All posts by tonyives

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About tonyives

A Yorkshireman of a certain age who likes most genres of music and most makes of old car. Travel is a joy, not least to escape the British winter. Travel by bicycle is bliss and if I’m not lost in music then I’m lost in a daydream about a hot day, tens of miles to cover and the promise of a great campsite and a beer. I like to think I’m always learning and becoming wiser. However, on the latter point evidence is in short supply.

Picnics, Car Keys & Motorbikes – Week 41 : 2018

Journal

November 2, 2018

So I typed most of this on the veranda of a whitewashed villa in Playa Blanca. Yes, gruelling, I know. We departed to an island just west of the Morrocan coast: Lanzarote en famille. Please note the daughters’ Ryanair ‘in flight’ picnic packs (beautifully packed by yours truly).

Now you could be forgiven for thinking that two mature (old) people were being supervised and entertained by their energetic millennial daughters. Both sprogs turned up with no resemblance to Duracell Bunnies and by 8pm seemed broadly to be behaving like they did as 8 year olds – slumped in front of the TV but protesting to be wide awake and not remotely ready for bed. They did eventually get to staying up later and one of the party did go for a jog/fast walk with her mother most morning whilst the other transferred from her bed to lie prostrate on the veranda furniture!

Despite our sojourn to a hotter climate then York continued to be a hive of visitors in our absence. The inevitable Chinese photographers clutter the main thoroughfares and whilst I would encourage them to devour our architecture and heritage I have visions of some unfortunate relatives on the 18th floor of a tower block in Shanghai having to sit beside someone whilst they flick through c870 photographs.

York also attracts blokes on elderly motorcycles and hundreds of BSAs, Vincents, Triumphs and more recent Japanese models flooded the streets. If the bikes were gleaming then I was impressed with the riders who donned clothing to match the era of the bike. This often entailed 1950s tweed sports jackets and shirts and ties. I would have loved to get a photo of those who motored along with pipes in their mouths.

Anna  and I love our sport and have taken in major events when we can. Leeds United has not been deemed a ‘major event’ due to the club in recent times being run like an implausible soap opera; the football being awful and expensive to watch. Given the recent upturn in form we were lured to watch them despatch Preston North End 3-0, marvelous. Howerver it all matters too much and once we opened ourselves up to the reckless hope that they could continue this form it started to dominate our lives. We have been to concerts and spent a lot of time checking the scores in the dark whilst those seated around us wonder what these ‘saddos’ are doing. I have confidence that by Christmas we will be heading for mid table obscurity.

Lanzarote offered some great cycling with bright hot sunny days and well surfaced roads with light traffic. I ventured out and did 54 miles in up to 35˚C heat and climbed no less than 1100 metres. Feeling fairly pleased with myself I ambled through Playa Blanca back to our villa and overtook a couple on urban bikes who were weaving along the road looking at the surroundings. I then hit a steep hill and found that any ‘legs’ I had were now gone. To ruin a great bike ride these two cyclists then powered by (to prove a point, I think). I am researching contract killers on the island – I’m sure there must be some Russian or Saudi residents here.

So the holiday went well but there was excitement well until the end.

…it was rancorous amongst the family as we passed through Security to the Departure Gate at Lanzarote Airport. All four of us rose successfully at Stupid O’Clock for our 7:05 flight to Leeds Bradford. However, the major challenge of returning the rented car to the Airport with a full tank of fuel loomed. Having done this successfully before then it shouldn’t be a problem to find a petrol station open early in the morning?

Wrong! We’d stayed too far from the Airport to replenish the tank the night before to be able to return it full. No fuel could be found on our drive in. The proverbial last throw of the dice was finding fuel at the large Airport complex. No joy. 

So I’m contemplating heading back out onto the main road in search mode when the other three loudly remonstrated about simply paying whatever cost the car rental company would impose for the shortage and therefore enabling the ‘passengers’ to successfully get to the flight in a relaxed timely fashion. Very grumpily I acquiesced, parked up in a dark deserted car park and dropped off the car keys at the closed car rental counter via a letterbox in the Terminal.

So near the Gate I looked for my wallet to buy a coffee. At this point I remembered that it was left in the hire car. I’d put it beneath the dashboard for when I found that petrol station. Crisis – the wallet contained cash, credit cards, my driving licence, my EU health card etc. Future communication on my return to the UK with the car rental company would be hopeless. I’d already suffered at their hands on earlier calls when the car needed replacing earlier in the holiday – poor English, unsympathetic and short staffed.

So I decided to try and go and retrieve the wallet. Getting back through Security proved easy but could I get the key back out of the letter box?

No, I couldn’t. My hand was too fat to slide through the box to retrieve the key lying tantalisingly on view. I had tried and forced my hand into the box until it hurt the back of my hand badly. Nightmare. Fortunately a lady was depositing keys at an adjacent counter. I asked would she kindly see if her hand fitted? Let’s face it I could have simply been a thief needing an accomplice? It did. The key was retrieved.

Another sprint into the dark car park hoping that we’d got the correct key. We had. Door opened and the wallet grabbed. Another dash to the counter to post the car keys and then back though Security to the Gate to join the depleting queue at Gate 4 as Ryanair loaded the ‘plane.

I think I need another holiday to recover.

Record Of The Week # 51

Music

October 24, 2018

Colter Wall – Songs Of The Plains

Colter Wall’s second release Songs Of The Plains comes quickly after his 2017 debut. Judging by the 11 songs it appears that there was still a lot left unsaid. The images conjured in these lyrics continue his theme of being a drifter, whether today in his native Canada or the 19th Century American Wild West. The simplicity of the arrangements and, producer, David Cobb’s continued isolation and promotion of Wall’s unique and remarkable voice make this an intimate experience where the pace of delivery, timbre and the rising and falling is literally orchestral.

A simple chord pattern on his acoustic guitar starts “Plain To See Plainsman” and Wall declares, “I cut through the Rockies like some unholy blade”. We are placed in the Canadian outdoors learning of his love of the mountains, ocean and wheat fields. This is his home with its raw beauty, unforgiving winters and wide open spaces. He says that recent conversations in Europe and the USA confirmed how little his fans knew about Canada. With pride and sentimentality he immediately sets the record straight.

