…though they would probably charge me for it, cos they are CUNTS. Don’t want to bore you with the history of my slow descent into hating what is, on the face of it, only a high-speed train company but right now as I try to book my train ticket to WOMAD the cheap ones’ link says that there is a problem and the train migth be full, but the expensive tickets…. Are still available and with no technical cock up. Bastards.
But anyway, today, Saturday, I am tired, and things seem worse than they are. Been working my arse off since Wednesday serving tea and pints of Tetleys to old people at Scarborough cricket club. Quite nice actually but tiring. It was Yorkshire vs. Warwickshire and Yorkshire won it with an innings to spare, with a 18 year old spin bowler called Rashid getting 6 wickets on his debut. Not very interesting apart from the massive amounts of racism among Yorkshire supporters (where Rashid was the ‘surprising little nigger’ and even Australians are not Australians but ‘foreigners’.) and watching them being slowly but undeniably won over. I guess at headingly this was dealt with 20 years ago (after all, there must be shiploads of good Indian cricketers in Leeds) but Scarborough, as with everything, has not quite caught up yet. Soon they will all die though
Got a new job aswell! As a traffic warden. Yeah I know. Crazy stuff, but I get to be outside all day, fuck over car owners and walk around the seafront a lot. Hannah accused me of being a tool of the state but I responded that in an anarchic non-state a)there wouldn’t be as many cars and b)those that there were would understand that you need to park where you aren’t interfering with others and so there wouldn’t need to be any traffic wardens (or, if you look at it the other way, everyone would be their own traffic warden. Collective responsibility.)
But working so much (yesterday I worked 930 am till 10pm) has hindered my clarinet stuff.
I feel like I am waffling a bit in the way that people who work to hard do, so the remainder of this blog will be a post from my friend Jess, from South London, who has just got back from Lebanon (hope you don’t mind jess)…
When the israelis first invaded i was on a beach in the middle of a huge banana plantation south of Beirut near Sidon. i was fried at three in the afternoon on almaza beer etc as i saw the Palestinian refugee camps in and around Sidon burn from a distance. Black smoke coursed into the feverishly blue sky as jefferson airplane played white rabbit from my friend's car. The heat was creating those anxious waves of tension in the air, quavering and panicky. But at first it all seemed routine. My Lebanese friends were so crushingly used to bombings and suffering. Israel, Hezbollah, Syria; all carry out their dirty wars on Lebanese soil, all have their own agenda and interests to further. This is what they do. Who asked Hezbollah to drag the people of Lebanon into a bombardment that would cost over 300 of them (and counting) their lives, families and homes? The Israelis systematically slaughtered the Lebanese and Palestians during the civil war and since that time have periodically slammed the country up against the wall, just to remind it of it's place in the grand scheme of things. There are hundreds of Arab prisoners currently languishing in Israeli jails, and countless more have been butchered by the fortress state. But of course, it is impossible, UNTHINKABLE, for mainstream media coverage and intellectual opinion to concieve of Israeli state terrorism and outright aggression as anything other than "retribution", "retalitation" or "self-defence" in the face of a cruel and all but overpowering Arab attack, triggered not by political oppression and genocide, but by some inherent defect in the Arab nature. Palestinans, Lebanese and the Arab world in general are portrayed as possessing an inexplicable and inexcusable predeliction toward senseless violence against their benevolent and peace-loving neighbour, "the beautiful Israel". To me, that this view is so widely and unquestioningly held seems an example of Western propaganda at its most sophisticated.
