheerful because this episode will make you laugh. It made me laugh. It still makes me laugh.

The cupboard under our stairs in a nightmarish repository of junk and ephemera, which has assembled itself into a semi-intelligent mass of malevolent bile. Anything that has no immediate function, no obvious storage place ends up in that cupboard. There are still boxes at the back of that cupboard that have not been opened since we moved into this house 10 years ago.

I'm convinced that this heap of junk has a mind of its own. It knows what you want and does whatever it can to bury the required artefact as far as possible from where you last left it. I periodically attempt to tidy up this disgraceful midden into something resembling an orderly pile but, only a week or so later, it has again descended into chaos and you're back at square one.

On Sunday, I decided to do something about it. I looked at some of the spare wood I have squirreled away in the garage and figured that I had enough to assemble a crude rack that could be used to restore some order to the pile.

I drew up a set of crude plans using pencil and paper and worked out how to assemble the rack, the dimensions of which were entirely dependent upon the dimensions of the available wood. This wasn't going to be a Chippendale-style masterpiece.

It didn't take long to knock something up though it had no physical strength because I couldn't find any screws long enough to do the job properly. I knew that this rack had to support a lot of junk and so I over-engineering the whole construction - just in case.

Today, (Monday) I found some suitable screws, drilled the wood and put the whole structure together in under an hour. It wasn't pretty and it isn't likely to put a dent in Ikea's profits but it's fit for purpose and is even strong enough to take my weight.

I cleared the cupboard and installed the rack. It looked good with enough room either side for additional storage, should we need it.

However, I decided that the front supports were wrong. They weren't necessary. Plus they would get in the way to such an extent that I decided to hack them off with the saw.

I dragged the rack back out into the living room and prepared to cut the unwanted bits off.

Before I go any further, I should attempt to put some my working surroundings into context. First and foremost, there is the problem that I am working in the middle of the living room floor and this is, frankly, less than ideal. I know I need a special working area for this kind of job and I plan to convert part of our garage in the near future so that it's a bit more useful for this kind of job. Secondly, there is the large number of interruptions to contend with, usually from dogs but occasionally from humans. It seems we're at that point in the year where it's just about warm enough for the dogs to go outside and explore the garden whilst, at the same time, it's just a bit too cold for them to feel completely comfortable and so all four of them have spent most of the day either banging on the door to go out or banging on the door to come back in. Annoying isn't the word.

Couple the above conditions with the problems I'm still working through following Friday's (mis)adventure with the Blood Transfusion Service and well, you have a recipe for some hilarious misadventures.

So, back to the main story.

I have the rack out in the middle of the living room floor and I'm about to cut the upper support struts off because they're not needed.

It's at this point that I carefully pick up my pencil, set square and ruler and neatly score a line across the wood. I measure it three times just to be sure. I do the same on the other strut and then firmly grasp my saw in hand. Two minutes later and the struts have been removed.

Is this the end of the story?

No, it isn't.

This is because the rack is upside down and rather than remove the two upper struts that weren't needed, I've actually sawn off the two front legs of the rack.

Yes, you read that right.

I'm now looking at a structure that is indeed, legless.

I curse. Loudly. Several times.

I walk into the garden and sit down. I have just spent two days making this bloody thing and now I've sawn the legs off.

Head in hands, I start to laugh. You absolutely have to see the funny side of this. I feel soooooooooooooo.... stupid. Jules just stands to one side and smiles. It is not a smile of approval. Instead, this smile betrays another purpose. I know, with the kind of absolute certainty that only apprentice craftsmen can appreciate, that this will not be the last time I hear of this incident. No, this episode will be wheeled out at dinner parties and social gatherings until we are both dust.

"Remember the time when David cut the legs off that thing he was making?"... "Yuk, Yuk..." is all I can say.

However, all is not lost. More by luck than through good planning, I flip the whole structure over, remove and re-attach what's left of the supports. The front legs are back where they should be. True, there are a few more screw holes than there should be but it's fully squared up and it looks solid and stable. Plus it's going to spend the rest of its life in the cupboard under the stairs so it's not as if it's going on public display.

But the above doesn't stop me feeling stupid. I attempt to prove that this mishap was all part of a cunning plan but Jules isn't buying it. She knows that this is a con trick. I stand up on the rack and it takes my full weight, which is good. It doesn't even rock about when you kick it, which is an even better test.

Right now, the new rack is installed in the cupboard under the stairs. It has restored some order to the pile of junk but a more efficient means of clearing the pile was just to chuck a load of crap in the bin.

However, the rack will stay under the stairs until it rots or we move house. It will be my guilty secret. There's no way I'm tossing that out for the bin men - I don't want anyone else seeing this heap... They might think I made it.

  26-May-08: Blood

I was invited to a blood donation session on Friday. Sadly, this will be my last donation for the foreseeable future because I do NOT want to go through that again.

As I've said in these pages before, donating blood isn't a pleasant experience for me. It's uncomfortable, draining and, more often than not, leaves me just plain knackered. Occasionally, very occasionally, the staff at these sessions get right on my tits. Most of the time, they're pleasant and professional but sometimes, not every time, they're too familiar, over friendly and unduly keen to gossip instead of just doing their damn jobs.

