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.
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Some of the best Country tracks released in 2018 are to be found on this album by Nashville domiciled Texan, Ross Cooper. If you start with the fact that Cooper raised $21k via crowd funder website Kickstarter to get this album promoted then you obviously won’t find the fingerprints of a major record label across it. However it is only a matter of time before they come calling.
The twelve short tracks are a cross between mainstream Nashville Country and Americana Country Rock, although the PR threw up Alt-Western as the genre. That somehow seems to fit the atmospheric title track with its cinematic vista of horses, tumbleweed, rodeos and bars. Cooper had an earlier career as a bronco rider and writes with considerable experience of the lifestyle, travel and injuries. He relays this through the thoughts of a retired rider reflecting on the highs and lows but taking considerable satisfaction at the thrill of his tussle with unharnessed nature. Eric Masse produced the album and he’s been accumulating experience with some stellar artists. This included working on Miranda Lambert’s The Weight Of These Wings. Along with his talent on the dials he brings a fabulous selection of Nashville musicians. It’s here that we first hear the incendiary and heavy guitar of Jeremy Fetzer as he sets the track alight with a blistering solo toward the end.
Cooper slips easily between light and shade. “Another Mile” is a fast paced acoustic pop tune where a pleasing chorus is supported by being driven along by a band of guitar, keyboard, pedal steel and drums. However, the sweetest traditional Country outing is ‘Lady Of The Highway’. Cooper lays down his homage to travel on the road. Eddy Dunlap’s delightful pedal steel gives the song charm and personality. Take note this should be at the very top of the Country charts NOW.
“Strangers In The Bar” intimately clues you in on a routine pick up and sounds like Kip Moore over a throbbing beat. The words are succinct – ‘And you should come with a warning, you’ll be alone in the morning. Fishing for the first of many drinks, Hooking fools on the first of many winks.’ We feel that ‘busy life on the road vibe’ and its loneliness. Here two people find temporary solace in each other’s arms after a seemingly well rehearsed pas de deux.
A rolling rhythm against a backdrop of organ accompanies the final track “All She Wrote”. He recounts the terseness of his lover’s moving message of goodbye. Ironically he finds all this out as he reads her note (that he forgot to open half a day earlier) where she tells him that it ‘doesn’t feel like she’s leaving, cause you can’t leave a man already gone.’ Short, impactful and armed witha great hook.
His distinctive and attractive vocals are always able to sound rowdy but he can find that slower Country tender heartbreak tone. Each track is beautifully crafted and there is just so much damn catchiness about it all that you may have withdrawal symptoms.
Lastly, in a recent interview Cooper says about the music business “It changes every day, but I’d say for most artists like me there’s always a struggle with giving an audience a reason to care. It’s not enough being a good singer-songwriter anymore because there’s so much music out there that’s great. You have to be constantly working and constantly moving”. This is true, but, Ross, trust me they will care. You’ve absolutely nailed it here.
Abu Dhabi is part of the United Arab Emirates. It isn’t running out of money anytime soon with 9% of the world’s reserves of oil and 5% of its gas . However, it is a very small piece of desert with a coast line in a very hot place where a lot of concrete has now been poured. As part of the diversification (for the day when we heat our houses by solar panels or drive our electric cars) they have developed a tourism business.
Anna booked the Sofitel Corniche and it was very much 5 stars with wall to wall smiling, beautifully groomed and trained staff and luxurious and attractive facilities. We’d planned to find some winter sun. It could be argued that we were late in the season but the “Beast Of The East’ had made the preceding weeks icy in the UK and some genuine heat was in order.
It has to be said that there isn’t a lot to do other than lounge about beside a hotel pool. Granted there are shopping malls although they are around 20% more expensive than the UK. An offshoot of The Louvre was to be found. I understand that most of the exhibits of these large museums/galleries are kept in storage and so no doubt finding another outlet seems good business. Ferrari World wasn’t a gigantic car museum but a themed park with rides – at £60 a pop to enter and maybe a little too long in the tooth then we weren’t interested.
So first it was about getting into the swing of hotel living. The first bemusing thing is getting into the lift/elevator and riding 30 floors whilst avoiding eye contact and communication with all the other occupants. However, on exit you then turn to the people you’ve ignored and say ‘goodbye’. Other adjustments were alcohol. In the hotel a pint of lager clocked in at £9. We, later, had access to a free Happy Hour in a Lounge that overcame this potentially ruinous state of affairs.
Leaving the UK is not what it was with a blackout of news from home a couple of decades ago. The Internet and TV provide all the current affairs you can absorb. Sadly this coverage extended to sport and even the coverage of the Aston Villa versus Leeds game – is there no escape from a disastrous season? However some Premiership football and a Grand Prix were better entertainment. Communication with our progeny, Katrina and Sophie, was eventually resolved despite FaceTime and Skype being unusable. Apparently there are encryption disputes with the Government and Apple can’t be bothered to fix them. We used the call facility on WhatsApp. Some of the calls proved illuminating as Katrina explained that at her party she was playing ‘pass the parcel’. In between the layers of paper were sweets and a condom. The prize was unmentionable in pleasant company. I can’t tell you how much we spent on her education, where did it all go wrong?
Food was copious and delicious. We ate in the hotel and also out and about. Breakfast is always the big treat that you seldom fashion at home in the same way – fresh fruit (pineapple, melon, segments of grapefruit, segments of orange, kiwi fruit etc.) , followed by croissants or cereal with ground coffee before a leisurely stroll up to the counter (again) for an omelette or some pancakes. After this you need some exercise and via two pedestrian underpasses we were 200m from the front. Here was a large promenade with joggers, cyclists, some fishermen and a few children. We enjoyed feeling virtuous by walking a few kilometres. On a couple of occasions we took advantage of some ‘Boris bikes’. They enabled us to get further and not least find a café for some iced coffee. We learned to ensure that they didn’t add sugar! Abu Dhabi has a sweet tooth and cakes were everywhere and all the soft drinks seemed too sweet.
I should have known this, I’d been here before. Back in the day (early noughties) at Moores we did quite a lot of business with a contractor/studio in the town. These exports were several hundreds of £000’s per year and we were glad to have it. Our contact was Lebanese and he wasn’t beyond the odd unconventional arrangement. The first I recollect was that he overpaid for deliveries. This largesse was because after we took the correct amount from the transaction he requested that we placed the balance in a UK bank account – his! The second thing was that he had a Kitchen Designer in the office, who was an employee and wife of another colleague. He brought her to the UK for kitchen design training (along with her very young child) . If the ‘cat was out of the bag’ that they were more than colleagues it came to light when over dinner they were feeding each other dessert with their respective spoons and also retired very early!
In fact in the UAE 99% of the workforce are expat. The 1% of Arabs who work tend to be in the public sector and can be found in the Government departments, airports, police and no doubt counting their money as they manage the Indians, Filipinos, Pakistanis and Europeans who run the country. Out of a population of 9 million in the UAE then 60% are expats with no legal domicile rights or any chance to get citizenship. Remarkably there are 1.8m Indians, 1.2m Pakistanis, 0.6m Filipinos and 0.5m Bangladeshis in the Emirates.
You can’t overlook the fact that they are keeping their respective homelands afloat with all the money they send back. It seems many have been in Abu Dhabi for decades. Our porter from Bangladesh had been in the Emirates for 10 years, our Filipino hostess in the Lounge had been in the country three years; she was busy sending money back home to educate her siblings. Lastly, Richard out taxi driver was Ugandan. He calculated that he would earn a quarter of what he earned in Abu Dhabi back home as a teacher. This seems so sad to waste such talent. He had plans to buy a farm at home and he’d calculated that was where the money was.