“John Beyers (Camaro Song)” was debuted on his last tour and recounts his planned retribution after three bullets were put into his prized 1969 Chevrolet Camaro. From here we learn about his impetuous past. “Wild Bill Hickok” tells the story of this Wild West plainsman legend. We end with Bill’s untimely demise after a disgruntled fellow gambler shot him. To achieve this full timeline in just over two and half minutes shows his gift as an economic wordsmith.

There are seven original compositions. However Wall walks the talk as regards his love of the catalogue of traditional North American folk songs. On tour he played Wabash Cannonball and Railroad Bill and on the album are “Tying Knots In The Devil’s Tail” (with vocal duties shared with fellow Canadians Corb Lund and Blake Berglund), “Calgary Round-Up” and “Night Herding Song”. The latter is a traditional cowboy song; it didn’t work in his Nashville studio and so he recorded it live beside an outdoor fire. 

His compositions are the most memorable and the Western Swing of “Thinkin’ On A Woman” sees him joined on acoustic guitar by Cobb and Lloyd Green on pedal steel. Throughout the album other instrumentation is light of touch and always sits behind his powerful baritone voice. Special mention must go to Mickey Raphael on harmonica – it would be easier to list the luminaries who he hasn’t played with – always measured, sparse and evocative.

Despite the inevitable unrequited message this is one of his most upbeat songs. Others can be bleak and “Manitoba Man” covers the abandonment of another female “light of his life”. However the man in question is selling drugs at a garage in Manitoba and a visit is necessary before he flees. 

After his 2017 breakthrough with his eponymous album it wasn’t guaranteed that his star would continue to shine brightly in a very crowded marketplace of talent. Wall is armed with stories, the sympathetic husbandry of David Cobb and a unique voice that is commanding and sonorous. I consider this Volume 2 to his last release but whether you want more or he’s new to you then this is a wonderful record.

Capital Punishment (or cycling in London)

Journal, Travel

Matt Gray

October 13, 2018

There is a misconception (usually flung around by those who have no experience in the matter) that cycling in London is a fool’s errand, a sure-fire way to the hospital or the morgue. They believe that every driver in London is a killer, wishing to etch numerals onto their dash with every cyclist they maim, and equally that every cyclist is a menace to society with their renegade riding.

I have been cycling in London for four and a half years now, and the only time I have been injured was when I took a turning too swiftly in winter and misjudged the surface ice, bailing spectacularly. I skinned my side, dislocated the chain beyond the means of a simple roadside fix, resulting in a 30 minute walk in acute agony. To be a safe cyclist in London you have to simply have a different mindset to cycling elsewhere. It helps that my primary cycling experience has been in London; I barely cycled during my youth in the countryside. Then again, cars in the countryside have fewer obstacles to slow them down, meaning they drive roughly twice the average speed than they could ever manage in your average central London street.

To test the waters and decide if I even wanted to cycle in the city, I decided to take one of those ‘Boris Bikes’ which were then supported by Barclays, and are now supported by Santander, out for a spin. Why banks sponsor these things alludes me. I would imagine life insurance companies would be a better fit. After fiddling with the self-service machine, which promised me 30 minutes of ride for only a couple of quid (and emphasising the surcharge if you get unfortunately held up in traffic or find yourself miles away from one of their stations) I had the contraption in my grip. 

It’s a miracle I didn’t just abandon the idea of cycling then and there. No wonder people think cycling in London is so dangerous when you have this beastly bicycle beneath you pulling the strings. Within seconds I felt as though I were attempting to tame a wild horse.

For those who are lucky enough to have never been on one of these death traps, let me paint a picture: A large clunky frame that is pulled to the earth by such weight that steering is almost impossible. A chain lies protected behind a case that only adds to its already burdened heft. There are gears on these things but it takes both hands to crank the stiff mechanism so in the interest of staying alive in an already frightful endeavour I stuck to its preset, which might as well have been labelled ‘rigormortis’. They clatter over every small bump and chip in the tarmac to the extent one fears for one’s fillings. They stop at the pace of a snail traversing treacle. There were beeps, there were honks, there were fists and offensive hand gestures. And they don’t provide helmets with these things either. We don’t all have barnets like Boris.

I returned the contraption to the machine with minutes to spare vowing to myself never to board a Boris Bike again. And I haven’t since. Recently there has been a call for cyclists to register their bicycles and have registration plates tacked onto the back. Those calling for this claim that cyclists are a menace and cause death. This is false. Cyclists cause 0.01% of all road fatalities. Most of the time it is the cyclist themselves to watch out for, never the bicycle itself.

They can be a mad bunch, cyclists. Those hardcore cyclists who zip themselves to the nines in Rapha lycra thinking they are Geraint Thomas making the final push for the Tour de France as opposed to a twat simply on their way to the office. Those who skid behind you at lights, then swerve around and accelerate away, bemoaning your existence as though you are in the wrong for not knowing that red lights are government mind-control tricks. Those who flirt with your rear wheel in fourth while you saunter in second. Those who use the rule that if someone crossing between Belisha beacons is less than half way across they won’t mind if you don’t hesitate for a second before continuing on your way. After all, their cyclists in London and they simply must make record time wherever they go. 

So I guess my ultimate argument here is not to fear the cycle, but rather the cyclist, but I’d like to think that the vast majority of city cyclists are as careful as I am. They stop at red lights, allow people to cross Zebra crossings with a smile and a howdy do, are never going fast enough to even knock the wind out of a fly, and don’t have slanging matches. 

(Speaking of which, as a little side note, I once witnessed a taxi cut in front of a cyclist in Bloomsbury. It was not this sight that was of note; if the London cyclist has a prey larger than the red bus, it’s the black taxi. No, it was the reaction of the put-upon cyclist and the subsequent reaction. What began as a fervent hand gesture mutually shared soon became a hostile situation. I was following the action from ten feet behind, and observed the cyclist deftly reach one arrogantly fingerless-leather-gloved hand behind him and unzipped the side of his bag. From within he unsheathed a mighty spanner of considerable length. Such an obvious display of Freudian behaviour I had hitherto rarely seen. Then he accelerated to catch up to the cabbie, and began whomping the rear window with his whacking wrench. Glass in London is stronger than other cities, however, and the window remained intact. Both parties stopped and pulled over, but by this time I was overtaking and, alas, saw no more. I’d like to think they bonded over being natural enemies and perhaps shared a pint. At least until they glassed each other.)