Now, every time I've donated blood in the past, we've been given 20 minutes to recover. More often that not, I just dose off, stare at the ceiling or go to a happy place. However, on this occasion, Friday, we were given just 2 minutes - yes, just 2 minutes, timed, by a nurse with a stopwatch. Afterwards, we were dispatched to the tea and coffee area to complete our formal 'processing'.

I told the nurse that I felt rotten, drained of energy and certainly not fit to do anything more challenging that sitting in front of the TV. "This is just a trial." said the nurse. "It's supposed to be the best way to get your blood pressure back to normal." Yeah, I believe that. Not. It felt just like another experiment invented by some faceless, dickless bureaucrat, a means of speeding 'customers' through the donation process simply to hit a target and a deadline. As ever, these no-neck chimpanzees forget that those donating are human beings, each with lives to lead, jobs to hold down and families to support. You absolutely cannot treat people as resources to be exploited. Most of the folk at that session looked like factory workers and most looked like they had just come straight off shift. In other words, tired and in need of food, rest, and someone to talk to.

Worse still, I certainly didn't feel like a valued contributor. I felt like just another cog in the machine, a factory-made component with to be used and discarded.

Walking home, I felt as if I was going to faint. I had to sit on a wall like an 80 year old, trying to get my breath.

I was able to cook dinner but nothing more. Jules said I was as white as a sheet and, truthfully, I felt bloody dreadful - dizzy, sweating, tired, minor chest pains. Later on, I crashed on the couch and slept for most of the evening. I felt even worse by the time I went to bed. I slept badly and woke early, again with minor chest pains.

On Saturday morning, I was sufficient concerned to call a doctor at the National Blood Transfusion Service. Initially, I tried filling in the form on their web site though the page crashed as soon as I hit the 'Submit' button. I wasn't surprised in the slightest. Another organisation plagued by the ever-growing tide of incompetent and dysfunctional bureaucrats.

Like an idiot, I ignored the symptoms and just got on with the business of the day. We had shopping in the morning plus a Freeman's do in the afternoon that I absolutely didn't want to miss. Hence, I just ignored the fatigue, the discomfort and the chest pains.

By 6 pm, I felt like absolute crud and decided to call a doctor at the Blood Transfusion Service. I got through straight away and he, too, was pretty sure that getting people to move around so soon after donating was a bad idea. He was pretty concerned about the chest pains and, as a precaution, recommended that we head down to the local A & E to get my heart checked out.

Sitting in A & E on a Saturday night is not my preferred way to spend an evening. The staff are as friendly and as polite as they can be but you get the feeling that these people are living under siege conditions due to the number of scumbags in the waiting area, all of which seem hell bent on destroying themselves and each other.

A nurse checked me over and found nothing unusual. Everything looked fine. Another nurse strapped me to an ECG machine and, again, everything appeared fully normal. We had to wait another hour and a half to see a doctor, who also agreed that getting people to move after such a short period of time was unwise. Indeed, out of the 5 medical staff we talked too, 100% agreed that this was a bad idea and likely to do more harm than good.

We drove home that night in a state of relief. Relieved that there was nothing wrong with me, relieved that I wasn't being a cry-baby.

So, that was my last blood donation for a while. I've given 30 times in the past 15 years but I no longer feel that they have my interests at heart. They failed in their duty of care.

This makes me sad because blood donations are needed urgently by people who are sick and who might not survive. However, I have a responsibility to myself and I don't want my own health compromised by some desk-bound incompetent whose experience of working as a health professional is tainted by the need to see a plus sign on that bottom line.

  22-May-08: Dead

I have no idea what drew me to this particular waste of time. Morbid curiousity? A sense of impending doom? The feeling that time was running out? Any and all of these factors probably.

I took The Death Test.

You can too. Here it is. http://www.okcupid.com/death

It sounds scary. And it is, because the results, no matter the outcome, bring you face to face with your inevitable mortality. You get to see your probably termination date in stark numerical terms. You will be dead by... and a date. You have lived x% of your life. You have n days left on this small blue planet.

Oh dear.

Heavy stuff.

Actually, I took The Death Test several times, on each occasion adjusting the conditions partly to see how my current lifestyle measures up and also to see what would have happened if I had continued by former unhealthy lifestyle (not good). I also played around with certain other factors that I can control, to see what might happen if I got rid of all of the remaining crap in my life (not bad at all...)

My father's died when he was just 65, from alcoholism and smoking-related heart disease. We reckon that this was a form of suicide in that he drank himself to death to get away from his second wife, Elaina. You would too if you'd met her. My mother died of Multiple Sclerosis, an auto-immune disease which, to the best of my knowledge, is not hereditary and should have no measurable impact on my longevity.

The rest of the Hughes family lived incredibly long lives. My maternal Grandfather was 88 when he passed away, his wife 84 even though she had stratospheric blood pressure. My Great Aunt Nora was 96 when she joined the invisible choir and so the list goes on.

Now, having taken the test, there was some expectation on my part that I might just exceed their span, given that we live in times when health care and diet are better understood.