Richard had brought us back from the Yas Mall. This is a cavernous construction near the F1 Grand Prix Track, Ferrari World and, not least, IKEA. (When it came to lunch my wife did suggest a quick trip into the furniture store but I could live without meatballs for a few days!) The Mall had all the major brands but, as I’ve said, the prices were uninteresting but it is an worthwhile visit.
Not nearly as interesting as The Grand Mosque. This is a sumptuous construction and despite the numbers of visitors had a great calm and coolness about it. Anna was made to dress appropriately: unfortunately there was no retail outlet for me to buy this outfit for her. In fact our Mosque guide explained the traditional dress (unconvincingly).
It goes something like – back in the day the men worked in the sun and needed white robes. With no money left then the women were stuck with cheaper black material. Nowadays they can wear white if they want, and I did see one woman at the airport dressed thus. However the reality is that they don’t. Similarly it was explained that women worshipped separately because the men had to touch shoulders in the Mosque and also prostrate themselves. This was inappropriate between the sexes – I had hoped for some dissent from the gathered emancipated Western ladies, unfortunately my eldest daughter was back in London (wrapping condoms).
The guide, for all the frailty of these explanations in the 21st Century, did have a sense of humour. He showed us a monumental 8 ton chandelier in the centre and after explaining the lighting and weight did comment that in his early days he’d taken his grandmother around the Mosque. She’d not asked a question about the grandeur, King Zayed who instructed and paid for its building, the types of marble from Italy, Macedonia and China or where the carpet had come (Iran) from but did ask how they cleaned this huge suspended chandelier!
Of all the things I found impressive after the splendour of this ‘palace’ was the explanation of Islam to us ‘infidels’. It was gently paced and informative. I am not a Christian but why don’t tourists get taken around (the magnificent) St Paul’s in London (for free) with an explanation of the faith it represents? Are we ashamed?
Taking taxis was the norm. It came as a shock to find women taxi drivers in this male dominated society. The cars were a mixture of high end European models and Japanese for everything else. I still scratch my head at what happened to the British motor industry in the 1970’s. We used to export all around the world and in what seems like months that all collapsed and the Japanese moved in. Forty or fifty years later they still saturate the market with cars, vans, buses, trucks and 4 x 4s.
So in between our daily trip out I spent time in the gym clocking up a few miles on a bike or groaning on the hamstring curl apparatus. I was even found in the hotel pool – I think this is the first time I’ve been in a pool on holiday for about 15 years (yes, ‘Tony’s most dull fact of the report’). I liked to stroll around the expats shops in the town (Anna less so!) and I could understand the mobile phone and computer shops – these folk needed to talk to home. I could see why you’d need laundry services but why so many stationery shops? I have never seen so many shops selling paper, ball point pens, pencil erasers or staplers – what is going on?
Children seem very welcome and with an absence of alcohol then it works better with them for eating out. There were plenty of facilities for playing and no one seemed put out by their presence (apart from me). Safety was guaranteed. Despite poor urban lighting and shady alleys then single women jogged in the gloom, people wore their finery and jewellery in public places and respect was shown for all. In fact I think this is where we were once upon a time in the UK. When I am amongst this calm and respect I want to live in places like this.
Not all went to plan. After breakfast I left my mobile/cell phone on the breakfast table. My minder (Anna) retrieved this and handed it to me as I was entering the Lift/Elevator. The closing door hit my hand and the phone fell miraculously into the gap between the lift and the lobby. So 43 floors or ⅓rd of a mile later the phone came to rest at the bottom of the shaft. You may be unsurprised to learn that it no longer worked! Anyway the hotel retrieved the pieces and I was left with the job of sorting out a replacement back in Blighty.
The flight was a scheduled 7 hours each way, which is more than enough flying in Economy in less than a week. On the return flight there were UK based Commonwealth athletes from the England, Northern Ireland and Isle of Man teams. Whilst waiting for the loo I ended up talking to a girl who was resplendent in the kit. “So did you compete?” “Basketball” “Oh, did you win a medal?” Silver”. At this point I felt a complete plonker.
My other flight victim was the passenger sat next to me. He was a lad who was brought up in Grimsby but was an Albanian Kosovan (some might say that wasn’t a lucky escape). He was fascinating and we discussed the Balkans war, language, relations with Serbia, local food and football – I suspect the flight might have been longer than 7 hours for him! Overall a splendid break.
I go quite a long way back with Whitby. We used to own a flat there and still the family has considerable affection for the little former fishing town on the Yorkshire coast. I know it on so many levels – restaurants, best bike rides, best pubs, mini golf, walks up to The Abbey and the type of folk who holiday there.
I was invited to go across and join an old friend and his pals. They turn up every year, stay at his apartment and partake of serious exercise and even more serious drinking! I joined on Stage 2 of this two day tour. It is about 50 miles away from our home and the weather was desperate. Snow, ice and unbelievably cold. In our British weather forecasts we now have a new description of hell, namely, ‘chill factor’.
The ‘old friend’, Peter, is a skinny and fit Wearsider who lives in Edinburgh but works in London. At the age of around 56 he’s made the decision to retire. He’s a little giddy about taking the yoke off in July and starting to get under his wife’s feet. In fact a wild guess as to why he decided to abandon the Ministry of Defence procurement effort was the probable insistence of Alison to do up and sell the 15 or so bicycles languishing in his garage. Another two wheeled project includes firing up a motorcycle that hasn’t been run for 5 years. Knowing Peter I expect the garage might have 20 bicycles in it by Christmas.
The second of the party is Mike. A taller and wider unit but, like Peter, a very keen cyclist and walker. He’s just retired in his late 50’s and has come back from a month in Vietnam. (Ideal warm weather training for a quick break in Yorkshire). Mike had a successful career in construction management and now seems to be in perpetual motion on holiday. I think I’d not be maligning Mike to say he likes to party.
Poor old William, the last of the Three Musketeers, is still working. However, this is a price you have to pay for being a lot younger than everyone else. Looking lean and fit he works in Finance. If this sounds onerous then when you add that he’s a Motherwell fan you can but marvel at how he copes.
I suppose I must add, as they will complain otherwise, that this gathering, which usually includes William’s brother Andrew, is called ‘FBA’. No I’m not going to explain other than ‘A’ stands for Association and Mike’s in charge of toilets.
Anyway I got there whilst the chaps were attempting an impersonation of Lawrence ‘Titus’ Oates on the famous Scott of the Antarctic expedition of 1910. You may recollect he made the ultimate sacrifice by venturing out of his tent intending that his colleagues could push on toward safety without him as a burden. Their trauma included a long walk in the North Yorkshire Moors that included horizontal wind blowing icy snow into their faces. On getting back to the car they had anxiety as it uncontrollably slipped down steep treacherous roads.
(Subsequent BBC News reported that on the same afternoon, nearby, an ultra marathon was abandoned with Mountain Rescue teams retrieving souls. There were 30 runners treated for hyperthermia. A spokesman for Cleveland Mountain Rescue said “The wind was blowing snow across and it was very cold, with the wind chill it could have been around -8°C”).
With cheery stories they eventually got back to Whitby ready to defrost and party. These Scots are hard.
Most groups would dress up for a night on the town but it would be fair to say that the FBA looked smarter after a day in sub zero temperatures on the moors than they did as they strode out into the frozen night. All our kids and wives would not have been impressed. Old blokes left to their own devices do not reach for their best clothes.
The first port of call was ‘The Endeavour’. For those who don’t know the history then Whitby’s most famous son, James Cook, sailed to Australasia in said ship. It was here that he discovered New Zealand and Western Australia. It was a long way to go in a ship that had a shallow draft. This was in order to land on beaches and had been designed to carry coal from Newcastle to London in the 18th century. Jimbo made it until his 50th birthday before being killed by natives on a Hawaiian beach.