There is something freeing about cycling in a city where most of the roads are at a standstill or a snail’s crawl, and people stressfully queue at bus stops at rush hour unsure of whether or not they will get a seat. I leave the house at the same time every morning to go to work and can tell you down to within thirty seconds or so exactly when i will arrive. I also get a seat, guaranteed every time. 

Record Of The Week # 50

Music

October 11, 2018

Rich Krueger – NOWthen

Chicago based Krueger has balanced a career in the medical care of newborn infants and been part of the 5 piece band The Dysfunctionells since the 1980s. Despite the surprising combination then the reality is many of the artists on these pages have lives outside music: they need to eat. If there is a surprise then how damn good Krueger is.

NOWthen is his second solo release of 15 tracks and immediately leaps onto my list of year end contenders. A strong and plaintive voice with an attractive timbre and ability to hold a melody is the first draw. Then staggering yet often surreal stories unfold in long and articulate lyrics coupled to heavyweight tunes to make this a joy. Falling into the broad church of Americana. Krueger is close to a Singer Songwriter sound and I think he’d have few complaints to be compared to Randy Newman.

“Girls Go For Arse’oles” is a gentle acoustic melody with acoustic guitars to the fore whilst an organ holds long notes. Krueger’s voice has clear space to deliver a love song strong with eccentricity: “Let me start by saying I’m a liar, Can’t say how much of this is true, But if it makes things any better, I’ll swear by the copper in my tattoo, And you will watching me steal your heart.”

With “Por Que No Me Amas (Love Me)” we go a long way south of Illinois to cross the border. A Mexican melody with accordian recounts a suicide attempt (failed!). We join him after his incompetent drowning and his eventual re-emergence into the city. As always woman trouble underlines his “maladaptive behavior”. As we progress the accordian remains but a Mariachi band adds colour along with an upright bass setting the rhythm as Robbie Fulks helps him sing the chorus.

So up across the border we go Cajun with “O What A Beautiful Beautiful Day”. It takes us into Krueger’s other ‘office’: a maternity delivery theatre. Maybe not a promising subject? Nah, absolutely, as the whole album is soaked in humour and here he tells us of dad fainting, hospital bills, unspeakable pain and the fact that it is a day that all will remember for the right reasons.

Again in another genre switch “À Tout Jamais (Pour Eva)” we slow thing down and a ballad of stunning beauty unfolds. We place ourselves in a bleak European setting of a war. Apparently this song was once destined for a play in the mid nineties. Female voices act like sirens in the background above a chorues of other voices. Oh man…

“Me & Mr Johnson” is that Mr Johnson and we’re in Clarksdale with a full electric rock ’n roll band laying down a groove with full brass and a female chorus visiting the folklore of his swap with the  devil of his soul for guitar playing prowess.

Did I tell you about the engrossing story of “Don”? Well maybe another time as all the tracks are exceptional.

The lyrics read like short stories. Without doubt his writing is as strong as his music and can stand alone as something to enjoy without the soundtrack. He descibes himself thus “I’m a friendly and open smart and funny guy with a mouth and willingness to use it. I’m pretty much an iconoclast….NOWthen is full of real songs that are never ordinary”. How true.

Record Of The Week # 49

Music

October 5, 2018

Dillon Carmichael – Hell On An Angel

Dillon Carmichael has a lineage of East Kentucky Country music forbears and, as they say, the apple hasn’t fallen too far from the tree. Now a Nashville resident he’s developed his song writing talents in collaborations. On his debut record he has co-written seven of these 10 compositions. It seems that to go from being a Nashville songwriter to a recording artist is the quality of the voice. It’s here that Carmichael kicks the ball out of the park with a rich and expressive baritone; I immediately thought of Jamey Johnson but Chris Stapleton fans will be drooling.

An atmospheric “Natural Disaster” leads us off – the voice powers through familiar troubles: “Just like an angry volcano, she blew me away”. A slow moving Stapleton arrangement that crosses Country, Southern Rock and the Blues into an Eagles confection is an attractive introduction. One of the singles off the album “It’s Simple” is a ballad drenched in pedal steel and eulogises about an uncomplicated life; you start to sense the old time feel pervading the album. If that wasn’t traditional enough for you then “Country Women” opens with the immortal lines: “I like girls that ain’t afraid of a tractor” and then by line three we get references to Haggard and honky tonks. As a tune, maybe a little Outlaw comes to mind with lively pedal steel and female backing singers giving this a feel good swing. 

The title track, “Hell On An Angel”, is another upbeat stomp and the lyrics tell you of hell raising: “Well I was hell on an angel, that liquor burned like gasoline, I had one foot in the fire the other steppin’ on her wing, Well that temperature was risin’ but I could not feel the heat, Well I was hell on an angel that loved the devil out of me”. Leroy Powell’s guitar playing on the album is immaculate and here we rock out with an Allman Brothers’ lick.

“Dancin Away With Heart” deploys that baritone and it stops you in your track. He puts into song a true story of playing a gig when his ex rolls up with her new beau. Needless to say he’s crushed by her appearance. This is an album highlight. A great melody that could be from the 1980/90s. Again sensational drums (Chris Powell) propels this along with discreet guitar solos and female backing. If this doesn’t make Country radio then nothing will.

Stapleton’s 2015 “Was It 26” was a unique reworking of a Charlie Daniels’ track by Don Sampson. Quite surprisingly, Carmichael’s “What Hank Would Do” misappropriates this arrangement with the distinctive guitar sound. I found this shameless and unoriginal. Dixie Againcloses the album with anthemic twin guitar rock. A slow build with more tales of dissolution and the pursuit of redemption. Lynyrd Skynyrd would be proud to call this their own.