Alas, from my point of view, the prognosis was not good. Based on my initial data, I'll be worm food by the time I'm 82, probably from cancer. Based on the best possible conditions, I'll die of old age at roughly 89 years old. I'm 46 now. That's another 36 years at worst, 43 years at best.

However, there is some hope. Had I continued my former unhealthy lifestyle then, more than likely, I would have been dead by the age of 59 and the most probably cause of death would be from - wait for it - wounding, probably in the form of a knife or a bullet.

Ouch.

There's further hope. It seems that the data was derived from an American population base where obesity and guns are more commonplace and the likelihood of getting shot to death whilst waiting for a Hot Dog at a Quickmart in Chicago is more likely than choking on a lump of uncooked Tofu at a Sushi bar in Newcastle.

Never the less, I made some decisions to dramatically change my lifestyle. No more burning the midnight oil. No more late night telly. Cut back on the coffee and tea. Drink more fruit juice. Eat more roughage. I don't drink and I don't smoke so we're okay on that score. The only real problem I have is that I don't cope at all well with stress of any kind. That's the issue I have to solve if I'm to prolong my stay on this little wet mud ball.

But then what happens towards the end of your life? What happens if I start to lose it? Do I really want to continue living if I'm just a doughnut sitting in a corner in a pool of my own stale piss? No thanks.

In the end, scientifically worthless or not, The Death Test served a useful purpose. Staring my mortality in the face proved to be an enlightening experience with a positive outcome. I want to stick around a lot longer and to enjoy a good standard of health. Hence, I'm willing to work hard to make sure that I stay fit and active and vital for as long as possible.

This, in turn, suggests that I'm enjoying my stay on the planet and I'm surrounded by people with whom I want to share my time and who, in turn, perhaps want to spend their time with me.

Yeah, I'm cool with that.

  20-May-08: Ron Berry

Ron Berry came over to the house last night. He's a musician I first heard of over 20 years ago and, though he only lives about 5 miles from here, we've never met until tonight.

Ron pulled up at the front of the house on a big Triumph motorbike and, clad from head to foot in black leather, looked kind of scary. He wasn't. We hit it off straight away. I didn't think he'd stay long - maybe an hour or so. However, we were still gossiping at 11 pm, some three and a half hours later.

Since them we've been in touch a couple of times and we'll be popping over to his house in Durham within the next couple of weeks.

  19-May-08: Trinity Sunday and The Lord Mayor's Parade

Yesterday was Trinity Sunday and Jules and I had been invited to participate in the Lord Mayor's Parade, which takes place every year in St. Nicholas Cathedral. It's an opportunity for the Freemen of the City to gather together and welcome the new Lord Mayor as he's sworn into his new office.

Past attendance has been poor and so the Freemen were keen to get a few more bodies down to the parade. Hence, Jules and I made a hurried dash through the cold and empty streets of Newcastle towards the Cathedral, a journey made more difficult because the central motorway was shut for maintenance and there was a small traffic jam in the making just beside Swan House roundabout.

I love St. Nicholas' Cathedral. It's a very special building for me because it has strong family connections. My Great, Great, Great, Great Grandfather, Dr. Thomas Ions, was the organist from 1836 until his premature death in 1858 at the age of just 40, and such was Thomas' reputation at the Cathedral, the congregation erected a window behind the alter in his memory and you can still see it today. After the sad demise of Thomas, his brother William took over the position of organ master, which he held until 1894. Both Thomas and William were composers and, as far as I know, wrote mainly for the church. I recently discovered that one of William's compositions was sung in Westminster Abbey not long ago so their works are still important and relevant today.

The Freemen were gathering in St. John's Chapel where we were furnished with suitable robes before the parade began at 0945, with yours truly wearing a borrowed blue gown, which is a bit like a graduation gown, though without the ermine trim. We filed in through the library entrance, where I was introduced to George Ions, a direct descendant of Thomas and William Ions, and therefore a distant cousin. We talked about our respective families and George was able to fill me in on a couple of details that were missing from the bigger picture. I'll talk more about these details later on. We took our places to the right of the alter and the service began.

Jules and I are not great church-goers. We've been to a few services in recent years - Carols on Christmas Eve, the odd wedding, the occasional funeral but little else. Indeed, the two most recent funerals I've been to were both humanist ceremonies, with no religious element at all. However, both of us were somewhat shocked and disappointed at the way the service, as we remembered it, had been changed and updated for the modern age.

I've always felt that the Church should be our moral Guardian, a compass and guide through life, providing help and support in our every days lives, advising and offering counsel on spiritual and moral subjects.

However, as it developed, the whole service seemed bent towards apologising for simply existing, to pleading, on bended knee, for forgiveness of imagined sins, both ours and our fellows. Worse still, rather than threatening the evil bastards of this world with hell and damnation for their deeds, the Church seems intent on forgiving those who have committed the most disgusting acts against their fellow human beings whereas, my guts tell me that they should be demanding divine retribution against those who break our laws and/or harm the innocent. Instead they seek to pray for the salvation of their rotten-to-the-core souls. We've all heard of turning the other cheek but have these guys totally lost the plot?