The pub was buzzing as we claimed our seats and put £20 each into the kitty. William held this money. (He’d been allocated the job of Quartermaster and Bursar by the FBA. He was given a title which I forget. With this responsibility came a large plastic bag for holding the change). He was despatched to the bar as the elder members of the Association found a seat.
I shall never forget the delight that spread across their faces as I invited them to take a proffered biro. After this came my quiz sheets. At this unexpected development Peter’s face assumed the kind of confused contortion that a person has if you ask them to perform the mental arithmetic of dividing 16.69 by 5.275. However he brightened up when he saw that the first 10 questions were about the ways to ride a bicycle faster (according to the June 6 2013 Cycling Weekly magazine).
The other 10 questions were placing the multiple choice birthplaces to leading British politicians. It was bad news for Scottish Labour as none of the two Scots or the Englishman, domiciled up there, had heard of him! William smashed the quiz with 6 out of 20. He looked humbled by his prize of 5 Cadbury Creme Eggs. For these services, like in the New Years Honours awards, I was bestowed with the moniker of ‘Biro Meister’. (I never did establish Peter’s title but let’s say Managing Director as well as Hotelier, Chauffeur and Entertainments Secretary).
After this distraction there was a long haggle about who would go next door and buy the fish and chips. ‘The Endeavour’ allow patrons to bring their take away meals into the pub. I’d like to say Mike gave in gracefully but in reality he was harangued into it. Off he trudged with the kitty/plastic bag and the requirement for 3 haddock, one cod and two mushy peas.
Katy, on holiday, then made the fatal mistake of planting herself in Mike’s vacated spot and was relieved of her life story by Peter and myself. A charity worker from Leeds she was married to Stephen who worked for a biscuit company. She passed this section of the assessment and we were just progressing to the ‘best three things about your marriage?’ when Mike returned with the dinner and also got to know Katy (see the photo -answers on a postcard as to why he was dressed like that).
So after about 3 or 4 pints in (I was starting to blur) and with a bloke strumming The Killers back catalogue painfully in a corner I was separated from a useful supply of draft Brew Dog Punk IPA and led into the night. I was discovering that amongst this revelry was an annual routine and a plan where deviation was not an option. So trudging across the bridge that joins the north and south of Whitby across the mighty Esk we proceeded to ‘The Elsinore’. It was here that I made the acquaintance of Camerons Strongarm – the beer, not a person.
Mik was on microphone and sang with a taped backing track. And as if by magic Disco men appeared. Mike morphed into a younger Bruno Tonioli, albeit one who had spent his formulative years playing rugby league: large, agile and yet menacing. William worryingly looked and danced like the little bloke from Bronski Beat with the high pitched voice: energetic and frenetic. Peter became the ‘Love Machine’: irressistable to the fairer sex and it has to be said that as the night ended then he wouldn’t be sleeping alone (more later).
In the scheme of things then Mik played and sang good tunes but had a tendency to take a break when the dance floor was heaving and things were in full swing. He offered no reasons for his surprising departures but I suspect it may have been a matter of stamina or a desire to have a Woodbine and pint.
And yourself Herr Biro Meister? As for dancing then the comment I once read in Record Collector magazine comes to mind. The guitarist of a famous American band was asked, amongst several questions, ‘what would get him up and dancing at a wedding?’ he replied ‘a shotgun’. So I jigged about looking like my feet were stuck to floor with a bonding agent yet the top of my body was attempting to run to the door with a series of lunges and spasms.
Peter’s strategy paid off handsomely as Dave, a complete stranger, bought us all a drink (a little to our embarrassment). Dave was having a great time in our company and wanted to say thank you. Dave and Margaret, under earlier interrogation, revealed that after his wife’s death he’d been out and about with his sister when socialising. Her pal Margaret tagged along. Things progressed so that they became an item and now he was in ‘The Elsinore’ smiling as Peter entertained his wife. There are a number of photographs of Peter acting as a babe magnet:
Not all questioning was well received. One patron reacted badly to my enquiring as to what he did for a living and what was his favourite music? He complained that he felt he was being interviewed for a job. William, sensing tension, quickly intervened to smooth things over. I think the Russians would call this a ‘distraction strategy’.
I wisely kept quiet although I was tempted to add that “we thanked him for attending and that we’d be in touch next week to tell him if he was the candidate who most closely matched our needs”.
Finishing with some Bob Marley then Mik declared that he needed to stop (probably to facilitate a blood transfusion) and so we said our goodbyes and headed back to the flat. Mike was detailed to supervise the elderly on the short walk back. I’m afraid whilst he did help me up then he didn’t stop me slipping on a steep icy patch and I ended up on my backside. I think that alcohol may have added to the treacherous weather as a problem…
However after having self medicated, to remove pain, with Brew Dog and Camerons then it wasn’t until the next day when I discovered a pulled quadricep. My memory was now completely fading as William opened some red wine. Fortunately the flat beneath was empty as a Scottish chorus bellowed out Belter by Gerry Cinammon, being played loudly through the sound system, he is a young man who hails from Glasgow. Who says Scottish culture doesn’t travel?
At sometime after 1 am, the Duracell batteries had run flat for the FBA bunnies and things ground to a halt.
Peter’s double bed partner you ask? Err… me. Apparently I got the nod over Mike (which may explained why he was a little miffed). He wriggles too much in bed. I must remember to wriggle more next time so William gets promoted.
Next day a manly walk up the pier blew away the cob webs on what was another bitterly cold and windy morning. ‘The Marine’ served up a splendid breakfast. Two of the party were begrudging about eating a ‘Full English’. By way of retaliation, they enjoyed pointing out England’s loss to Ireland in the rugby the day before.
What a joy! James Scott Bullard has delivered a Southern Rock album par excellence and the title says it all – Full Tilt Boogie. “Lord Have Mercy” is an electrifying start with a soaring lead guitar with slide fills and Bullard’s Country vocal delivery. In the mix we get a bass line so deep it needs a mining permit and following we get the rumble of the Hammond organ as it introduces a perfectly drilled backing chorus.
This is a band you have to hear: together they fit like a glove. Can they boogie? Oh yes! Bullard on rhythm guitar, Jeff Springs on lead guitar and Kevin Singleton’s bass are a force to be reckoned with. This selection of hard-hitting rock songs is self penned and was recorded in South Carolina. Bullard’s gift or good fortune is working with Missy Davis Jones and Ken “Dakota” Jones. Through the quality of the song writing, arrangements, energy and high production values they’ve elevated this work to be a triumph.
“Wicked Ways” adds to the incendiary atmosphere. It sounds like the third song into a live set when the band really starts to cook. A distorted guitar plays rhythm and Justin Banks’ organ swirls and swoops. Before the smell of cordite clears “All To Pieces” keeps the groove. A lovelorn lyric follows – “I never counted on a love so true, no I never thought a man could be so blue”.
Lyrically then “Hey, Hey Mama” isn’t Shakespeare with instructions to “put your good dress on” and advice that he’s going to love her like ‘it’s against the law” (which, we can all agree is probably too much information). However, I’m nit picking as the song sparks while a walking bass line bounces beneath that exquisite organ.
It’s worth saying at this point that Bullard is a firearm-carrying, ex-addict, ordained minister. I’ve read a lot of Americana biographies and surprisingly, he’s not unique! If all this has contributed to the quality of Full Tilt Boogie then the journey hasn’t been in vain.