This is mainly authentic and promising Country from a newcomer. Cobb is so sought after that he can pick ‘winners’ and turning his talents to producing this record, at Nashville’s legendary RCA Studio A, is maybe a sign that Carmichael is seen as one for the future. All efforts are behind that voice and we’re taken back a few decades where the melody and vocals have to do the heavy lifting. 

Unlike Tyler Childers who emerged from Kentucky last year to immense goodwill with an exceptional, authentic and original sound then he was still an outsider and singing about contemporary themes. Carmichael despite his tender years seems to have leap frogged this rite of passage phase and the industry has turned out a fully formed, at times, formulaic Nashville offering. 

Early days but I’m encouraged if the Nashville ‘machine’ is producing Country music again.

The Hairdressing Appointment – Week 38 : 2018

Journal

October 2, 2018

Slipping into the seat Jessica’s first question is whether I am a ‘number 2’ or a ‘number 3’. She refers of course to which attachment I would like run over my head. Always a number 3.

“So how are you, Jessica?” I address her in the strange manner people address those cutting their hair: through the large, unflattering mirror screwed into the wall, my neck suddenly locked up for fear of admonishment should it shift even an inch.

I’d say that she’s only 26 years old and from earlier conversations I know that she has two daughters and a partner. Her life is so different to mine (and my twin millennials of delight in London and Manchester). I do admire her ability to cope with a low wage, a family and run a home. Down to earth, phlegmatic and ‘just getting on with it’ is more than a fair analysis of Jessica.

“Well it was going alright until my daughter had to go to A & E at the weekend.”

Not really the opening I expected. I thought I’d get complaints of a slow day, a change in shift pattern due to absences at the salon or maybe a saga of repeated calls to Vodaphone to resolve a mobile phone contract. “What happened?”

“Well I was taking my mother and grandma for afternoon tea in Strensall when I got a call that she’d cut her chin at her aunt’s house. So I picked her up and off we went to hospital.”

“Cut her chin?”

“She cut her chin on some chicken wire. This wire is at the bottom of my aunt’s garden. She was playing with her cousins, who are older and little twats. They unlocked a gate in a fence that they were told not to go through. She’s such a goody goody that she wouldn’t but she looked through a gap and caught her chin on the wire. Off we went to A & E and spent three hours there”.

She displayed no outrage at this detour. (I wondered whether she had simply kicked into the caring mother mode where your time and priorities immediately switch or whether this was a typical weekend). I was concerned as this was distressing for anyone let alone a small child.

“They see you quickly to assess the injury and then you have to wait for the doctor? Was she bleeding heavily?”

“Yes, they gave us some bandages to stop the bleeding. When it was her turn they wanted to stitch it there and then. But she screams at the sight of blood and I wasn’t letting them give her a local anaesthetic.”

“Even worse was that my partner was in the hospital. Eddie was in another ward on a drip. So I was fucking about between both of them and that was why she was with her aunt rather than him”.

Eddie on a drip? This was a whole new storyline. Awful news, poor chap! However, I avoid exploring this interesting sub-plot.

(I’ve been known to swear (cough). So I’m not particularly offended but I worry that this is part of her everyday lexicon with all those who come into her life – including casual acquaintances plonked in her ‘office’).

“So what happened with her chin?”

“Six stitches, they did a very tidy job. She had to go back on Sunday morning for a general anaesthetic. That meant waiting fucking hours. After the five minute operation she was left for an hour and a quarter to come round.”

“Gosh, that made a mess of the weekend.”

There was a small time gap whilst she attended to my scalp and then stepping back said:

“That wasn’t the end of it.”

Wondrous timing.

“Really?”

“My sister in law. Err… well Eddie and myself are not married but you know what I mean. She keeps sending fucking texts that wind me up. This time she’s off on one about my looking after the kids. So I’ve had a right weekend and I’m sick of her with all this. So I decided to drop a bomb.”

“A bomb?”

“I told her that her partner had been sleeping with her best friend for the last two years.”

“Whoa” (Sinks lower in chair). I’ve been generous to Jessica, up to a point, with my description of her lot but you now start to get a closer a look at the mayhem that seeps into her and her family’s life. All these episodes make them more dysfunctional. Or maybe she’s just letting you know the stuff others keep secret?

“How did that go down?”

“Well everyone knows that I don’t give a fuck and say what I think about ‘owt.”

Well quite, I was starting to get a clear picture of her take on most things. “That’ll take a while before you’re speaking to each other again!”

“It got worse.”

She must be winding me up now knowing that I write a blog. This is comedy gold.

“Worse?”

“The police contacted me. She contacted them to say I was committing slander.”

Ah, the bar room lawyer in me now takes over. I might know something about this after other contretemps I’ve been in. “Oh, that’s going nowhere. You’ve got to prove injury”

“Yeah, well the police had to make the call and we agreed that anyone on Facebook would be breaking the law if they looked at it for slander (libel).”

Unfortunately at this point my haircut was complete and I had no time for the story to continue. I gave her a couple of pounds tip as it was the least I could do.

(Thanks again to Matt for his review, editing and additions)

Ireland – Four Nights in the Republic – September 2018

Travel

September 19, 2018

Another early start and befuddlement as the alarm goes off at 4.15am. Ryanair’s flight to Dublin sets sail at 6.30am and we need to get our skates on. On arrival we found Leeds Bradford Airport (40 minutes drive at this ungodly hour) was gridlocked as other airlines also had Stupid O’Clock flights to Greece and France departing. Getting through Security involved patient queuing with hundreds of others. The present Mrs Ives was in meltdown about them shutting the Gate and our missing the flight. She had to dawdle in a long security queue, however, we got to the Gate  20 minutes before the flight took off.