after a couple of days, the majority of my friends and people on the course decided to go and stay at the University campus in Jbail (Byblos), about a twenty minute drive north of Beirut in the mountains. That night I stayed in Beirut with Laila and Tynan. Despite being the fourth most powerful military force on the globe (i believe), Israel rarely strike during daylight. Their preferred time for carnage and destruction (generally in the dead of night rather than in the open sun) goes hand in hand with the cowardice they display in their preferred choice of targets, cosily referred to as "soft": ie civilians, homes, schools and clinics. On Friday however, they started hitting while the sun was still in the sky, around 7pm. The bombs were louder than I'd heard before, closer and deeper. The window of Laila's room was open and through it we smelled (and even tasted I think) the nearby bombs. A rumour started circulating that one of the bombs had killed Sheikh Nasrallah. When the truth came that he was still alive there were men shouting "allahu ahkbar" (god is great) from cars in Beirut's otherwise completely deserted streets. From then on, me and Laila stayed in her room knocking back microwaved cups in instant coffee from the sample packets of Nescafe I'd had the foresight and bad taste to nick from the university lounge that morning (stolen sample packets Hannah, I assure you, promise have not actively bought any nescafe!) We kept waiting and waiting for something to happen. At 3am we started to worry. The Israelis's hadn't hit so what were they planning? Would they send in troops? It was worse to hear nothing. When a wasp gets into your bedroom at night, it is always more reassuring to be able to see it right in front of you than have it's furious, spiteful rage near you undetected. At four am the call to prayer started. We were situated in West Beirut, right in between two mosques. five times a day, the mosques would boom out the call to prayer, the two voices running together to create a sound of indescribable, quavering melancholy. They started bombing at four, during the call to prayer. I was in the kitchen making another cup of coffee. the window was jammed open and through it flowed the words of the Quran together with the sounds of the Israeli bombardment. afterwards, they put a message out over the city, by the same person who put out the call to prayer. They told Beirut in Arabic that the Israelis had come, to fight them. the word israel in arabic sounds deeply malevolent. all i can hear in my mind now is that word being sung out over my ghost city...."iz raaaaaa eeeeel....iz raaaaaa eeeeel". The flourescent hospital lights in the kitched flickered on and off. Four hours later we packed up our things and took a bus to Jbail, where we stayed till we were evacuated.
That night Laila and I both, on seperate occaissions when writing about the situation, referred to the Israeli state as "the basilisk". Quelle chance.
After that we stayed in the mountains, binge eating nutella and biscotti. Each day we would hear the media ponderings as to whether the poor, innocent Americans and British could survive the horrors of the war, armed only with their Western passports, influential governments and rich daddies. Barbaric violence against the Lebanese is not only condoned, it seems not even to be considered. Over the weekend one of my friends went back into Beirut to collect her things. While she was there she found one of the flyers the Israelis drop on the areas they are about to bomb. Roughly translated from Arabic, the flyer reads:
"It is said that those who sleep between the graves will have nightmares. Israel is a powerful nation and will do whatever is necessary to ensure the safety of its citizens."
Once the Americans and Europeans have left, the Israeli poets of death will really begin to embark on their grotesque designs for the people of Lebanon in true earnest.
It is the end of July, high summer in Beirut, but the sun hasn't shone since the Israelis invaded. From my balcony In Jbail we had a view of the whole coastline; those teetering tower blocks, the ocean stretching out into mist and haze, shimmering like heat on a mirror. at first I thought it was clouds that had stopped the sun from beating down on the glassy panorama. But clouds have definition, form, an faint but nevertheless discernable anatomy. This was murk, gloom, the soup of nothingness, a grey veil draped over the Lebanese coastline. Next to our campus was an old, deteriorating hotel. That double sided cross, sign of the Lebanese forces, was emblazoned on the door. The sign fixed atop the hotel proclaimed it be "The Comfort Zone".
> From Friday to Thursday there were constant rumours that the British and
Americans would be coming. In the end, it was the Americans who came first. Almost all the Americans at the University left suddenly, in a rush. After watching them get loaded into the busses, I went back to my room and found your note Laila. Thank you. My sentiments exactly.
On Thursday I went down to the ports with the three British girls from the programme, Ellie, Layla F. and Angela (ehup guys!). We waited for eight hours, but in the end it took too long to get everyone on the boats. The Israelis said our window of opportunity had gone, they wanted to start their air strikes again. So we went home
The next day we managed to get out. We were flown by helicopter (the spit of those ones from Apocalyse Now, sorry for the pop-cult vulgarity, but it's gotta be done) to the warship HMS Illustrious. We went round in circles in the Meditteranean for five hours, while the helicopters picked up more people from the ports. From their they 'copptered us to Cyprus, from there a flight to Manchester, train to London, tube to Victoria and then train to Brighton. And now, after a few hours drinking tea and smoking, here i sit before the computer screen.