The album’s accompanying PR places Bullard in Country Rock and I suppose I can concede some Outlaw in the confection but only “Jesus, Jail or Texas” sits him comfortably in the genre – hell, even the title shouts Country! The guitar lead suggests Dickey Betts. Rest assured this is not a bad place to be and may find him a wider audience.
“Leavin’ On My Mind” sees Mike Knight drive this along on skins as Bullard takes us on a tour of Memphis, the Mississippi and Austin before moving through Louisiana to the Carolina Pines whilst the band boogies. “The Next Year” is a radio friendly tune which mixes Southern Rock and Tom Petty with an addictive ’60’s pop guitar motif and is the most commercial track on the album.
I thought I heard angels when the twin guitars introduced “Back To You” and we slip into that Allman Brothers’ “Ramblin’ Man/Jessica” vibe. Bullard hitches a ride on a Southbound train leaving his lover sleeping to free his spirit only to regret his departure as he visits every town in Dixie. Just sublime.
When I tried to figure out the many reasons why I really enjoyed Bindley Hardware Co’s first release, Ever Satisfactory, it wasn’t the fact the band were named after the lead singer forebears’ retail outlet, but the irreverent and entertaining lyrics. It also helped to have a great Country Rock sound with some fine tunes.
Jon Bindley has an independent mind. After falling out of love with Nashville he returned to his hometown, Pittsburgh, where he (unforgivably) coined the genre ‘Rust Belt Americana’. His disenchantment with Music City had him reporting, “it felt a little disingenuous. You know everyone’s wearing a Stetson hat and cool tattoos and loves Townes Van Zandt”. His back story suggests that he is a serious student of song writing and this album displays that it was time well spent.
With a superb selection of musicians Bindley has created an important 32 minutes. “Down The Run” warns of avoiding violence in Greenfield, a suburb of Pittsburgh, where a teenager might find himself on the wrong end of a knuckle sandwich. A steady rock groove showcases the sound of guitar – acoustic and electric, bass, keys and drummer.
“Alright, Already!” has a thumping beat. Bindley sings of rolling with the punches and playing it by ear as to what life throws up. Delightfully the band steps up: particularly Christopher Putt on guitar and Waylon Richmond on violin. Putt is a real asset; with his variety of sounds he lends the album a tremendous quality and breadth.
“Good Ones” places us in Country music’s preferred venue for rumination: the bar. Here our hero reflects on the trials of being left with a selection of women who have been picked over. Presumably in a state of inebriation he tells his lucky winner the words she’s been longing to hear “you’re not the girl of my dreams!” The traditional melody had me imagining Keith with a cigarette in the side of his mouth leading the Stones through “Faraway Eyes”.
“Queen Of The Upper Middle Class” is an acerbic tour de force. “She’s a product of the suburbs, real luxury type of gal” may be tongue in cheek but could be a little close to the truth. A hard-bitten spoilt woman falls under Bindley’s critical gaze as he surmises that her entitled and pampered lifestyle makes her repellent. Fiddle and banjo lead and we get a gentle bluegrass melody with harmonies, which border on a hoe-down that gives this a real pace to match the story.
I never thought I would write that the duet is the standout track but Bindley and Angela Mignanelli have proven me wrong on “Easy Game”! Bindley and home town girl, Mignanelli, swap their disagreeable idiosyncrasies on their way to arrangements over a future liaison – “I’m easy game but I can be tamed”. Their chemistry is palpable and the words delicious, especially in the flirtatious spoken exchange. Hot!
Well, what an unexpected delight. I hope the record gets some traction and more people get to hear it. A real find.
It’s been a long time since I’ve updated the Moores page, I know. I need some new things to post! Don’t be shy in passing photos or information to me.
At a public meeting held by our local MP (about our not having Superfast broadband) then Bob Redwood (Export Sales Manager) appeared! As you can see he’s looking well and a lot younger than he actually is. (I won’t name his age and spoil our new found friendship). Still residing locally he is enjoying retirement and is the Honorary Secretary of the Acomb & District Conservative Club, which if I remember the story correctly doesn’t automatically pay anything into the Tory coffers! He’s knocking about on Facebook and so look him up.
I still meet up with Mark Sutcliffe (Financial Accountant) and Jim Brady (Sales Administration, PS Sales & Installation) and we’ve been to see some Canadian Americana and Colorado Bluegrass. The latter in the banjo capital of Western Europe – Selby. Mark knows everything about vinyl records and probably more. If there’s something that you want to replace or get hold of then he is the man, I can put you in touch. Steve Jessney (Group Design Manager) invited me to his radio station (Vixen 101) in Market Weighton where I got a request played and I saw inside the workings of a studio.
I was reading a book I bought in Canada called The Chitlin’ Circuit And The Road To Rock ‘N’ Roll by Preston Lauterbach. For those who know little about the circuit then it was a selection of venues in the American South. The circuit was initially popular for large bands that played to dance goers in small and often lethal venues. The story is not only about the locations, African American culture and music but also the promoters. Predictably the promoters were less than lovely: prostitution, illegal gambling and money laundering came in tow. The venues were often dangerous. They had no fire safety and there is a horrific story about the loss of 244 lives in Natchez, Mississippi when one such venue caught fire. I cycled past the plaque in 2015 on my way to New Orleans. In this instance the event organisers had sought to keep out gate crashers by nailing the windows and doors shut.
Chitterlings were pig’s intestines and associated with an African American diet. The history says that their taste for such offal arose from what was left after their white employers took the choice cuts. So the venues were for African Americans and it was here that some of the most remarkable and legendary acts started their careers. When recorded music became popular the folk wanted to hear them play live. This co-incided with rising costs of putting large acts on the road. So the venues turned to recording artists who often performed alone but maybe backed by a pick up band. This worked perfectly with Blues and early Rock n’ Roll.
So anyway as I’m reading this book about this phenomena I came across Champion Jack Dupree as a ‘bouncer’ at the Naptown Nitery in Indianapolis in the 1940’s. He was already a barrelhouse pianist in demand after having playing live for many years and having recorded several sides for Okeh Records. The club in question was owned by Denver Ferguson the pre-eminent promoter on the Chitlin’ Circuit.
At this point I remembered my father’s record collection.
My father loved jazz. He played a four string rhythm acoustic guitar in the Royal Air Force (as well as repairing Halifax bombers) and collected records (which were passed to me). These were mainly Dixieland and his heroes were Louis Armstrong, Bix Beiderbecke, Kid Oliver, Jelly Roll Morton, Frankie Trumbauer, Wing Manone, Muggsy Spanier and other bands of the late 1920’s and 1930’s. When he passed I looked through my vinyl inheritance and there was this album, it seemed very out of place. It was like someone discovering a Kanye West record in my collection. (In case you’re interested then no I haven’t).
He liked the Blues if it was played on a cornet and had a funeral paced trombone pouring emotion behind. Granted, he had the obligatory Bessie Smith records but why Champion Jack Dupree? I’d love to have asked him.
In some idle emails with Steve Jessney of Nothin’ But The Blues radio fame on Vixen 101 William Thomas ‘Champion Jack’ Dupree came up and Steve forwarded some of his recording for me to absorb. This I did and I then reached for my Dad’s vinyl. Dupree is described as a barrelhouse piano-player and Blues singer. There is beauty and emotion in his soulful voice that is complemented by his rolling piano that fills the gaps or keeps the rhythm. In fact the sound is complete and the need for other instruments is often not necessary. This is early 20th Century Blues in the late 20th Century, which could only be played by a man of his heritage and background.
If I had to write about a fictional Blues musician I could never have dreamt up Champion Jack. My attempt would include some prodigious talent, a lot of racial prejudice, New Orleans as a birthplace, possible being orphaned and then some addictions before legendary status and reverence.