The flight to Dublin was attracting weekend revellers. In my adjoining seat was a chap leading a stag weekend. It had started the night before with 5 pints at the Saltaire Beer Festival. Add to this only 4 hours sleep and he wasn’t in great condition for his first Dublin drink at around 9am (followed by karting at a nearby track). He’d never been karting before and so looking at images of the outdoor track on his phone we discussed how to cope with wet asphalt, late braking and other tactics.
Continue reading Ireland – Four Nights in the Republic – September 2018 →

A Fly In The Room

Journal

September 19, 2018

Matt Gray

Another entertaining piece in this occasional series by Matt about the challenges of writing… or not

Bzzzzz

There is a fly buzzing somewhere in the room. You can hear it, but you cannot see it. You stop what you are doing and turn your head away from the task at hand and attempt to search it out. Whilst looking, however, you realise the buzzing has stopped. How odd… You turn back to the task at hand, the page before you, and you consider the next move. You find that a part of you longs for it to begin again. Then you hear it. A gentle thud suggests it just dozily bumped into the window pane in an attempt to flee and thus you jerk your head to the window in a swift movement. On and on this little routine goes, this little dance between yourself and the shadow-fly. Eventually you simply abandon your task and take to searching for it. You intend to swat it, to erase it, to free your mind up. There is a slipper in your hand and you silently patrol the room on high alert. If it buzzes again you will get it. 

You just wait for the buzz. It has done its job. 

We all have flies in the room. Those little annoying creatures that distract us from being productive. Now, sometimes, this takes the form of an actual fly, but more often it takes the form of something else. Social media is the 21st century culprit for many people. The constant connectedness we feel, especially whilst at our computer desks, means that distraction is never more than just a double click away. The Twitter feed… the news page… the YouTube video that you were told you had to watch because it’s the funniest clip ever made and simply cannot wait. Oh, have I got any emails? No? Let me check my spam folder… Oh, I’m on Google now, let me type my name in and see what that entails…

Procrastination is not quite the same as distraction but they are cousins who get a little too close during the family Christmas dinner. To procrastinate is to actively seek out means by which to defer work, whereas distraction is the fly buzzing in your ear when you are trying to focus. It’s like being told there is a chocolate digestive hidden somewhere beneath the water biscuits. 

I will admit I have fallen prey to both, like most of us have. Even writing this piece, I have procrastinated by scouring Spotify for the perfect soundtrack to writing, and have been distracted by the sounds of Richie Rich playing on the television in the next room. While I can close the door to Richie Rich (thankfully) there are other distractions that are trickier to shut out. There is the constant desire to have a break, to begin reading my book, or to make a cup of coffee. All serve the same function in delaying the time I have to sit down and write this piece.

So what advice can I give to people in the modern age who wish to minimalise distraction? Whilst procrastination is something that cannot be advised upon easily (it’s simply a mindset), there are means I take to reduce the amount of distraction while I write. I still procrastinate, but I know I’ve done my best to ensure that when I do, I cannot blame anyone but my own ping-ponging attention span.

1) WRITING SETUP. When I write, I use a program that utilises a full screen mode. Word has a full screen mode, but there are still distractions, even then. You have banners inviting you to fiddle with font type and size, to adjust spacing between the lines and to even change the font colour for crying out loud. No, these are not what I want to be staring at me, winking their devilish winks and luring me into distraction. I am writing this with Ulysses, which is a markdown software which aims to make writing solely about the words. You have to go through two different menu clicks before you can change anything other than font size (and even that is simply a keyboard shortcut and not a glowing neon button). When in full screen mode, the whole of my screen is black and white, the page and the words. There are no windows, the internet may as well be a distant memory, out of reach. Now, when I write, I am simply as one with the words.

2) BACKGROUND SOUNDS. I find it very difficult to write in complete silence. I think most people do. This is why so many aspiring novelists tuck themselves away in coffee-shops; the clattering of mugs, the generic hum of conversation and the burr of the coffee grinder stop your own thoughts from creeping in, making you less self aware of what you are doing. And, if I have learned anything, if a writer pauses for even a second to consider that they are actually writing, they halt, like the bee who was wondered how she could fly and then fell from the sky. Any one of these sounds, isolated, could be a problem, but melded, their sweet cacophony produces an almost zen-like environment, and you find yourself sinking down, away from awareness, and you lose yourself. 

I appreciate that not all writers can, or even want to, do this. At almost three quid a pop, that would make writing your novel fuelled by coffee-shop visits a bankrupting endeavour. Fear not, because there are means by which to aid this, and not all of them, thankfully, rely on you actually having to fire up the internet. You can, of course, go to YouTube and search for rainstorm music, or anything like that, but there are apps (some free, others very cheap) which you can fire up which emulate a variety of soothing situations. The one I use, Noizio, has adjustable bars for ‘Deep Space’ (great for writing that SF epic), ‘Coffee Shop’ (great for bringing you Costa without the cost), and even, bizarrely, ‘Farmyard Sounds’ (great for… writing that stable boy/ lady of the manor romance?). You are at risk of procrastination when you begin playing with different combinations. For example, mix a bit of Deep Space with Farmyard and you have Cows in Space.

Outside of this, I would recommend movie soundtracks which closely match your chosen genre. Lyric-free music is always recommended, as you wish to avoid music that means you can be easily distracted by. 

3) DISCONNECT. Oh, how easy it is to simply click the little wi-fi icon in the top corner and deactivate your system’s connection to the internet. Simple, but we rarely do it. This not only prevents you from easily keeping updated on your feeds, but also prevents the annoying notifications that pop up, the digital equivalent of a mermaid’s siren song. 

There is a fly in the room. You can hear it, but you cannot see it. 

Record Of The Week # 48

Music

September 19, 2018

Jason Eady – I Travel On

The first thing that strikes you on Eady’s seventh release is the quality of the playing. On the opening track, “I Lost My Mind In Carolina”, a real steering wheel tapper, you hear his band fire up. The album was recorded live and acoustic. Such a platform means that fiddle and banjo are immediately important in the mix. This along with the lyrical content takes you back a decade or two for how chart popular Country used to sound. Eady may be new to you but he’s been around a long time and garners much respect from his musical peers.

“Happy Man” is in stark counterpoint to many of the songs here where struggle and moving on are the theme. With the type of sentimentality that only Country music can ever feel confident to cover we hear of a contended life with many blessings of marriage and family. “Calaveras County” (in California) hits a familiar rhythm and his wife and solo artist, Courtney Patton, joins him on the first of a number of harmonies. The story has its origins about when his father broke down short of petrol in the middle of nowhere. His salvation came in the form of a hippy in a multi-coloured VW camper van that took him to fetch the fuel. This story of kindness has stuck with him ever since.