I didn't want to go, I really didn't. It's so much more painful to watch Beirut burn from a distance than it would have been to stay there with it. I think that's everything.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Scarborough and Diminished 5ths
Have got further wrapped up in the seemingly tangible possibilities of playing Jazz music this week. It has been a combination of my visit to Hannah and Glasgow the other week when Jazz and Jazzers were everywhere, reading a Miles Davis biography and for the first time (you may be surprised) being able to practice with any sort of continuity. I am in the process of learning all my scales, before I apply them to the monster ‘Building a Jazz Vocabulary” book that I bought a couple of years ago in a fit of inspiration. When it arrived I realised I needed to know my scales before could do anything else and never got around to doing it. However, with California offering ‘History of Jazz’ aswell as ‘Beginning Jazz Improvisation’ I certainly want to know what I am talking about verbally and tonally before I get there, and now is the time.
This also solves the problem of the happiness/lyrics conundrum- basically, I can only write non-political lyrics and emotional music when I am in the grip of an emotional rollercoaster or general slump in my relationship with the world. In the last year or so my life has been fairly blissful and so I have written almost no new music. Instead everything has been about jamming and the imperative moment. That was cool though, and perhaps what I have needed, but I feel now the time has come (I am 20 now for fucks sake!!) to get SOLID and pursue a four pronged musical sword to cut through people’s conscious and capitalism:
Prong 1- Be a faultless, original and dynamic clarinet and sax player that can add a handful of magic to any band or song and jazz it up like a motherfucker.
Prong 2- Be able to perform solo (for busking, open mics and travelling to start with) with Mbira/Clarinet/Guitar or whatever and build up a set using original, (maybe some non-musical like storytelling or…one of my lecturers at SOAS used to busk with banjo and puppet, which he controlled through movement of his shoulders) high quality material. The only trouble with this is that it will probably need to involve me singing, which gets harder and harder the more I smoke and the less confidence I have in it. My range has got lower, and with the exception of the Waterboys I have not found any good tunes that fit it (help!)
Prong 3- One day, perhaps soon, perhaps not, start a band that, like Pony Club, can be something I can put all my heart into and believe in. After the Ponies I was really chuffed with what we had achieved but mentally exhausted and had enough of all the things you have to do as a DIY punk band before you even get to play the music. And making sure the band was rehearsed and tight and not go on stage without the knowledge you are purveying a high quality, danceable, tight product. But now I feel I have the appetite to do it again, and now with a much better idea of the music I want to be creating. I am starting to master some computer programmes aswell, which means the flow of music between myself and collaborators can be fast and interesting (someone can do a beat in London, pass it on to me in Santa Cruz for melodies then back to Scarborough for mastering!!! And all the while there is a discussion about the music going on). Whatever it ends up as, the first gig is going to start with no lights and a Tibetan singing bowl.
Prong 4- Maybe once all the above is completed to a reasonable level, or has failed miserably, lose all sense of reality and start experimenting with sound till I die. I want to rebuild music from the beep.
What do you think?
_______
Incidently, had a lovely week this week- the sun has been shining over Scarborough and had some ‘moments’- sat with sam on a peninsula cliff thing at between cornelian and cayton bays and realising I could be in the Caribbean (the sea was turquoise, the sand almost white and no people!); biking to staxton (and the first place me and lizzie kissed) with sam, kai and james to visit sam’s old haunts and screaming down dirt tracks; jamming with james grunwell, ex-Frequency guitar player and good guy (played some clarinet on his mogwai-esque tracks- perfect); listening to Lauren bang out her first tunes on guitar; fast jams with sam; sam’s new drum machine skills with my Mbira… ahhh, life is indeed like a box of chocolates- you never know what you’re gonna get, but it is very likely to be sweet and chocolaty.