I would not included a father from the Belgian Congo and a half African American and Cherokee mother who were killed in their house by a fire started by the Klu Klux Klan. Credibility would be stretched by a career that involved 107 boxing bouts and the winning of the amateur title of ‘Golden Gloves (affording our hero the prefix of ‘Champion’). Now venturing into nonsense the pugilist would make ends meet by being a cook (mainly of New Orleans cuisine, of course). These were skills he’d use in the US Navy during the Second World War where he’d end up in a Japanese POW camp after his ship went down.
Subsequently he’d decide after a music career in the deeply prejudiced Deep South to move to Europe. He’d calculate that he was welcome and the competition for well paid gigs was less. Here he’d live in England, Denmark, Switzerland and Germany before dying in the early 1990’s. Along the way he’d be cited by white Blues megastars as an influence and also play with them.
Oh, yes and I wouldn’t have thrown in the three wives or the eleven kids.
Dupree spent his brief marriage to Shirley, a white waitress he met at a London club, in Ovenden. This is about 45 miles from my house in West Yorkshire. Ovenden’s entry in Wikipedia tells you that it boasts a population of just over 12,000. Its main claim to fame is being a former home of Dupree!
In fact the town is close to Halifax, a much larger town. Halifax is typical of many towns that have declined and or reinvented themselves after Britain’s industrial decline. The Calder Valley on which it sits historically was a centre of wool, carpet, confectionary and machine tool production. Today it’s best known for a bank that includes its name in its title.
Not all the locations that I have visited in the USA match the romance of the names. Without seeking to tarnish them then Muscle Shoals, Clarksdale, New Orleans, Highway 61 and the rest are important but not easy on the eye. I have to say that Ovenden wouldn’t have been in my improbable fictional Blues musician’s life. He must have loved her!
As regards the album then in 1982 Dupree was living in Hanover; this is his third album with guitarist Kenn Lending. Lending is Danish and he recorded and played with Dupree for the remainder of his life accumulating around 12 albums and over 1,000 concerts. The age difference was 45 years; it is unimaginable what Lending learned. Dupree was probably glad to have a younger and fitter companion for all the touring that they did to make a living!
The album still sounds contemporary with several songs that touch the edges of rock n’ roll with their boogie woogie rhythms. Lending plays a key roll often behind the piano in the mix but usually getting a turn at the melody as the young Dane picks on his Gibson delicately around the more robust stride piano of Dupree. Ten tracks are simply played and produced but it is a full sound.
When not singing he can regale us with a chat about Ray Charles’ in “Baby Please Don’t Go” or the evils of LSD in “You Better Kick The Habit”. “Rockin’ The Boogie’ is contemporary as it sounds and the telepathic electric guitar relationship comes to the fore. All bar one are self compositions. Roosevelt Sykes’ “I Hate To Be Alone” is the exception. Unusually this involves some unison vocals with Lending.
Lyrically throughout we get the full nine yards – women problems, humour, drugs, loneliness and a little bit of Christianity on the spiritual “Good Lord Born On Christmas.
Always in command and never straining you know he’s completely in control and probably only unleashing a small amount of this talent. The piano playing on “You Better Kick The Habit’ gives glimpses of the sophisticated jazzy patterns he could weave.
In between the vocal interjections redolent of old Bluesmen comes the humour. On the title track “I Had A Dream” he tells us about his mother in law. “She was crazy. I knew she was crazy… but not about me!”
I shall be rummaging through some jazz vinyl racks to see if I can lay my hands on more Dupree/Lending gems. If there is anything to remember from this ramble then don’t dispose of your Dad’s records as I came back to this 28 years after he’d gone.
Breaking down stereotypes is important. As a bloke of numerous years then my daughters will confirm that I have ‘baggage’. Step forward Lieutenant Colonel Lucy Giles. She is the first female college commander (?) at Sandhurst. In a week when we were celebrating British women getting the vote then the BBC were talking to prominent women who have broken through ‘glass ceilings’. All good.
She came across as very personable and has seen service around various conflict zones. Through talent and a re-calibration of the way the Armed Forces respects and nurtures female talent then she has ended up in this senior role. The interview on The One Show went according to plan and eventually the presenter called an end to it and thanked her. She graciously responded but asked one favour. Of course? Can I just say hello to my two children who are watching the programme…
Talking of TV then I am not a great watcher of ‘who dunnits’. So when Anna watches the next murder frenzy being poured over by energetic yet dysfunctional detectives, often driving classic old British cars, I glaze over. I see other things in the episode.
Endeavour had the young detective attending a scene in heavy rain. The rain was falling like stair rods from a powerful hosepipe. It wasn’t British rain and the light was wrong – the sky darkens with rain. Not here: I was expecting someone to appear in sunglasses behind the collected plod under umbrellas looking at a prostrate form with a bolt protruding from his ear.
Added to this was the problem with the 1960’s classic cars. ‘Working’ cars are often dirty and, especially with busy policemen, neglected. These particular cars had small rivulets of water standing on their gleaming paintwork. The rivulets arise from the fact that the owners spend most of their waking hours rubbing Autoglym polish into the paintwork. Anyway, surprisingly, my first wife did not appreciate my informed commentary and I was invited to leave the room.
Going bald means more trips to the hairdresser. This is because what you have left doesn’t sit well on your head and you start to look like an elderly Geography teacher unless you keep it trimmed. As a man who has a ‘lot off’ then talking to Clare, my hairdresser, is not difficult but I tend to ask questions that interest me! We got onto who owns the Salon and the how the owners treat her. I heard of unpaid leave for a funeral, crumbling infrastructure, excess hours and the like.
All these things were batted away by the owners who by all accounts were professionals who had other responsible jobs and worked in large well resourced organisations. Regrettably Clare’s only ever raised these issues when they were passing through and she was brandishing scissors over a mane. So we discussed how she should properly corner them and discuss these issues in a heartfelt, list structured, practised but non-threatening way. I think it was a useful consultation but the haircut price remained the same!
Got to admit Elon Musk is an impressive nutter. Lord knows it is spectacular amount of dosh to burn on a trip up around the planet. It helps to be worth $21 billion but I was impressed with the sports car image. Sadly it wasn’t a Morgan.
The weekend saw me out of my depth. I attended a University of York Lifelong Learning course called “A Writer’s Workout: Part Two”. I think I can put pen to paper but compared to the other course members I felt like I was not in their league. Regular writing exercises punctuated the day. The lecturer picked on people to read out their work. One involved writing a postcard to your mother or father (and there is an issue at home). There were no other instructions or advice.
I composed something brief, uninspired and poor and it was handed to another course member to write back. Their postcard, handed to me, read:
“Dear Arthur, The police were around again today. Keep your head below the parapet, son. If anyone asks why you aren’t in the army, tell them you’ve got a bad heart – it doesn’t show. This lot will be over by Christmas and then it won’t matter. All the best, son – Dad”
How brilliant and creative. Another exercise was where we threw a dice with pictures on them and from here you constructed a character. My die were a parachute, a smiley face and a bee. I wrote some rubbish about a conman on the run. One lady took her die and pictures then wrote about a Santa Claus in a Garden Centre! Again, remember she had 60 seconds to think up this situation.
At 4pm I crept out of the classroom feeling wiser but feeling that I’d got away, by a hair’s breadth, from being humiliated.
(The doing away with ‘Men’ and ‘Female’ specific toilets in the University to gender neutral was a surprising development. My Favourite Eldest corrected my exasperated recidivist tendencies and confirmed that this is a good thing).
I’m sure you’ll share my disappointment at failing to procure Britney Spears tickets for her gig in Scarborough. I could have bought some but at £137 each I was not tempted. We saw her Piece Of Me show in Las Vegas in 2016. It’s fabulous and I hope the weather behaves for the Yorkshire fans who’ll turn up.