“She Had To Run” slows the album and is reminiscent of Alison Krauss and Union Station with a tale of a woman thumbing a lift to escape an abusive partner. Fiddle and dobro intertwine in a haunting and melancholy duet as his masterful baritone recounts this getaway with a passenger in peril and distress. 

“Pretty When I Die” is a bluegrass outing and sumptuous husband and wife harmonies sit on top of the hoedown. As the band take their solos he extols the virtue of hard work and living life to the full to avoid the ignominy of dying pretty! “I Travel On” is his most memorable vocal and takes us on the road with this lilting ballad from Monterey to Richmond: 

“I’m out here searching, 

For cities made of gold, 

I don’t know what is real, 

Just some stories I’ve been told, 

Maybe someday I’ll find out, 

Somewhere on this road I travel on”

This is a beautiful authentic Country album of considerable lyrical and musical craft. I can understand the affection that follows this Texan troubadour. Sadly, given the industry’s predilection for formulaic Country Pop music purveyed by 30 somethings males in Stetsons and blue jeans then this won’t be anywhere near a Country Music Association nomination for album of the year anytime soon but maybe that tells you how fabulous it is.

Jim White in Concert – The Crescent, York – September 6th 2018

Music

September 15, 2018

“That’s the end of the death portion of the show” chirped Jim White after five of his 15 songs. Maybe the ‘death’ section of the show has finished but White has had a troubled life and in this couple of hours you get a tour through his taxi driving, homelessness, depression, failed marriages and then his emergence into the sunnier uplands through not least the joy of his daughters.

A rapt audience of around 100 are holding onto every word as he recounts this personal journey between songs. He is a storyteller. The sublime virtuoso Clive Barnes accompanies him on electric or acoustic guitar adding atmosphere to White’s wry, observational, seldom judgemental, and brutally honest confessional musings.

“A Perfect Day To Chase Tornados” from his 1997 Wrong-Eyed Jesus albumis met with delight as the gathering discover that White is about to revisit some of his most cherished songs. The complex lyrics illustrate that you are in the company of a thoughtful yet often conflicted craftsman: 

“Sometimes I think that the sky is a prison and the earth is a grave.
And sometimes I feel like Jesus, in some Chinese opera.
And sometimes I’m glad I built my mansion from crazy little stones.
But sometimes I feel so goddamned trapped by everything that I know.
And I wish it wasn’t so, cause the only thing that anyone should ever know
Is that today’s a perfect day to chase tornados.
Yeah, when the wild wind whips around your head you know,
That you have found a perfect day to chase tornados. To rapturous applause he quips that the song was ‘wrote before I was a rock star.”

Sat still with the guitar on his lap we work through songs off five different albums, with five coming from his 2017 release: Waffles, Triangles & Jesus.Torn between poet and raconteur we have asides about the commercial success (or not) of his releases.”Objects In Motion” he declares come from the album “that ended my career” – Drill A Hole In A Substrate. With relish he advises that the song was probably the least popular track on the album “judging by the meagre couple of cents I get from royalties then it had two plays, probably, in Namibia and Iran”. However when the laughter subsided we had a haunting and atmospheric song sung and half spoken.

Highlights are many but “Wound That Never Heals” about a female serial killer spins you off kilter. The story is dark with murderas its main theme. I suppose against the backdrop of White’s mental challenges then you never quite know where the fiction or autobiography might collide. “Silver Threads” from his latest album recounts the difficult parting from a girlfriend of four years after initial promises of marriage. However, don’t be glum “she’s happy now with a Norwegian!” “Bluebird” off the album “that ended his career” starts with the matter of fact declaration that he conceived a child with a woman he disliked and with fragile vulnerability and bleak loneliness he sings about the daughter:

“Bluebird on a telephone line
How are you? I’m feeling fine
Sweetly do I whisper your name
Lonely solo taxi ride to a cheap motel”

Before a sentimental closer he sang “Christmas Song”, the most autobiographical of his songs. Marooned in a Greyhound bus station on December 25th1998 after his transportation broke down. At this time separation from his child is the most agonising and the scatter of words spill out his pain, anguish and the realisation that he is in many ways a mess and maybe he’s the problem.

If you haven’t caught him then you must. He is a one-off: capable of stories, vivid images of America, delicate yet compelling melodies and an interpretive (yet never hurried) delivery that is like no other.

Record Of The Week # 47

Music

September 6, 2018

Curse Of Lono – As I Fell

First impressions bring to mind a Nordic Noir box set: brooding, complex and menacing. It’s as if it was recorded with colour repressed and black and white prevailing. The album’s narrative is often beyond dark and the mood is sombre and serious. However, spending time with this masterpiece enables you to discover the personality of the main protagonist, composer, vocalist and bandleader, Felix Bechtolsheimer. You warm to him and soon subtle melodies spill out and you find yourself reaching the choruses before him. It’s genuinely one of those albums that you could play back to back several times.

“Valentine” starts the eleven-song outing with an industrial beat and a union of voices. Soon a scraping guitar ups the song’s raw edge. This hypnotic paean to a lover involves the unlikely involvement of daggers and bullets. It’s here that Bechtolsheimer’s backstory of heroin addiction seeps through many of the lyrics. He says he’s moved through this phase of his life but had some songs left from his earlier release, Severed,that needed to see the light of day. 

Throughout, the hypnotic and atmospheric rhythm section of Charis Anderson (bass) and Neil Findlay (drums) lay down patterns on a canvas that Bechtolsheimer paints with words that illuminate and challenge, “Kathleen” is such a track:

“Bricks and buildings they don’t mean nothing to me anymore

And the cars driving by they don’t touch me like before

Down in the gutter is where I pretend to be free

They’ve got eyes that shine like the sea”

The throbbing bass-heavy “Blackout Fever” is surely indebted to The Trogg’s “Wild Thing” signature rhythm but with Bechtolsheimer leading a chorus through abstract lyrics of mayhem. Musically the tone of the album lightens and whilst “No Trouble” visits a troubled relationship, the easy pace and melody delight not least with the outro guitar solo and muted horns.

