"blues boy budd" sings "stones in my passway" on broom guitar

We're all a bit tired and emotional this week, at the Prettygate delta home of the blues. There's a big task coming up and we're anxious. The Blues Boy Budd is taking his parents to Addenbrookes Hospital, Cambridge, next week, so they can learn how to install, use and maintain an insulin pump, which he will be wearing 24/7 for the forseeable future. It should help us achieve better blood sugar control, and maybe help us avoid the more extreme hypos and hypers that keep us awake at night............

Lots to learn, and new skills needed, but it will be worth it. And it's out of our current comfort zone of four injections a day. Sometimes the task seems so difficult, but we know we can do it. Right now we've got the stomach gripes, with apprehension. Sing up Blues Boy Budd:

"I got stones in my passway 

and my road seem dark as night
I have pains in my hearts
they have taken my appetite"
(Robert Johnson, "Stones in my Passway", recorded in the 1930s.)

Thanks everyone for supporting our planetfrank appeal for 2011, looking for a cure for this shitty disease.

7 Hertz, the resonant frequency of a chicken's skull

"Come and see these guys, they're amazing" said Daniel Merrill, a friend whose opinion I listen to, especially when he's talking about music. The band were 7 Hertz, a trio from Leeds who gave an entertaining set to a sparse audience at the Swinburne Hall. And delightful it was too. Playing unamplified acoustic classical instruments (fiddle, clarinet, bass clarinet and 5-string bass) they played their own compositions and improvisations. Looking at the programme it mentioned the influences of Stravinsky, Bartok and Dolphy, suggesting to me that they had been listening to Frank Zappa! Lots of different styles in their "contemporary jazz/folk" set, but no direct quotes that I noticed, just the exquisite flavour of some of my favourite composers.

And why 7 hertz? I don't know. The guy that introduced the numbers had a strong "yark-shuh" accent, and I found him difficult to understand, unlike his music which spoke clearly to me. Googling it, it says that 7 Hertz is the natural resonance of a chicken's skull, thus proving the Zappa connection of "using a chicken to measure it".

Reach out - animateddog sings... 4C/P

A wonderful song, reflecting on the past, but facing the future. Perfect for New Year's Eve. Best wishes to all my blogging pals.

Nathaniel sings "reach out, push up, speak clear, bring love".

Put everything else down, crank up the volume, and listen to this three and a half minutes of inspiration. It has been my pleasure to get to know Nathan (from the Dead Rat Orchestra) a little in 2010.

Captain Beefheart - Flavor Bud Living

"pappy with the khaki sweatband, bowed goat potbellied barnyard that only he noticed, the old fart was smart...the old gold cloth madonna dancing to the fiddle and saw, ...he ran down behind the knoll 'n slipped on his wooden fishhead...." (opening of "old fart at play" from Captain Beefheart's "trout mask replica").

The strapline to the Big Swifty blog is "a flavour of budd living", an appropriate pun on Captain Beefheart's composition "flavor bud living", my little joke probably going over the "sam with the showing scalp flat top" heads of most of my readers.

Don Van Vliet (the Captain's "real" name) died yesterday, leaving a legacy of about twenty albums of quirky music and entertaining wordplay, and a stack of paintings for his other career as a painter. It always amused Don that his writings were taken by some as zen wisdom. In my head I can hear Don reciting/singing, and also my pal Rod who could cover it very well. Indeed, Rod read Don's "Orange Claw Hammer" at our wedding reception, in his best Beefheart snarly drawl.

"thirty years away can make a seaman's eyes, uh round house man's eyes, flow out water, salt water" Well over thirty years of listening pleasure, and our own special celebration seven years ago.

Working Class Hero from Weybridge

John Lennon would have been seventy this weekend, and I'm getting to like him more and more. Alistair at "Crivens, jings and help ma bob" blog, http://crivensjingsandhelpmaboab.blogspot.com/ observed that he too wasn't that keen on Lennon during his lifetime. As a kid, I followed pop music, and was sucked into the media's battle of the bands between The Beatles and the Rolling Stones. I was only young and loved the Beatles songs, but wasn't that keen on their image. Firstly they had those Italian suits and I've always been averse to dressing up smart. Secondly, the Beatles were promoted as wholesome, whereas the Stones were ruffians. Even at a young age I responded to pop music as something rebellious and an antidote to the bland "family entertainment" that was served up by the BBC for our enjoyment - that black and white minstrel show could have damaged me permanently, and sent me off in various directions.

And I had something else against the Beatles. All we ever heard about was that they were working class lads from Liverpool, yet as soon as they made loads of money they moved to my home town, but didn't sing any songs about it. Lennon and Starr lived at St George's Hill estate in Weybridge, and McCartney and Harrison were also living in Surrey. The Rolling Stones came from my neck of the woods too. But I can't pretend I had ever seen, let alone be on nodding terms with Bill, Keith, Charlie, Mick or Brian, despite them being based in nearby towns familiar to me from maps and traffic signs.