As an example, suppose some shaven headed yob smites an old lady across the back of the head with a lump of lead-filled hosepipe and runs off carrying her handbag. Do you forgive the yob, offering prayers and understanding because he has fallen away from the path of righteousness and into temptation, or do you jam his balls in a vice and squeeze hard until he promises not to do it again? Which do you think would act as a suitable deterrent? What will help the old lady get her hand bag back?

Worse was to follow in the form of the sermon.

The reader, a lady from north of the Border, reminded the congregation what the Freemen of the City actually do and why we're here. Yes, we have the right to graze cattle on the Town Moor. Everyone knows that. It's common knowledge and possibly the least important aspect of our historic role. The Freemen of the City are what remains of the trading classes from the Middle Ages, who made the city the important business and cultural centre it is today. But there's another side to this. All Freemen swear an oath to defend the city, until death, from those who would seek to harm its residents, to steal their goods and destroy their property... and that principally means we have to defend it from, yes, raiders from north of the border, the Scots. (One should point out that is also extends to those residents of Sunderland who teamed up with the Scots to ransack the city at the time of Oliver Cromwell and the English Civil War.)

This minor historical detail was glossed over by the reader with a gentle laugh and a hopeful smile though none seemed to come from any of my fellow Freemen beside me. History still runs deep with the Freemen.

After the history lesson, we were lectured on the evil that men do, the evils of the regime in Burma and the evils of the Embryo research bill currently going through Parliament. The reader then began to enlighten us on the subject of the Holy Trinity. Or not, as the case may be.

The concept of the Holy Trinity is difficult for most people to accept, Christian or not. It's so difficult to understand that Islam did away with the whole idea of a Holy Trinity and replaced it with the idea of one God and his prophet, Mohammed, which is simpler to understand in that it doesn't need any fearsome allegories to illustrate what is intended.

To illustrate her point, she whipped out a pyramid-shaped candle holder - in geometrical terms, a tetrahedron. She explained that the three surfaces represent the Holy Trinity, God the Father, God the Son and God, the Holy Ghost, three in one, one in three, each facet representing one component of the Trinity. Except that any competent student of geometry will tell you that a tetrahedron has 4 surfaces, not 3. The clue is in the name, tetra, Greek for four. If in doubt, look it up on Wikipedia.

Next, she went on to have a pop at those who look too logically at a problem with an illustration which is even more laughable. She cited the probably apocryphal example of a US University student who, in his science paper, asked people to petition the US Congress to outlaw the use of a dangerous chemical, di-hydro monoxide. 73% of those questioned signed the petition, demanding that the chemical be put on the list of banned substances because di-hydro monoxide is obviously very, very dangerous on the basis that if you breath it in then you'll suffocate, it corrodes all ferrous metals and it's a major component in all cancer tumours.

This, it proved to her satisfaction, illustrated the dangers of thinking 'too logically'. Di-hydrogen monoxide is actually just plain water, chemical name H20. From the speaker's point of view those who demanded the abolition of water had been 'over thinking' the problem whereas, in truth, it actually illustrates the dangers of not thinking clearly enough, of just blindly accepting, on faith alone, what we are told by those who consider themselves our betters. Including those dishing out useless sermons in Church.

I wasn't the only person in the congregation who spotted this appalling mess for what it was. The ignorant and self-righteous leading the passive and indifferent along a path littered with ignorance and half truths. Was it ever thus in the Church?

The service finished and we filed back to the Cathedral library for coffee. I spent a pleasant few minutes chatting to my fellow Freemen as the Lord Mayor and his party attempted to blend in with the rest of the common folk. A couple of the faithful types congratulated the speaker for a wonderful sermon but I suspect that this was little more than the usual brown-nosing commonplace in such establishments. Alas, I did not rush forth and condemn the reader for misleading her flock. I am a moral coward and I will carry out my character assassination, from the safety of this blog.

Anyway, back to Thomas and William Ions. Years and years ago, I found a book containing some of Thomas' compositions. I intended to copy the score into Cubase and play them back through my synths but I lacked the musical skill and the patience to see this task through to the end. These days, I have more time and, hopefully, a bit more skill so I plan on importing a few scores in the next couple of weeks and see what develops. I also have compositions written by William Ions sitting on the desk next to me so there is more to explore than I thought.

With this in mind, I went to visit the current organ master at the Cathedral, Mr. Scott Farrell, to see if the Cathedral would be interested in putting on a concert where we would play a mix of our Ion stuff coupled tunes written by Thomas and William, reinterpreted for the 21st century and for modern technology. Scott was enthusiastic to say the least and so this seems an appropriate point to announce our new project, Generations.

We're aiming for a concert in December 2008, shortly before Christmas, which will be a bit of a push but should be achievable. We have a 'go' from the Cathedral and all that remains is to sort out a date and a bit of publicity.

Keep an eye on the news page for further announcements. I'll be creating a special Generations section specifically for this project.

  16-May-08: Junk

Jules has been proof-reading the Gig guide for me. I hate having to correct editor's comments, no matter how important/beneficial they might be because they're an admission that you screwed up the first time around. No matter. She'd forgotten a few of the more pointed details and, in turn, her musings kicked off a few additional recollections of my own, which I then added to the various essays.