“Leuven” was inspired by his grandfather’s experience of being in a train crash when returning from a football match in the 1950s. The experience left him with mental scars after witnessing the deathly aftermath. The song starts with a personal tone as Bechtolsheimer ‘talks’ to his brother. In the background the soundtrack builds with strings and the dialogue continues. A drum beat quietly starts to give some propulsion to the song and Joe Hazell’s stupendous guitar playing leads the song into an anthem.

“And as the train left the tracks on that December’s day

There were men singing songs about lands far away 

And the women they loved and the lies that they tell

And the eyes of Leuven all turned away

And the sirens they screamed and the kids went to play 

Out in the fields where their fathers fell”

I think I can declare with certainty that As I Fell will make a hatful of end of year lists. The British five piece (taking their name from a Hunter S Thompson book) led by Bechtolsheimer (ex Hey Negrita) have a giant atmospheric soundscape of an album. Whilst this is Bechtolsheimer’s second collaboration with producer Oli Bayston, this is the first withhis current line up. Written and mainly created in London, the definitive versions were laid down at a studio in Joshua Tree, California. The ghostly heat, space and landscape of the desert appear to inhabit the recordings, but this may be a figment of your imagination… 

Bechtolsheimer’s confessional, and often spoken, vocals may possess you like Jim Morrison but for me there’s some of Mark Knopler’s conversational and cadenced storytelling afoot often backed by the fluid and complementary guitar playing of Hazell. 

With Rock dead, or on tour supporting Def Leppard, we’ll quickly and happily claim this for Americana. Rush out and get your copy (preferably on vinyl).

Levis, Vodka & Large Spiders – Week 34 : 2018

Journal

August 29, 2018

So after having been away for six weeks holidaying then unsurprisingly it takes a while to get back into the swing of things and it’s only now that my mind turns to the chores that make up a lot of life. More happily a festival of sport marked my return.

Firstly we attended a Premiership football match – Leicester City versus Wolverhampton Wanderers and then the cricket Test Match between England and India in Nottingham the next day. The football was excellent and Wolves will do well in the league this season despite their loss 2-0 on the day. Leicester City has a splendid ground and reasonable prices for their fans. However, despite their pride and loyalty the atmosphere was limp. I can only imagine the buzz at the first home match of the season if Leeds were in the top flight.

The seats we had at Trent Bridge were fabulous and so we could assess the quality of the bowling and batting brilliantly behind the bowler’s arm. If that was brilliant then England’s performance was worthy of several sackings. Inept decisions from after winning the toss to their abject first innings batting. India are well are truly back in the Series and I expect they might win it. Despite all this it was a great day out.

On my bike ride then sartorial elegance was not a priority. I washed and wore three sets of clothes in rotation over a 25 day period. Back home then I can scrub up quite well with a suit but the schedule and activities I keep only necessitate jeans and a T shirt with some sort of fleece top. It does seem a long time ago since I spent considerable sums at quality Gents outfitters on suits, ties and shirts. However, that was a work situation and I suppose I cared!

So accompanying Mrs Ives in Leeds during the week I was wandering around half contemplating buying some shorts when I strolled into some clothes shops and was accosted by a fairly care worn figure staring back at me from full length mirrors. This chap was 60’ish wearing unforgivably baggy Levi 501’s that looked well past their best, a routine collared shirt and blue pullover. In fairness then compared to men of his age he was quite slim and had short hair. (The latter over coming that elderly man preference for having lots of grey hair on show nicely combed over the bald patches).

Anyway, despite my wife’s protestation that delights abounded at a discount at the Designer Outlet outside York I bought a jacket, jeans and shorts. Most of this at John Lewis. Even more wisely I did consult people less than half my age what might be jean alternatives and received good counsel.

By way of revenge Anna was quick on our return to select candidates from my wardrobe for eviction. Which reminds me… If and when I appear on the BBC’s Desert Island Discs and Kirsty asks what my luxury item is to take to the desert island I will take a 40 year old coat that I use to wash the car and garden in. My explanation will be that as soon as I am out of her sight entrapped on this Pacific idyll then she will be rummaging through the cloakroom to dispose of this coat. Such is her desire to dispose of it I have wondered whether I might offer this solution to her as a future Christmas present.

I finish with a heavy heart about what I saw in a supermarket. After shopping for various groceries I was proceeding down the aisles to the checkout when I saw, with others, a youngish, tall but slightly dishevelled man taking the contents of his shopping basket and pile them into a rucksack behind a pillar. It looked very suspicious and was. He just hauled the rucksack on his back and briskly walked toward the exit with £80 of booze on his back. Theft in broad daylight.

You’re left in the bat of an eye thinking what you could have done, safely, to prevent this. Then others questions arise – why didn’t the supermarket electronically tag the alcohol, recruit store detectives (especially around the alcohol), did the supermarket just accept this shrinkage as an overhead, how many times a week this happened and why was this wretch doing this – to support his own addictions by either selling or drinking it? Depressing and maybe just a regular occurrence I am lucky enough not to witness very often.

Lastly I can advise that Costco is already in the vanguard of preparing to lift your money with Halloween essentials.

Record Of The Week # 46

Music

August 29, 2018

Courtney Marie Andrews – May Your Kindness Remain

About a year ago I bought and reviewed Andrews break through album Honest Life. I was genuinely blown away. Here was a Singer Songwriter in the truest sense of it’s 1970’s genre creation – terrific melodies, remarkable voice, staggering and memorable lyrics, beautiful and sympathetic arrangements. Such a find.

Her latest release May Your Kindness Remain attracted lots of critical acclaim on both sides of the Atlantic in March this year and you might say that she has arrived. That acclaim is well placed and hasn’t come quickly. Despite being of tender years at 27 years old this is her sixth release. That long hard road has meant that her lyrics dwell on real life: let’s be fair there is generally no money in the peripatetic life of a travelling musician. Her words talk of love and compromise in the most mundane of locations and rooms. She says – “A lot of people are poor in America—and because of those unattainable goals, they’re also mentally unstable, or sad, or depressed or unfulfilled. A lot of people — myself included at some point in my life — are loving somebody through this. That’s sort of the theme of the record: coming to terms with depression and the reality of the world we’re living in.”