Recycling is a very good idea. City of York Council’s advice is that only plastic bottles can be recycled and placed in your recycling containers. The rest can be taken to various recycling locations around the city. The following guide is for York. Of interest is the triangle and number stamped on the bottom of most plastic containers – this secret unlocks the mystery of what you can do with your waste:
You could forgive Lauren Stovall for saying how nice it was to be in the ‘village’ of Selby. She was a little wide of the mark: it has a population of over 15,000 (plus a McDonalds for heaven’s sake!) There again in the USA what we’d describe as a village they call a city.
The Railsplitters were approaching the last week of their UK tour after having been on the road since early January. They started in Australia and this was their third visit to our shores. They describe themselves as Bluegrass. However, a quote I stole, places them as more ‘Crosby, Stills & Grass’. I think in part that works fine.
As a local resident then how the delightful Selby Town Hall got a Colorado string acoustic quintet to play is still something of a surprise to me. Being sold out must be a joy for any visitors to discover. Judging by the audience’s lack of familiarity with any of the catalogue then I have to disclose that I expect most concert goers had bought tickets for a season of music, which included Boulder’s finest.
The band was slow to warm up, it wasn’t until their third song that they hit their stride and we got to hear Stovall’s fabulous and pure voice on “Lessons I’ve Learned” from their excellent third album, Jump In. The small, elderly and very wooden clad venue necessitated a minimum of amplification and the sound was very close to the albums. For the most part you could hear a pin drop as the 150 or so sat enrapt.
The accomplishment of the musicians and the seemingly democratic approach to how the band works was evident. The bass of Jean-Luc Davis held it together whilst the mandolin (Pete Sharpe), banjo (Dusty Rider) and violin (Joe D’Esposito) took various leads. Three of the 18 songs were instrumentals. The band covered all their three albums and threw in a couple of covers. On the latter Stovall asked “How many Dillard fans are in tonight?” As the tumbleweed rolled across the stage she gulped, recovered and said “oh well, there’s 5 on the stage!”
It was her voice and, on occasion, three part harmonies with Rider and Sharpe that enthralled. My particular highlight was “Everyone She Meets”. However, “Planted On The Ground”, “You” and “Where You Are” were memorable. The song structures are very melodic with the strings picking up the tune whilst Stovall’s guitar strummed rhythm. The interplay between banjo and mandolin was sensational and the amplified mandolin often mimicked an electric lead guitar.
Humour and bonhomie abounded on stage. It was pointed out that Jean-Luc had no French or Canadian connection and so why was he called this? The band volunteered ‘false’ facts between songs. The person who could identify which one it was could claim a free CD. I’m not sure which one it was but Joe D’Esposito claiming to be a Swansea City fan seemed as improbable as Pete Sharpe having been struck by lightning.
So after a couple of joyous sets they did the obligatory North American touring band put down of Donald Trump and launched into the traditional Bluegrass “Fly Around My Pretty Miss”. After this encore they were gone into the cold dark night and some other small town in the UK awaited.
(I have to be fair! Stovall, later in the second set, did work out that as they were playing at Selby Town Hall she’d been wrong about the ‘village’ and was gracious to concede and volunteer ‘Hey, I’m American!’ The audience loved her for that).
Colter Wall received a warm Yorkshire welcome as he strolled onto the stage at The Wardrobe in the centre of Leeds. If Colter wasn’t surprised, then I was, that well over 300 people turned up at this intimate venue to see this young Canadian strut his stuff. He’s currently doing a few UK gigs and has already been in Continental Europe.
With an amplified acoustic guitar Wall worked his way through his 2017 eponymous album and much of his 2015 Imaginary Appalachia EP. The crowd were familiar with his work and sang along in places. The bearded troubadour briefly introduced songs from beneath his Stetson and let his wry and panoramic lyrics speak for themselves as his distinctive slow paced baritone phrasing often engrossed. He sings of Canadian prairies, motorcycles, Highway 61, railroads and projects that he glimpses life, in North America, as a drifter.
The seventeen song set included a few covers (‘Wabash Cannonball’ and ‘Railroad Bill’). I really appreciated this nod to the past as it clearly illustrates that he’s steeped in American Roots music. All these songs fitted seamlessly into his catalogue. There were a few new songs and amongst the selection was ‘John Beyers’ – an excellent song that recounts friends firing bullets into their respective ’69 Chevrolet Camaro’s! However, it was the songs from the last release that brought the biggest reaction. ‘Kate McCannon’ went down a storm. I expect many had viewed the surprising YouTube low budget video, shot under grey skies. It depicts lives going nowhere, the expectations and necessary graft to create a life together and the treachery that eventually results in her fatal demise.
In fact it was on this song that the gift of Dave Cobb surfaced tonight. The album created the same intimacy that Rick Rubin captured with Johnny Cash on his America Recordings. On the record, in a classically stripped down setting, the voice commands with every inflexion, pause and deliberation. The timbre, depth and unique sound of Wall’s voice brought out the audience tonight. However, sometimes with the usual venue amplification and the wretched, unforgivable, babble from the bar crowd then some of that intimacy and impact was lost.
‘Codeine Dreams’, ‘Me and Big Dave’, ‘Motorcycle’ and the hilarious ‘Thirteen Silver Dollars’ were especially memorable. He opened the set with the latter and explained that this was a “true story about falling asleep in a snow bank” – we can all sympathise with such a predicament as who hasn’t at one time or another had this mishap!
I came away wondering if Wall will be an artist enjoying the same following on the next album? Cobb’s collaboration is the difference between interesting music and the propulsion to fame. He has the song writing talent and voice. I hope he gets the setting to produce more compelling releases. For all this then the crowd left happy and I for one hope that other visiting young and upcoming Americana entertainers can get them out in such numbers regularly.
(It was a pleasure to attend the concert with Mark Sutcliffe, who it’s be fair to say will recognise some of his observations in the above! Supporting Colter Wall was Ian Noe, a Kentucky folk singer).
I’ve sat in a lot of meetings at work where you’ve felt like a prisoner, that is, unable to escape. This is where somebody is probably covering worthy stuff but it is long winded, bureaucratic and bluntly of no interest. When it was over there was a great sense of relief and I may have inadvertently broken into a skip on the way out of the room.
Today I felt that type of emotion at the end of Pilates. Lou, the instructor uttered the magic words “just find a position that you can be comfortable in” and then she switched off the light. We all wearily came to a prostrate halt, flat on our backs on the mat. We knew the ‘one sided planks’, abdominal exercises, contortions to unlock your hip flexors or very unnatural movements to strengthen your gluteus maximus muscles had finished. Lying in the dark for two minutes we could reflect on the fact that probably Wednesday at 1.30pm would come around again quickly. However, for now, it was over. (Funnily enough a wet bike ride in 5°C over 50 miles appeals more than Pilates).
On the theme of pain then it seems appropriate to talk about the proposed Leeds United logo. It lasted six hours before the Managing Director, on the local BBC radio station, abandoned it and offered consultation over a new one. I still tend to think that large corporate decisions are usually reached intelligently. I know this naivety is akin to implicitly trusting policemen and thinking that banks are honourable. What happened with this sub 1930’s Italian Fascist aberration will be the subject of endless brand marketing courses for decades. It was simply inept and complacent. However it did bring all the fans together!
For those of your who peruse “Tony’s View Of The World’ you’ll see that I have been writing to Welsh luminaries about their brutal and short sighted parking regime. I’m not expecting any sympathy. However on another injustice then I had the opportunity to vent, in a calm yet destructive way, with Open Reach about our non availability of Superfast broadband last week.