However, she wasn't happy with the inclusion of certain details relating to the Alfa Gig. She felt that they would hurt and offend those individuals whose behaviour, appalling as it was, is now history and past sins were forgiven a long time ago.

When I set out to create the gig guide itself, I decided that I wanted to tell the truth about what happened and, in particular, on that trip. I wanted to stress that we didn't go into that gig under-prepared. We didn't set out to screw up in such a big way. We made some mistakes. They came back to haunt us but it was other people who largely ruined the event.

However, I guess that the important point is that, 10 years on, we're still here, still writing music, still performing concerts, still - from my point of view - delivering the goods even if we're not quite a prolific as I'd like. Though the Alfa concert did us a lot of harm and it still haunts me to this day, it wasn't a death blow. We recovered. We learned something about ourselves and we know that we won't make the same mistakes again.

And so I find myself torn between one extreme - publish and be damned - and another of offending friends who were forgiven many, many years ago.

At the moment, I'm leaning towards telling the truth, as I see it. Maybe I'll see it differently tomorrow.

A couple of weeks ago, Jules and I were invited into a neighbour's house for a chat. Inside, their house was a revelation. It was like a showroom - neat, pristine, everything new and zero clutter. In other words, a complete contrast to our own. We dust and tidy in just the same way as everybody else but I always feel that it's a losing battle. We have so much stuff - the stuff of life - and so little time to clean that the house has achieved a semi-permanent layer of clutter - books, magazines, bits of equipment, bits of sequencer, tools, paperwork, cables - you name it, it's there.

Seeing our neighbour's house made us feel a little guilty and a little jealous. It certainly spurred us into action and, since then, we've been clearing the crap, section by section, and reorganising what we have so that it's tidier and more presentable. We don't plan on opening a show house. It's just nice not to have move ten items or more just to open a desk drawer or cupboard.

Where to start?

Firstly, there's the book problem. We have tonnes of books - some old, some very old, some very, very old - and many were just stacked, end on end, on top of other books, just as valuable. I dragged an old bookcase down stairs and junked an awful lot of rubbish, mostly old papers and magazines, and re-organised our book collection. It worked wonders. We have more space for even more books now.

Next, there's my enormous collection of Sound-on-Sound magazines. I have every issue - except one - from 1985 to the present day, which amounts to over 250 issues. They're in various boxes and containers around the house, held in storage until the day when I absolutely must have a specific issue for... well, Lord above knows. Yeah, I know.

They take up a HUGE amount of space. Literally, boxes upon boxes, all stored in the loft. Alas, I decided that they had to go, all of them, except the ones where yours truly features. Those will be put to one side and held in our archive for that day when I get to look back on my life and realise that this was yet another career opportunity that came and went.

Finally, I plucked up the courage to get rid of some of my old computer kit. We had a massive clear out a few years ago and were able to off-load large amounts to a family friend (who used them as part of an elaborate tax fiddle) but we were still left with a large pile of unused, unwanted junk that I couldn't bare to part with and was slowly driving me up the wall. Earlier this week, I decided that I couldn't stand it any longer.

Now, years and years ago, Jules and I went to listen to an old Vedic master speak at Newcastle University. His entire philosophy was based on the idea that to achieve enlightenment, one had to detach oneself from all worldly goods - ones material possessions, your house, your family and your friends. Only when you had eliminated all of the ties to your human existence could you then begin to contemplate the full beauty of the world around you.

This struck a chord with both of us because we have become attached to so much junk that we felt a bit like Jacob Marley in Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol", each dragging a lifetime's worth of household appliances behind us and we realised that these attachments were preventing us from moving forwards in life, of moving on from a past that wasn't particularly joyous towards a future that held a little more promise.

That's how I started to feel about all of this computer crap. The main culprit was my aging Silicon Graphics' kit - an R4000 Elan and it's associated 19" monitor. They're physically enormous, difficult to move and very, very heavy. They've been sitting under my desk in the workroom, unused, for a couple of years now and I've wanted to junk them but, equally, I knew chucking them in a skip would be a wrench. After all, that's where I rescued them from 10 years ago, when my former employer decided they no longer had any use for them.

These bits of kit are special because they represent a point in time where I decided I had to do something positive to rescue my career in the IT industry, which wasn't going anywhere fast. Thankfully, just at the right time, I was handed my 'dream project', the opportunity to supervise over 70 networked graphics workstations. This involved installing, supporting, coding, all the usual stuff - but also the chance to learn and experiment and play. I jokingly refer to this point in my life as that time when I decided to stop being crap. I still do.

Since then, the SGI kit has been a valuable studio tool, used mainly for moving legacy recordings from the DAT recorder over to the Macintosh and the odd bit of shell scripting. However, since the arrival of the new iMac and its Unix-like environment, I no longer have any need for this legacy kit and so it's been largely unused for almost a year.

On Saturday afternoon, Jules and I bundled the bulky CPU and even bulkier monitor into the back of the car and, along with various other bits of unwanted junk, drove the whole lot down to Sunderland City Council's reclamation unit.

This was a weird experience. Enormous piles of unwanted household goods, most of which were, on the surface, in reasonably good condition, all sitting in a thick layer of mud, oil and battery acid. I spotted half a dozen computers, Daewoo was one name I could recognise, lying around in the wet, some caked in mud, others just soaked. Most looked like they had been stripped of anything valuable.