Lennon's solo career seemed patchy, and it was so easy to sneer when the multi millionaire sang "imagine no possessions". Yoko's influence and Fluxus art ideas took John in other directions, to the dismay of those who wanted more Beatles stuff. Yet now and then he would produce something that moved me, and "working class hero" knocked me out the first (and subsequent) times I heard it. At the time his sleep-ins for peace seemed ridiculous to the unworldly me, but of course he and Yoko knew what they were doing to raise awareness of the issues.

As time went on I met many overseas visitors, students, lodgers, colleagues and friends, and so many seemed to be fans of the Beatles. And having revisited the Beatles' and Lennon's songbook, I have come to appreciate them so much more. Maybe, after all this time, I'll have to visit the zebra crossing at Abbey Road. But please don't force me to listen to any more of Yoko's singing, I'll stick with the Beatles "in my life" and a hundred others first.

Silver Apples

I don't know much about music, but I love the noise it makes, paraphrasing an original quotation from Thomas Beecham, talking about the English. And on Thursday night I heard some wonderful noise.

First up was Dan Merrill, with "avant garde electronics from the King Dead Rat", playing a looped piece he wrote ten years ago. I've seen Dan a few times, and always enjoy his ideas and his violin playing. Next were Eat Lights Become Lights "celestial krautrock drone", a three-piece in the vein of Can, Faust, Amon Duul and Kraftwerk.

And the headliners were Silver Apples, or maybe it should be "was", as hereby hangs a tale. Silver Apples "legendary 60s psychedelic synth project from New York", Simeon and Danny Taylor were active in New York around 1967-69, and reformed in the 1990s. In 1999 their tour van was forced off the road, seriously injuring the band. Simeon broke his neck, had to learn to walk again, is unable to play his instruments as before, and is still partly paralysed. Danny died in 2005, of complications linked with the crash.

So there's just Simeon on the road, but he uses samples of Danny's drumming, so he's kind of still there. And what do we see? A kitchen table with a heap of old electronic equipment (called The Simeone), oscillators, valves, and tones of wire spaghetti out of the back, and a big brass handle making classic Doctor Who sounds - who needs a lead guitarist when you've got one of these? The instruments and the music would have brought a smile to Harry Partch's face.

And here comes Simeon himself, a dapper old guy with a foppish leather hat, and a charming smile. Little bits of chat, but mainly getting on with the music. I won't attempt to describe it; I'll just say he was doing his thing. Uplifting and accessible, repetitive vocal lines, a steady beat, and smoke and lights. I could almost have been in a New York club in 1968, except that I had just become a teenager at the time, didn't have a passport, and thought Chelmsford was a fair distance. Simeone looked like a mad scientist in a 50s horror movie lab, wrestling with his array of instruments.

Our evening's entertainment was at Colchester Arts Centre, and a great time was had by all. A good mix in the crowd, not just the weird beard and sandals brigade that are my contemporaries, but also lots of much younger people who had a super night out. How satisfying it must be for 70-year old (?) Simeon to be on the road, with his trunks full of gadgets, playing at small venues and having loads of young people dancing and grooving to his psychedlic tunes. It's all very well being a landmark in the history of electronic music, but can you still get out there and do it for a crowd, and communicate with people fifty years younger? For Simeon we can say an emphatic "yes". A magical night out for all who were there.

Another feast for the ears - Nat and the Doomed

Though a non believer, I love going to church. Especially if it's a rarely open historic church, with live music, and it's hot outside. The food and drink festival in Castle Park (the largest in the UK) was calling, but the sun was roasting hot, and do I really need to eat even more pork pies, however tasty they are? (Rhetorical question, I don't need an answer.)

But the menu at the church was a smorgasbord of musical ideas and traditions that looked promising on the event's facebook page, and was served up to my delectation. First off was Nathaniel Mann, "animateddog sings... songs that will stamp, spit and sweetly weave their way into your body" mainly solo singing, sometimes with a zither (?) accompaniment. His powerful voice filled and reverbated within the ancient stone church. (And they don't get much older - re-used Roman tiles and stonework, possibly a Saxon building, mostly Norman, with lots of 14th century work to replace many of the Norman openings.) His musical themes went way back and deep, his expression pulling at the audience's feelings.

Later in his split set he bowed his instrument, accompanied by a source of white noise, and narrating a text that couldn't be followed but held one's attention with snatches that could be comprehended. It took me back to the Velvet Underground's "Black Angel's Death Song" by Lou Reed and John Cale. And Nathaniel did this all on his own. Marvellous.