This opportunity came about through our local MP, Julian Sturdy. He initially held a public meeting and then a supplementary meeting with Open Reach. A selection of local village representatives were invited to attend. We’re making progress on installation but they are a year behind schedule. Personally trying to cope with, at best, an internet speed of 1mb is difficult.
Open Reach turned up hoping to only ‘look forward’. They were a little taken aback at having to review the process and it’s apparent historic challenges. ‘The past informs the present’ I always find. However, we all finished up friends and we meet again in March.
For those who are detached from the political process then when your MP gets involved in the nitty gritty of your personal frustrations then they can seem very relevant and useful.
Talking about York then I learned that New York is not named with any direct connection to my fine city. It was in fact named after the Duke of York. This new name was in his honour when the British took over New Amsterdam in 1664. Don’t pretend that you never learn anything here.
LIONHEART is North Carolina’s H.C. McEntire’s debut release of nine self penned compositions. The title sums up her feeling about the courage to strike out and release music under her own name. This album fits delightfully into a slot of intimate, uplifting, melodic and lyrically interesting Country Americana with a possible drift into Folk.
North Carolina’s Heather McEntire has spent her career progressing from Post Punk to this dulcet and crafted genre. Her recent day job has been a combination of playing with Mount Moriah and more recently being a member of Angel Olsen’s touring band. She says that much of the album was composed whilst on the road with Olsen. The songs didn’t fit Mount Moriah hence the solo debut.
Affairs start with “A Lamb, A Dove” a plaintiff unadorned vocal that shows the beauty of McEntire’s voice against some occasional piano chords before building to involve harmonies with Tift Merritt and the nagging siren qualities of pedal steel. The song alludes to McEntire’s journey of coming out in the South with acceptance anxieties from her family and the tense background of the legal battles that the Gay community face to get equality in the Southern States. Lyrics include – “I have found heaven, In a woman’s touch, Come to me now, I’ll make you blush”. And connection with her spiritual side – “It’s a wild world, That will make you believe, In a kingdom, Full of mercy and faith, It’s a fine line, And I will walk it with grace, Come like a dove, I’ll show you love.”
However whilst this may be an important statement from McEntire I wouldn’t want to leave an impression that the album is a long heartfelt ‘message’. The tracks here stand alone and they are mellifluous, constructed at the right pace, have beautiful instrumentation and are delivered with lovely voices.
Such a track is “One Great Thunder” with heavenly voices and strings. It is a short ethereal piece that transported me to Delibes’ “Flower Duet” from his Opera Lakmé. It is simply delicious and a demonstration of her considerable talent to create such a short piece of heaven.
“Baby’s Got the Blues” is a pulsing but gentle acoustic rocker with Hammond behind the clear and assertive vocals with support from Ryan Gustafson. Some of the words hook you with mentions of “dogwood, surrogates, mama buried the revolver” etc. but what it all means is beyond me and starts to come across as a touch jumbled.
“Wild Dogs” is back to a slower pace where her vocal is backed by Angel Olsen’s different but exquisite harmony back in the mix. Meanwhile a cello and strings provide the accompaniment – “When we were wild dogs, How our teeth were stained with blood, From the fire, from the hunt, When I held for you that lust. ”
Despite the vicious lyric it is a delicate and captivating song! Maybe this is one of the intriguing and attractive elements of the album – that mix of delicate melodies with some disordered yet memorable imagery in the words.
This is one of those Americana albums that will be noted for its immense beauty and intensity. I expect to return to it regularly during the year.
Yes, I know I can be an irascible git but sometimes the brutal stupidity of others’ actions, through ignorance, needs to be pointed out. Anna and I went down to North Wales to see Ann Marie, my sister. The present Mrs Ives has allergies and Ann Marie’s labrador is such a hazard. Hence we stayed nearby at a delightful hotel in what is a very nice little coastal resort. Most hotels have parking but not Anna’s pick. The requirement was that you had to proverbially ‘feed the meter’ at stupid times of the day in a nearby car park.
I admit that I failed in this simple task and some parking management warrior in a nice uniform and Ford Escort van pounced to issue a parking ticket. (I know about the Parking Marshall as I mentioned his largesse, to him, when we passed in the town later). So whilst I will pay the fine I felt that I should share a point of view with the Council’s Chief Executive, the Leader of The Council and local MP. This scurrying around to answer my letter will cost them more in administration than the £25 I will pay for this stupid fine.
No doubt I shall get told to enjoy sex and travel but we’ll see.
February 5 post script – had a letter back from the MP asking for permission to more widely circulate my letter! Chief Executive’s office has responded saying that he’s on holiday but will respond.
39 Lakeside,
Acaster Malbis.
York,
YO23 2TY
Subject: Conwy Town Centre Parking Regime – Tourism Prevention
Dear Mr Davies,
I write to express considerable disappointment after a brief stay in Conwy.
My wife selected The Erskine Arms as a hotel to stay at for two nights. We travelled from Yorkshire. The premises are splendid and the hotel boasts a bar and restaurant. Unfortunately parking is limited and a guest has to probably use Council pay car parks. Paying for overnight parking at a hotel would be something you’d expect in a busy city centre location and not ordinarily at a small coastal town.
We left our car in the Vicarage Gardens car park. On Sunday morning, admittedly late, I returned to the car at around 8.25 am to renew the parking. On this cold, wet and windy January morning the streets were deserted. Clearly this is low season and not only were shops shut but tourists and locals were thin on the ground. I bought a ticket and sauntered to the car to discover a parking fine. The Council Civil Enforcement Officer had got nicely into position before at 8.00am and had identified at 8.01am that my parking had expired. He duly met one of his quota penalty bookings for the shift and by 8.06 am had stuck the ticket to my windscreen.
Needless to say the car park was largely empty with a few local resident’s cars on parking permits.
I arrived with my new ticket (another £2.00) and clearly I was too late. I attach copies of tickets and the fine for verification of this activity.
If you are to pass this letter to your officials to respond then no doubt I will be told of important parking challenges in the town centre, clear signage to make potential victims aware of fines and that if I pay promptly then I can reduce the fine.
However, let me help you think about this another way:
Guests drive a long way and check in. The hotel is hoping that the guests spend further money at the hotel and may fear telling the guest that they should arise from their slumbers before 8am (on a cold, wet and windy Sunday morning in January) to refresh the ticket. After all this will be an awful welcome and may depress food and beverage sales at the hotel. What a dilemma?
After the parking fine is delivered to the guest the hotel will now probably receive a blow. The guest will now go on to Trip Advisor, and maybe other sites, and mark down the experience and advise people to avoid this hotel or Conwy. A £50 parking fine is probably the equivalent of 50% of their hotel bill if they only stayed one night.
For your information my wife and I spent around £350 (at the hotel and around Conwy and Llandudno) over our two night stay.
How welcome is this hotel and tourist revenue, in January, to the local businesses? How many people now have wages to pay their Council Tax?
I worry that the Council doesn’t care about these tourist revenues or ‘selling’ Conwy as a welcoming destination and views parking as a revenue stream.
What your officials can do to correct this nonsense is:
Have a seasonal extension until 9am before the Parking Marshall springs into action. I am sure they can identify parking issues that are a genuine hazard and then be nicely in place for issuing, at 9.01am, a parking ticket on a cold, wet and windy Sunday morning in January.
Or you can extend the overnight (seasonal) charge of £0.60 from 6pm to 9am. If you are worried about the lost revenue of that hour then whack it up to £1.60 for overnight! I note you have differential arrangements for different times of the year. (Sadly the number of parking fines will fall as a result of this tourist friendly change and may reduce fine revenues).