I also spotted a large collection of toys, bicycles, radios, hi-fi, TV sets, all of which looked okay but these items were being jealously protected by a pack of cartoon character thugs, straight out of the pages of Viz Comic - big, burly and obese, with sloping foreheads and fists the size of dinner plates. Who said Homo sapiens neanderthalensis

We turned the car around and left as these vultures descended on our precious kit, pawing it over, attempting to work out what it was they were about to shred.

We pay the council to manage this sort of waste for us and, indeed, they make it very, very easy for people like us to dump the kit and run, in the knowledge that someone else will dispose of our unwanted junk. We assume that they will dispose of it in an environmentally safe and sensitive manner. Our consciences are thus clear and free of any guilt that might be associated with junked a complex piece of kit that originally cost a huge amount, both fiscally and in terms of the earth's resources. I can't help but get the feeling that there's something wrong here.

And it's even easier for us to look down on the kind of people who have to forage for a living down at the local dump. We live in a posh estate in the posh end of town. We're fortunate. It's even worse to consider that, with just the wrong kind of push from this bankrupt and ever more incompetent government that we could all end up down at the dump, scavenging refuse from other people's leavings.

  15-May-08: Heaven and Hell II

Jules has just emailed me to correct a couple of facts in the previous entry. Firstly, it was Newcastle Sinfonietta and not Northern Sinfonietta as stated. Also, the pieces performed were, in order, Prokoviev's 1st, Vaughan-Williams' The Lark Ascending and Beethoven's 7th.

Hey. Gimme some credit. At least I got the composers right. ;)

  12-May-08: Heaven and Hell

Saturday was an adventure. We'll get to the full monty in a moment but let's establish the background to this series of events, so that you can see the full context as it unfolds.

I spent most of the day finalising one of the biggest revisions to our web site that we've ever attempted and, overall, the process went pretty much according to plan. The site looks good though I can still see room for improvement. It needs a damned thorough QA to eliminate all of the little typos and layout problems but, for a site of its size and complexity, it's looking good.

The updates are intended to change the emphasis of the web site. I want to shift the focus away from the usual Buy! Buy! Buy! Shop Front message that appears on practically every web site you visit these days and push it more towards an information service, which is aimed at telling visitors what we do and what we're about rather than endlessly pounding them with a sales pitch.

Truthfully, I got bored by the lofty and somewhat condescending attitudes being preached by a number of my peers, all stating over and over that they don't write music to make money. Rather, they do it for the spiritual rewards or so they say. From their point of view, anyone who does make money from this little enterprise has fallen from the pure faith and is therefore dirty and unclean. However, this oft-repeated point of view doesn't match their web spaces, which are invariably littered with messages that all start with "New disc out now!" and "Buy it here!". Of course, this might be all that they have to say? Who knows?

Anyway, that little adventure took up most of the day. The new sections like the gig guide and the discography look good and are now pretty much up to date. There are still gaps but we're addressing those.

Outside, the world was full of screaming sunshine and buzzing insects. Over our heads, the planet Mars was being occulted by the Moon and I really, really should have been attempting to observe that phenomenon. Instead, I was indoors, working.

I was done in time for dinner but Jules said that I looked tired and I knew I had trouble concentrating. We had concert tickets for that night and she didn't want me falling asleep in the middle of the performance.

We made our way over to St. George's Church in Jesmond for a concert by the Northern Sinfonietta, who were performing 3 pieces that night - Prokofiev's 3rd, Vaughan-Williams' The Lark Ascending and Beethoven's 5th. All good stuff.

The concert kicked off and the Prokofiev was astonishingly good for such a young orchestra. This has been one of my favourite pieces since I was about 8 or 9 years old because it was the theme tune to the TV series The Flaxton Boys, which I used to love.

The Lark Ascending was beyond comparison with the soloist delivering a performance that sent shivers down my spine, a degree of subtlety and expression that I've never heard before in a concert environment.

After a short break, the orchestra returned with Beethoven and some good, old-fashioned foot-tapping "Oompah! Oompah!" music. The orchestra made a good attempt at a difficult piece but I was a little astonished to see them all tuning up in the Church Hall across the way and then walking across the courtyard at the front of the Church and then back indoors to the main body of the Church. Such temperature fluctuations are virtually guaranteed to cause tuning problems with the small stringed instruments and, sadly, this is exactly what happened.

However, these were minor annoyances. The performance was wonderful even though it's not a piece I know well.

There were some major annoyances too though they weren't on stage. A bunch of female students had turned up to see one of their friends play and when she'd done her bit, she settled down in the pews to watch the remainder of the concert with them. However, this lot weren't used to the idea of sitting still and not fidgeting. They're of that generation that can't live without their blasted mobile phones and so, of course, they had to come out in the middle of the performance so that text messages could be exchanged.

I can just about live with this mindless hyperactivity. I've learned to tune it out. What was more difficult to tune out was the vision staring back at me from the pew in front. Here's a simple fact of life. Chicks in low-waist jeans really need to learn to pull their pants up before the sit down, especially if there are people behind them, otherwise the world and his wife are treated to a wonderful display of arse-cleavage. Look. It's not attractive. Screw raunch-wear. We're talking about sweaty butt-crack here. This is builder's bum for the 21st Century. And in a church too. Not cool.

