the cops sing “Well what have we here then?” I should know. Luckily, Derek Thistlethwaite is with us so I have an alibi in both directions. “Sorry, mate, no time for horseplay this evening. I’ve got to catch up with my pal Derek.” Let’s hope that I can keep old Derek focused on chat and music.
Actually, I’m feeling like throwing caution to the wind this evening and doing cover jobs of all of my favourite songs, currently ‘London Calling’ by The Clash, ‘Grievous Angel’ by Gram Parson, ‘Bringing It All Back Home’ by Bob Dylan, ‘Time (The Revelator)’ by Gillian Welch, ‘Cassadaga’ by Bright Eyes, ‘The Heart Of Saturday Night’ by Tom Waits, ‘If I Should Fall From Grace With God’ by The Pogues, ‘Old No. 1’ by Guy Clark, ‘Blue’ by Joni Mitchell and ‘El Corazon’ by Steve Earle. I might throw in some stuff by Townes Van Zandt too and a couple of Mark Wynn tracks. Do you think that my audience would forgive me?
“Go on, mate,” Derek encourages me. “It can only go horribly wrong. We’re both old enough to retire anyway.”
And he is right, I am, and I am about ready to do so too except that would only leave me with pimping houses and I can’t face only doing that for the rest of my life.
Heaven feels like white crushed velvet
Heaven looks like skies of endless blue
Heaven tastes like old malt whisky
But heaven sounds like Gram and Emmylou.
Heaven feels like silk or satin
Heaven looks like silver morning dew
Heaven tastes like cold beer sunsets
But heaven sounds like Gram and Emmylou.
I believe a grievous angel sees my suffering
And sends a shiver down my spine
Each time I hear them sing.
Heaven feels like white crushed velvet
Heaven looks like endless skies of blue
Heaven tastes like old malt whisky
But heaven sounds like Gram and Emmylou.
Why isn’t love enough? Most men, at least in the past, were happy enough being with their wives and children, reading the papers, watching TV, and going down to the woodshed for a good whittle, a smoke and to rearrange their tools when they were desperate to be on their own.
Here am I with a girlfriend most blokes would die for (although she is doing most of the dying at the moment, poor chuck), a full-time child coming (unless it’s twins but the scan didn’t think so), a couple of other children I can get hold of at any time on easy rental terms, a good bunch of my mates, a good bunch of Jade’s mates, a decent apartment and my memories. Shouldn’t that be enough?
Well, unfortunately it doesn’t seem to be. I keep getting this stuff flying in and I feel honour-bound to capture it and to tour it around Northern venues. It’s all about something bigger than me who is going to get mighty pissed off and consider me shamefully ungrateful unless I do my bit until I can’t afford the petrol money any more, which may not be far away. Babies don’t come cheap, I remember that, and they get ever more expensive as they grow up, as do their mothers.
On the other hand, it looks like there might be an economic downturn looming - that is what everybody is saying - in which case houses will crash and half the estate agents in England will be laid off, me being one of the first, so I might be left with a howling baby, an angry girlfriend, two resentful children and a miserable wife with only my music to console me. It’ll be like whistling in the stocks for eternity.
Eight o’clock. I’m on. I wonder if Jerry will make it back for nine-fifteen.
* * *
I’ve been thinking a lot about how to publicise myself. It doesn’t seem to matter what I do. The outcome is the always the same.
The only way to sell CDs is to have them with you when you are gigging. Friendly people come up after the show and say “Jake, mate, really enjoyed the performance. Do you have any CDs of your stuff?”
“Sure,” I say, pulling out a pile of pre-recorded CDs like contraband from an overcoat.
“You’ve done
Actually, I’m feeling like throwing caution to the wind this evening and doing cover jobs of all of my favourite songs, currently ‘London Calling’ by The Clash, ‘Grievous Angel’ by Gram Parson, ‘Bringing It All Back Home’ by Bob Dylan, ‘Time (The Revelator)’ by Gillian Welch, ‘Cassadaga’ by Bright Eyes, ‘The Heart Of Saturday Night’ by Tom Waits, ‘If I Should Fall From Grace With God’ by The Pogues, ‘Old No. 1’ by Guy Clark, ‘Blue’ by Joni Mitchell and ‘El Corazon’ by Steve Earle. I might throw in some stuff by Townes Van Zandt too and a couple of Mark Wynn tracks. Do you think that my audience would forgive me?
“Go on, mate,” Derek encourages me. “It can only go horribly wrong. We’re both old enough to retire anyway.”
And he is right, I am, and I am about ready to do so too except that would only leave me with pimping houses and I can’t face only doing that for the rest of my life.
Heaven feels like white crushed velvet
Heaven looks like skies of endless blue
Heaven tastes like old malt whisky
But heaven sounds like Gram and Emmylou.
Heaven feels like silk or satin
Heaven looks like silver morning dew
Heaven tastes like cold beer sunsets
But heaven sounds like Gram and Emmylou.
I believe a grievous angel sees my suffering
And sends a shiver down my spine
Each time I hear them sing.
Heaven feels like white crushed velvet
Heaven looks like endless skies of blue
Heaven tastes like old malt whisky
But heaven sounds like Gram and Emmylou.
Why isn’t love enough? Most men, at least in the past, were happy enough being with their wives and children, reading the papers, watching TV, and going down to the woodshed for a good whittle, a smoke and to rearrange their tools when they were desperate to be on their own.
Here am I with a girlfriend most blokes would die for (although she is doing most of the dying at the moment, poor chuck), a full-time child coming (unless it’s twins but the scan didn’t think so), a couple of other children I can get hold of at any time on easy rental terms, a good bunch of my mates, a good bunch of Jade’s mates, a decent apartment and my memories. Shouldn’t that be enough?
Well, unfortunately it doesn’t seem to be. I keep getting this stuff flying in and I feel honour-bound to capture it and to tour it around Northern venues. It’s all about something bigger than me who is going to get mighty pissed off and consider me shamefully ungrateful unless I do my bit until I can’t afford the petrol money any more, which may not be far away. Babies don’t come cheap, I remember that, and they get ever more expensive as they grow up, as do their mothers.
On the other hand, it looks like there might be an economic downturn looming - that is what everybody is saying - in which case houses will crash and half the estate agents in England will be laid off, me being one of the first, so I might be left with a howling baby, an angry girlfriend, two resentful children and a miserable wife with only my music to console me. It’ll be like whistling in the stocks for eternity.
Eight o’clock. I’m on. I wonder if Jerry will make it back for nine-fifteen.
* * *
I’ve been thinking a lot about how to publicise myself. It doesn’t seem to matter what I do. The outcome is the always the same.
The only way to sell CDs is to have them with you when you are gigging. Friendly people come up after the show and say “Jake, mate, really enjoyed the performance. Do you have any CDs of your stuff?”
“Sure,” I say, pulling out a pile of pre-recorded CDs like contraband from an overcoat.
“You’ve done
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