Or you can enable the machine to issue two tickets – one for overnight and then another from 8am the next morning thus allowing revenue to be protected?
Or you can come to some arrangement with the hotels that allow them to have concessions for guests or for an advance ticket to be purchased via the hotel. (This is how it works in most city centre hotels where guests use local public car parks).
Lastly, you can rest assured that I will be telling all I meet about this pernicious experience. I cannot imagine that it will help tourism in Conwy. However, there again do you care?
I cringe every time the latest Honours are announced. This occurs twice a year. In total 1,350 of these accolades are handled out to ‘recognise merit in terms of achievement or service’. At best described as a peculiarly British arrangement where there are several levels of award from a suffix that you cam affix to the front of your name through to a large number of prefixes that you can tag onto your surname. These awards are handed out to Brits and other members of the Commonwealth or we can give ‘honorary’ awards to citizens of other nations.
Their compilation is by a couple of committees and then the Queen advises the lucky winners of their prize officially on certain dates. If you get the highest accolade then Her Majesty or delegates invite you to Buckingham Palace where you kneel; the sword is tapped on your shoulder and you get to discuss briefly the weather and her nag’s prospects at Epsom in the afternoon racing.
The problem is about who gets these awards. It seems a right for politicians, sportsmen, senior soldiers, ancient rock stars, national treasures in terms of acting, radio or TV personalities, currently overpaid ‘captains of industry’ and probably a whole selection of people who’ve spent about a decade canvassing for one (or putting money into good causes to gain ‘credits’).
This nonsense started in 1348 and may explain some of the archaic titles such as The Order Of The Garter. In fact the most common Honours are Commander of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire (CBE), Officer of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire (OBE) and Member of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire. (MBE). The very reference to the British Empire is not only obsolete but frankly places it in a Netflix period drama.
If it is for service or achievement then why by heading a Government Department as a civil servant do you get a gong? You’re bewilderingly well paid, live a cloistered and privileged life and have another career of being a non-exec on all sorts of Boards (after you take your eye wateringly generous pension). Okay, you can do your job and climbed to the top of the ‘slippery pole’ but why should you get a bauble?
Captains of industry have tenures, sometimes long and sometimes short, where talent, good luck and timing enables them to earn £millions and have privilege in any activity they may want to participate in. After all this recognition they eventually get a Knighthood so that they can join their other lucky and lofty mates. A risk, of course, is that after your bank contributes to a global financial collapse: they might ask for it back as happened to luminaries at two UK banks.
The celebrity strain is beyond a joke. This New Year saw Michael Palin and Twiggy get Knighted or made a Dame. Now to say anything derogatory about these two is akin to feeding a playful labrador puppy into a wood saw… but come on! Twiggy got the Honour for her services to fashion, the arts and charity? Google tells me that she has involvement with 13 charities. Well done and thank you but how many folk do you know who are devoting over 10 hours volunteering or caring where they get no money, no support and certainly a lot less than appreciation? I know a few.
If these celebrities make a mockery of the pecking order of worthiness then don’t start me on footballers, actors or musicians. It seems that the first hiring question for their future PR agency is what will you do to accelerate my acquisition of an Honour? “My qualifications are that I’m over 50 years old, have convictions for drugs and have mainly led a dysfunctional life that has enabled tabloid newspapers to have a splendid time telling people about me. I am also hopelessly rich, entitled and hob nob with junior Royals. However, I’ve lent my name to a few charities, I fit in a couple of functions a year and my PA has me sign lots of T shirt. In addition I can fit in a gig for free once in a blue moon. Surely that’s worth a Knighthood for my export sales and high profile?”
A mediocre political career on the back benches can get you a Knighthood if you vote regularly with the Government, say nice things about the leadership when required and retire when the tap comes on the shoulder to release your safe seat to an acolyte of the ruling junta.
Somewhere down the list with the junior accolades are ladies who’ve devoted many days a month to teaching disabled children to ride a horse or given 50 years of service to being a lollipop lady on a dangerous road in rain and snow. I love these folk and we walk in their shadows. Neither do I have a problem with awards of distinction such as bravery. I’m humbled to think what soldiers do on battlefields, who isn’t?
I know a few men who’ve had an Honour. Were they worth it? Debatable but I do know one who spent a lot of time and effort trying to get the highest award (unsuccessfully). There are many who’ve turned down the offer when they’ve been asked if they want one. I’m happy with that but a few have gone out of their way to demonstrate their virtue signalling by declining the Honour – frankly, that’s worse than accepting it.
Due to political patronage and the desire to create ‘feel good’ on the front page of The Daily Mail twice a year this antique Byzantine practise will continue with some occasionally ‘sold’ for a donation to a political party. And with all this we sneer at corrupt practices in Asia and Africa.
Lastly, there are some monumental cock ups. Lovelies who’ve been awarded an Honour include Mussolini, Ceausescu, Mugabe, paedophile Jimmy Savile and traitor Anthony Blunt. I suspect there are a few current holders who glance nervously over their shoulder at the Serious Fraud Office and or some under-age sex investigation policemen.
Don’t get me started on the award of honorary degrees…
Picture, if you will, a wide-open range with a couple of hundred steers shuffling at a hurried pace creating a dusty haze in the heat. The camera pulls back to find our lonesome cowboy leading his horse at a brisk pace singing “No One To Blame”. This is Dusty Rust, long time resident of Kansas City, Missouri, delivering a Country & Western tune with his attractive baritone. We get pedal steel, fiddle and reverb guitar as he channels his inner Frankie Laine.
Dusty Rust has been plying his trade for some years (sadly, not on horse back) and this is his third release. A quick search on YouTube finds him documenting a tour through Kansas, Nebraska, Wyoming, Utah, Montana, Idaho, Oregon, Washington and Missouri playing minor venues. He’s typical of many touring artists waiting for that elusive propulsion into The Big Time.
“I Was Wrong” brings to mind 1960s commercial Country, à la Glen Campbell, as a banjo picks out the melody whilst Rust’s winning and expressive vocal tells you of his heartache. This is on top of a nonchalant rhythm, all held together by harmonica. “Ride” continues in the same upbeat vein but pedal steel picks up the melody whilst the guitar chimes; I can imagine Rust singing, eyes closed and his head tossed back, up on the stage of these small bars whilst couples take the floor in front of him.
He has an ear for a melody. With crafted, structured and layered arrangements we work our way through 38 minutes of music that I’d describe as contemporary traditional Country. There’s plenty of Honky Tonk and Outlaw to be behold but there is that measured tunesmith sensibility. Making this record exceptional is Rust’s production. Subtle layers involving guitars, pedal steel, fiddle, banjo and piano, often way back in the mix, create a sound that places it in this millennium despite it’s 20th century origins.
Arizona includes the ambiguous description of his transport as a ‘slightly stolen van’! The stellar arrangement creates that ‘60s sunshine pop feel whilst exiting with present-day sounds that would impress Adam Granduciel.
“Hell On Fire”, my album highlight, picks up the recurrent theme of girl trouble, albeit this femme is more than tricky after shooting the farm’s banker – “Hey San Diego, how far are you? I’m shot in San Francisco and there’s nothing I can do, The lady I love is hell on fire and the world’s about to burn, The next train I’ll get to leaving, she’s no longer my concern, I’m out on my way”. Like a novel this tale unfolds whilst electric guitars howl behind the acoustic and drum shuffle creating that eerie and haunting atmosphere that this surprising story demands.
With only nine tracks we’re treated to all killer and no filler. With the supposed resurgence of traditional Country making a commercial comeback (albeit it helps to have an obligatory Willie Nelson duet and be supported by Jack White) then Dusty Rust may just catch the tide. Music as good as this deserves a much wider listen. Indulge me.
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