Ignoring these minor sartorial difficulties, the concert was fantastic and we both left on a total high. Afterwards, we drove into Jesmond to find an off-license to grab a couple of beers and some chocolate - our secret vices. We parked the car up outside of The Lonsdale public house and made our way through the streets until we found a 24 hour Tesco. I was astonished at how this area has dropped in status. It used to be one of the places to live in Newcastle. However, today, pretty much every house has been subdivided into flats and nearly every flat contains a collection of scruffy students, all dossing around on sofas and on floors in various states on undress, all watching junk TV. Very few had the idea of pulling the bloody curtains. You might argue that I shouldn't have been looking through their windows and yes, you're right, I shouldn't but it's like staring at the monkey house in a zoo. This was another world, a seedy bedsit culture where life is lived in the casual lane. Yuk.

Inside Tesco's, it was like yet another world and almost defies description - a mix of a Moroccan Casbah and high-tech opium den. It's something that you need to experience for yourself.

By now, I was tired and very much in need of sleep. Jules said that I looked out of it, like I wasn't fully awake and attentive. I had to agree.

We went back to the car, started her up and began the journey home. We were about a mile down the Great North Road when the circus lights came on behind us.

Yeah. A traffic cop.

Years and years ago, I was taught how to deal with Traffic cops by a salesmen who had been pulled over so many times he had front row tickets for every Police Ball between London and Edinburgh.

So, this is what you do if you're ever pulled in the UK. I'm not sure if this is a good idea in the US where a twitchy cop might be inclined to pull his weapon first but, anyway, here goes.

I pulled over, stopped the engine and got out. You go stand over on the pavement, not in the middle of the road. You never, ever wait for the officer to approach your vehicle. It means he has to get out of his car and walk over to you. Next, if you're sitting in your vehicle and you wind your window down then he's looking down at you and you're looking up at him, which puts you at a disadvantage straight away.

If you get out of the car and calmly walk over to him, and then talk to him in a polite and respectful manner then he can straight away see that you're not armed, not drunk and fully prepared to be reasonable. Cops don't like people who are drunk, armed and/or unreasonable. It means more paperwork.

Furthermore, just about the worst thing you can say to a Traffic cop is "These aren't the droids you're looking for...", which I have heard is one of the first things your average, every day smart-arse says when they're pulled over. This is virtually guaranteed to get you a ticket, even if it's just for picking your nose or having too much fluff in your butt crack whilst in charge of a moving vehicle. Students take note.

"I've stopped you because..." he said, "... you were in the wrong lane when you went left."

"I was?"

"Yes. That's always a sign that someone is either not paying attention or they've been drinking."

"I've not been drinking at all. I don't actually drink.", I said, which he accepted straight away.

"Also, your vehicle is shown on our records as being white whereas it's obviously black. Is this your vehicle and it's registered to you?"

"Yes, it is. Sorry, I forgot to tell DVLA about the change when I re-sprayed it recently."

"Well, can you make sure that you do tell DVLA because if you're in an accident and the details don't match up then your insurance company might not pay out? Okay?"

Fair point, I thought.

And that was it. He let me go with just a polite rap on the knuckles.

I got back in the car, started her up and re-joined the motorway.

Jules asked if I was okay. I said "Yes" and truthfully I was. I wasn't in the slightest bit bothered by being pulled over.

And that was when the alarm bells started to ring.

I should have been pissing my pants. I should have been worried about spending the night in the cells or getting a ticket or being put on a producer, in fact, all of the myriad of things that run through your mind when you've had a Close Encounter of the Blue Kind with the Old Bill.

I ran through the event in my mind later that night. I realised that I'd been pulled over for three reasons. Firstly, yes, the car is the wrong colour and I had been too damned lazy to mail the form off to the DVLA. Secondly, yes, I was on the wrong side of the carriageway before going left. Thirdly, I was doing only 35 mph in a 50 area. It's the latter that are the signs of a driver who isn't concentrating, isn't reading the road signs and obviously isn't focussed on what he should be doing, which is driving safely, at night, when he's tired.

I've been overworking lately. That's been obvious for a while now. What I didn't realise was that I was starting to become a real asshole again - arrogant, selfish, obstinate. Worse still, I've not been listening to the people around me who know and understand me better than I do myself.

So, I thank the Universe for a wonderful evening. The concert was terrific and truly inspirational. I also thank the Universe for the wake-up call, both musical and psychological, which I will heed and take to heart. I'll work fewer hours, stop pushing to damned hard and remember to stay focussed.

I'll also send that bloody form off to the DVLA.

  07-May-08: Firearms

I finished Monday's missive with the conclusion "It's probably a good thing I don't have access to a firearm at this point in time...", which was a heartfelt scream for a bit of piece and quiet away from the relentless scream of lawnmowers. This morning, I feel the need to repeat that statement.

This morning, my body has decided that it hates me. I have a blister on the back of my left foot about the size of a 2 pence piece and I want you all to know that IT HURTS LIKE A BITCH!