This also solves the problem of the happiness/lyrics conundrum- basically, I can only write non-political lyrics and emotional music when I am in the grip of an emotional rollercoaster or general slump in my relationship with the world. In the last year or so my life has been fairly blissful and so I have written almost no new music. Instead everything has been about jamming and the imperative moment. That was cool though, and perhaps what I have needed, but I feel now the time has come (I am 20 now for fucks sake!!) to get SOLID and pursue a four pronged musical sword to cut through people’s conscious and capitalism:
Prong 1- Be a faultless, original and dynamic clarinet and sax player that can add a handful of magic to any band or song and jazz it up like a motherfucker.
Prong 2- Be able to perform solo (for busking, open mics and travelling to start with) with Mbira/Clarinet/Guitar or whatever and build up a set using original, (maybe some non-musical like storytelling or…one of my lecturers at SOAS used to busk with banjo and puppet, which he controlled through movement of his shoulders) high quality material. The only trouble with this is that it will probably need to involve me singing, which gets harder and harder the more I smoke and the less confidence I have in it. My range has got lower, and with the exception of the Waterboys I have not found any good tunes that fit it (help!)
Prong 3- One day, perhaps soon, perhaps not, start a band that, like Pony Club, can be something I can put all my heart into and believe in. After the Ponies I was really chuffed with what we had achieved but mentally exhausted and had enough of all the things you have to do as a DIY punk band before you even get to play the music. And making sure the band was rehearsed and tight and not go on stage without the knowledge you are purveying a high quality, danceable, tight product. But now I feel I have the appetite to do it again, and now with a much better idea of the music I want to be creating. I am starting to master some computer programmes aswell, which means the flow of music between myself and collaborators can be fast and interesting (someone can do a beat in London, pass it on to me in Santa Cruz for melodies then back to Scarborough for mastering!!! And all the while there is a discussion about the music going on). Whatever it ends up as, the first gig is going to start with no lights and a Tibetan singing bowl.
Prong 4- Maybe once all the above is completed to a reasonable level, or has failed miserably, lose all sense of reality and start experimenting with sound till I die. I want to rebuild music from the beep.
What do you think?
_______
Incidently, had a lovely week this week- the sun has been shining over Scarborough and had some ‘moments’- sat with sam on a peninsula cliff thing at between cornelian and cayton bays and realising I could be in the Caribbean (the sea was turquoise, the sand almost white and no people!); biking to staxton (and the first place me and lizzie kissed) with sam, kai and james to visit sam’s old haunts and screaming down dirt tracks; jamming with james grunwell, ex-Frequency guitar player and good guy (played some clarinet on his mogwai-esque tracks- perfect); listening to Lauren bang out her first tunes on guitar; fast jams with sam; sam’s new drum machine skills with my Mbira… ahhh, life is indeed like a box of chocolates- you never know what you’re gonna get, but it is very likely to be sweet and chocolaty.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Bad places
Got back from Glasgow last night, missing Hannah, and in a bid to bring some normality to the situation got some resin. I asked Ambrosia, its previous owner, what he was up to. “I’ve got well into reading the bible at the moment- It’s much deeper than most people think!”. And so, over Yorkshire soapbar, he explained what he has gleaned from two bibles (one Catholic, one not), an astrology book and a Tarot book. Trouble was, although he went great lengths to explain the methods, we ’have to find out the answers for ourselves’ which would have been ok, had the methods seemed at least verging on flawless. When people go existential on me I want something concise and based. Especially when the subject is delivered as THE answer. In Ambrosia’s own words, “So many people believe in the bible, but the book is so unbelievable!”