One such lament is on “Two Cold Nights In Buffalo” where she’s marooned due to the weather in this large rust belt US town on the border of Canada and the Great Lakes. She talks of the city’s decline and the changing face with its declining middle classes, neighbourhoods and the community that was once nurtured by those who lived there. If you can relate to the song it will last longer in your memory. I cycled through it in July 2015 as I went south in search of America’s music in Nashville, Muscle Shoals, Memphis, Mississippi Delta and New Orleans. The Canadian border post takes you through the centre of the city. There are many streets of demolished and cleared space – the legacy of an industrial manufacturing past that eventually created the rust belt. I cycled through with little to see and whilst there are pockets of prosperity it is a ghost of a city as regards what once made it proud.

“Rough Around The Edges” sees a Carole King piano introduction and Andrews returns to a song of failed lives and love. Joni Mitchell introspection is found in the verse;

                              “You find beauty in simple things,

                                 In desert sunsets and in movie scenes

                                 I see the flaws in all the in-betweens,

                                 The past was cruel and caught up with me”

“KIndness Of Strangers” sees yet another arrangement to make you swoon. The producer, Mark Howard, has worked with Lucinda Williams, Emmylou Harris and Bob Dylan and creates a wonderful backing not least creating spaces in the songs to let her powerful angelic voice shine through like a ray of light. In this song where the soundscape parts she has a female chorus behind her that deliver a Soul/Gospel feel. “I’ve Hurt Worse” contains the key to the lock as regards the message of the song with the line “Mother says we love who we think we deserve” and it makes sense of the lyric where with accordion and ukelele backing she lists her lover’s indifference. Double tracking her voice for harmony is exquisite. 

If the album has the consistency needed to make it great then it also contains a complete timeless gem in the title track “May Your Kindness Remain”. She forgives a friend for all her indulgences because she has a good heart. The indulgences are listed with no little exasperation and maybe this is the reality she refers to in the above quote. The voice can soar and in this opener we get a tune to die for.

She’s playing locally in December. I visited the theatre to buy tickets. It felt like a moment when you find under priced treasure in a shop, how lucky are you? I shelled out the cash for two tickets before I feared that I would get a tap on the shoulder and the interloper chuckles and says “Oh you’re joking! You think we still have tickets available for this concert? We sold them decades ago. Do you how how great this artist is?”

Can’t wait.

You Might Need Somebody….

Music

August 24, 2018

My Favourite Eldest Daughter worries about hereditary conditions that may be on her future Timeline. In her position I would be less worried as I’m convinced that by the time she reaches the age of her mother or myself there will be a pill or spray that will sort it. If I were alerting her about future concerns then her father, aunt and grandfather had or have a troubling gypsy heart. The thought of being peripatetic would lose me no sleep other than where would I store my record collection, bikes and Morgan. Wandering far and wide simply and cheaply is a pleasure I live for. Another condition is less disruptive but persistent.

I cannot hear any music whether in a supermarket, lift, mall, waiting room and not marvel and wonder how such a track makes it into this space. There are so many songs out there why do they pick historical relics? Are the songs of today so temporary or irritating that they cannot make a background soundtrack for shoppers or residents?

Shola Ama is now 39 years old but at the tender age of 18 years old she had a hit single in 1997. It reached No. 4 in the UK charts and No. 21 in Germany. “You Might Need Somebody” was a dead ringer cover of Randy Crawford’s earlier effort. However, such was the quality of the song it charted 16 years later. Shola Ama released this on an album, which must have shifted a few copies. When the next album flopped she disappeared off the scene. (Yes, I have both albums).

So explain how 21 years later this song is echoing around a supermarket in Mauterndorf? (Mauterndorf in Austria has a population of 1,700 people and exists as a tourist spot mainly for winter skiiers who throw themselves off nearby Alps). Although it charted in Germany I’m incredulous this obscurity is serenading me as I ask for a cheese and gherkin sandwich.

How does Betty Wright’s 1971 “Clean Up Woman” make it into the lobby of a luxury hotel in Strasbourg’s OKKO Hotel? It’s France for heaven’s sake! This Soul classic shifted over a million records when it charted in the USA but how does it appear in my ears here?

1982’s “Pass The Dutchie” was still being played in a Miami mall 36 years after its release. Granted London’s Musical Youth’s reggae song was a worldwide hit and rose on the US Billboard Hot 100 chart to No.10. However, why does this make it onto any playlist for a nation that can pick from Elvis, Bruce, Jacko, Madonna, Aretha, Marvin, Dolly, Buddy, Whitney… need I go on?

You may think copyright keeps some of these big artists off the playlists. Maybe? However give me the total selection available and then I wouldn’t think to use some of these songs.

I’m expecting on my, say, wait in a Southern European taxi office that it will either be Billy Ocean or Todd Rundgren that accosts me. I’ll keep you posted.

Croatia to England (by bike) – July & August 2018

Travel

August 14, 2018

Day 1 – Split to Pakoštane, Croatia – 61 miles & 968 metres climbed

So it felt like a pending examination. I had some butterflies about the upcoming distance, the hilly terrain, narrow roads (and impatient traffic), sweltering heat, weight on the bike (with luggage) and a slightly dodgy right knee. I’ve been here before but had some anxiety about the journey home before I started. 

This had a lot to do with a 6 mile 400 metre climb shortly after leaving the apartment on a narrow mountain pass and wondering whether Croatia losing the World Cup Final had a bearing on how they’d drive the next morning. After a wonderful time on holiday in Croatia (and too briefly in Herzegovina) I left Anna and Sophie (wife and youngest daughter) in Kaštel Lukšić to the west of Split to pedal home. The route is simply heading north. Up through Croatia and then into Slovenia. After this there is the small matter of the Austrian Alps to overcome before the relative flat of Southern Germany before I push onto France. I think it may be around 1,500 miles before I walk through my home front door.

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