Some might be tempted to say that this is small beans in the great scope of things and they'd be right though if they were to voice this opinion out loud right at this minute then they would risk an almighty smack in the mouth.

Couple my sore foot with an upset stomach and a bad head and you should hopefully see that I am not feeling particularly brilliant this morning.

However, these bodily problems are minor when compared to the joys of running a small business in the UK at the moment. I know that this is a familiar theme in this blog at the moment because, well, it's taken us 6 years and a lot of heartache to get to this point and one company in particular seems determined to not only push its own self-destruct button but ours too.

Suffice to say that this company just can't help but shoot itself in the foot time and time again. They deliver product 5 months late and of a quality that makes you realise exactly why the Chinese are the preferred choice for manufacturing goods these days. I also support and maintain this company's web pages. Their bill has been outstanding for two months now and they have promised to pay up every single time I've seen them in the last 4 weeks but they have yet to do so.

On Friday, I called their managing director in person and asked why the bill for the web pages remained unpaid. He was surly and unfriendly to say the least but assured me that the bill would be paid by BACS that afternoon. This really pissed me off. Why should I be made to feel like a thief and a conman simply for asking for MY money. Huh? Plus they're quick enough to pester me for money. In fact, they've been demanding payment for the goods they have yet to deliver for more than a month now.

Yesterday, I decided that they were taking the piss. There's been no sign of the wayward enclosures since I rejected the last lot on the grounds that I couldn't imagine Roland or Kurzweil accepting that sort of crap from their suppliers and because their bill still hadn't been paid.

Hence, I cancelled the order for the enclosures and deleted their web pages.

That, in itself was very, very satisfying, as indeed were the howls of protest from their end. "Yes, the bill had been paid by BACS on Friday, as promised. Yes, I'll go find out where your enclosures are! Please restore our web pages immediately..."

How did I respond? I took the dogs to the beach.

The howls of protest continued. When I got home, tired but smiling and with every single nook and cranny on my body filled with sand, the answerphone was ablaze with irrate messages.

I put the kettle on, took care of a couple of pending e-mails and then, when the moment seemed right, re-enabled their web pages "... as an act of good faith."

This morning? Nothing. The bill still hasn't been paid and there's still no sign of my enclosures although there was one e-mail promising to get a concrete delivery date from the paint shop by close of play today.

Progress? Perhaps. At least they know that they can't continue to take the piss without some form of retaliation and that, in itself, is worth any amount of grief.

Still, it's probably a good thing that I don't have access to a firearm of equally some sort or a sharp, pointed stick because, if I did, there would be some very, very nervous individuals somewhere in North Tyneside.

  05-May-08: Back t'ut Mill

It's commonplace for me to take a break from all studio activity following a gig. Usually, these breaks last a couple of weeks but, more often than not, they last a good deal longer. This has been one of the longer breaks - around 3 or 4 months since the "Universal" event - and although I haven't exactly been idle, working in the studio on new stuff has not been foremost in my mind.

With around 4 gigs either confirmed or in the planning stage, the time felt right to go back into the studio and get on with something new. As a starting point, I've been working on something different - a cover version of Gary Numan's track, Airlane, from the album The Pleasure Principle, which has been a favourite of mine for over 25 years. I wanted to work on something that I was familiar with as well as something that I also felt I could use in a future gig. I don't normally do covers but I wanted to inject a track into our set that people who are not immediately familiar with our music would recognise and perhaps enjoy.

The arrangement is not particularly complex, which is what makes Airlane so much fun to play. The backing tracks were dropped into Cubase in one night and then polished up on subsequent evenings. They're still a bit raw but they're enough to form a guide track, which is all I need right now.

I've had more fun working out the guitar parts. They're just as easy - C, F, A and G - which sound good as basic rock chords but the pleasure has been in working on my tone, getting the guitar to sound good when mixed with the rest of the electronic instruments. This has not been easy and I need to put in a lot more effort but I'm happy that I'm making progress.

Right now, my biggest problem is one of extraneous noise. It's Bank Holiday Monday and, as usual, the air is filled not with birdsong or the crack of willow on ash but with the persistent scream of lawnmowers. Most people on this estate get the ugly business of mowing the lawn over and done with as quickly as possible. There are one or two individuals who are, let's face it, more than a little anal about their lawns but even they get their small patch of green stuff sorted in less than 30 minutes. The main culprit this afternoon is the gardener in the Church behind our house and he's been at it for 4 hours and shows no sign whatsoever of giving up. It's not what you would call a particularly large lawn either but that hasn't stopped him going over the same spot half a dozen times, pausing only to shout incoherrent jibber at his wife every 20 minutes.

It's this extraneous noise that has driven me indoors. Normally, I like to just spend an idle 20 minutes thinking through problems and working out solutions, musical or otherwise, in the garden. Occasionally, I'll take a guitar outside and sit on a bench, either working something out or practicing some standard forms. However, all of my efforts at logical thought and/or strumming has been drowned out by this ignorant, analy-rententive monkey and his tractor.

Such is the curse of modern life. It's probably a good thing I don't have access to a firearm at this point in time.

 

Copyright 2008 David J. Hughes and Thinking Metal Music