Whilst I wondered whether I was being cynical and judgemental- ‘Perhaps this discussion is just the same as all the other BIG QUESTION chats, just packaged into a form that the orator really connects with, or happens to connect with him, and is giving him the revelations (without any real answers) that many have found through other means’- lee was looking worried. It reminded him of a bad trip that he was at pains to explain to me but couldn’t quite get there. Scales- of time, space, individual vs. universal- that were warped and very much to do with the self and relationships with it. He tells me it bugs him all the time. Can you be mad if you question your madness? Infact probably I think. WHAT DO YOU THINK (there is a comments button you can click)
Noianoianoia
I want to make some big statements here but they have already been made and I don’t think this is the right place for soapbox at the moment, just like soapbar only has its moments. And they are moments.
Whilst I wondered whether I was being cynical and judgemental- ‘Perhaps this discussion is just the same as all the other BIG QUESTION chats, just packaged into a form that the orator really connects with, or happens to connect with him, and is giving him the revelations (without any real answers) that many have found through other means’- lee was looking worried. It reminded him of a bad trip that he was at pains to explain to me but couldn’t quite get there. Scales- of time, space, individual vs. universal- that were warped and very much to do with the self and relationships with it. He tells me it bugs him all the time. Can you be mad if you question your madness? Infact probably I think. WHAT DO YOU THINK (there is a comments button you can click)
Noianoianoia
I want to make some big statements here but they have already been made and I don’t think this is the right place for soapbox at the moment, just like soapbar only has its moments. And they are moments.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
Vivas
...
Back in scarborough
The adults aren’t enthusiastic enough to dance tonight
So Monday Club at Vivas is packed with old faces and foundation.
Old friends from primary, secondary and college
Friends of friends, enemies of friends
One bad memory ignores me
One bad memory smiles at me.
I smile back
Everyone has exaggerated the things I remember about them best
Almost like noone hides anything anymore, or have reached the nth point of where they were going.
Including the boys toilets, which are now plastered with hardcore porn.
Grimacing girls and loose vaginas.
Paul Murray must be in a sentimental mood.
Christie has too much make up on.
Ginger Lucy- her eyes glow- tells me that her message to the universe right now would be ‘I am pretty grateful now… sorry for dissing you for so long”… it takes me a while to understand.
Tanya is a self confessed party animal
Tom kisses another girl whilst looking at her
She screams in my ear
And I hear it as a whisper
£3 Kronenburg
Or £3.50 for a whole bottle of perry champagne
It can’t be that bad, right?
Later on a roof near the post office
Lee passes me a spliff and the moment and we are getting down to the bones of matters.
I tell him why I stopped hanging around with him for 3 years
By way of comparison to now.
We wonder what the best way to face the future is- sideways on?
Thank fuck both of us are not too paranoid at this moment.
We are all learning but facial expressions whilst we learn no longer come so readily.
today i am listening to: Giles Peterson's In Africa
Back in scarborough
The adults aren’t enthusiastic enough to dance tonight
So Monday Club at Vivas is packed with old faces and foundation.
Old friends from primary, secondary and college
Friends of friends, enemies of friends
One bad memory ignores me
One bad memory smiles at me.
I smile back
Everyone has exaggerated the things I remember about them best
Almost like noone hides anything anymore, or have reached the nth point of where they were going.
Including the boys toilets, which are now plastered with hardcore porn.
Grimacing girls and loose vaginas.
Paul Murray must be in a sentimental mood.
Christie has too much make up on.
Ginger Lucy- her eyes glow- tells me that her message to the universe right now would be ‘I am pretty grateful now… sorry for dissing you for so long”… it takes me a while to understand.
Tanya is a self confessed party animal
Tom kisses another girl whilst looking at her
She screams in my ear
And I hear it as a whisper
£3 Kronenburg
Or £3.50 for a whole bottle of perry champagne
It can’t be that bad, right?
Later on a roof near the post office
Lee passes me a spliff and the moment and we are getting down to the bones of matters.
I tell him why I stopped hanging around with him for 3 years
By way of comparison to now.
We wonder what the best way to face the future is- sideways on?
Thank fuck both of us are not too paranoid at this moment.
We are all learning but facial expressions whilst we learn no longer come so readily.
today i am listening to: Giles Peterson's In Africa
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