The Doomed Bird of Providence were described as "Anglo-Australian folk tales of death, doom and destruction". The band's Aussie leader on vocals and accordian rasped out an array of folk style songs and shanties from the antipodes, and much closer to home (one about the Red Barn murder up the road at Polstead), accompanied by a more local fourpiece. A very engaging set of bloodthirsty tales, with an authenticity that reminded me of the earnest side of The Waterboys, but running on Foster's rather than Guiness.

The final act was Hypnotique, promising "Satire, storytelling and world-class theremin playing - as seen on James May's 20th Century and The Paul O' Grady Show". Given that the spirit of the programme was principally acoustic, it was a challenge for an electronica performer to serve up their dish in a less wired format. A slight looking woman filled the space with massive sound as she built up layers of sonics. A commitment at home meant that I missed much of her set, but I enjoyed what I saw and heard.

Having recently watched the depressing spectacle on BBC4 tv, of Stevie Winwood and Eric Clapton pouring out the same old stuff, it was so refreshing to attend live music played by people looking to challenge themselves and the audience, people who are prepared to explore in different directions rather than settle for the easier paths of popular music. I would love to see any of these artists again. Many thanks to all who put on the show, and performed at St Martins, literally the coolest venue in town. (And to Nat, if you ever read this "Crikey Weekly")

News just in - Christians save Ys and cure diabetes

"Christians save drowning city from the sea". Read all about it. News just in, that the city of Ys was not drowned after all, despite reports yesterday on Big Swifty. The world's fairest finest city, has not, repeat NOT, drowned by the weight of its sin.

Today I received this CD through the post, telling the Ys story in yet another way. This time it's an opera, composed by Edouard Lalo in 1875. As with many fables, they take on new forms to reflect the tellers' different times, attitudes and ideas.

Right now, there's something that's really annoying some of the Diabetes-community, and that's religious groups trying to persuade people that their serious illnesses and conditions can be cured by their god. Even life threatening diseases can be overcome if you just have enough faith. There are churches out there preaching that you should give up on scientific medicine, and let their Lord take over your casebook. Now, if you're an adult of sound mind, and you want to stop your treatment because you've had enough suffering, or you have adopted a new belief system, I respect your choice. But if you're imposing this on children, or people who are unable to make their own judgement between science and faith treatments, be very careful.

There are individuals in the USA who are now being prosecuted by the state, for neglect of care of their children, after abandoning medical treatment for their children with Type 1 Diabetes, and trusting the Lord to save them. Unfortunately He didn't or couldn't, but He isn't the one in the dock. Of course there are churches out there who can tell tales of diabetes cures, and we're probably talking about people who have had improvements to their type 2 diabetes. To some extent in some cases, an individual may benefit from lifestyle changes. But to proclaim to people with Type 1 (and for many with type 2 Diabetes), "throw away your insulin crutches and walk", it will make them fall over, probably with a very hard crash to the floor, maybe never to get up again.

So the appearance of "The Bible Cure for Diabetes" by Don Colbert has wound up many a person with diabetes. It's widely available at places like Amazon, airport kiosks, and many bookshops in between. I personally have not read this book, and won't be buying a copy, as it would just make me angry, as well as supporting this man's business. Apparently Colbert gives no weight to the fundamental differences between types 1 and 2 diabetes, and offers false hope to those with T1D without giving any evidence of anyone with Type 1 being cured using Colbert's/god's method.

Now I don't necessarily believe everything that the scientific community puts out, and I have some understanding of the limitations of much of their work and the effectiveness of what they can offer. But I wouldn't trade it in for religion. Scientists have been on the case for around a hundred years, and good progress has been made in diabetes management. God has had a few thousand years since the Garden of Eden, and hasn't yet shown any signs of progress with the faith and prayers method. For those with medical conditions out there, that want to "double their chances", maybe try both, if that floats your boat.

And, talking of boats, on http://diabetesaliciousness.blogspot.com/2010/06/there-otta-be-lawthis-made-me-mad-and-i.html Faye has commented with "a story about a guy who's trapped on the roof of his house after a flood. He prays to God to help him out and save him. A neighbor with a boat comes over, but the trapped guy refuses the help, saying that God will save him. The water rises and rises, and a few different people come by with boats to offer their help. Each time, the guy turns them away, saying God will save him.The guy finally ends up drowning, and when he meets God, he asks why he wasn't saved. God replied, "I sent multiple boats, but you refused their help."

• To the religious, thanks for your best wishes and support for people with diabetes, but please don't expect me to choose between a faith-only approach, and our hard-core analytical techie (but very imperfect) method.
• Don Colbert, take your book back to the dark ages where it belongs.
• Glen Hoddle and the like, I don't think our Frank should be punished for sins in an earlier life.
• And if the Christians saved Ys, where is it now?
  

Reports are coming in that the Christian Saint Corentin saved the city in the last act, following Dahut's self-sacrificial drowning. (Or was she pushed by her self-serving father? - See "News of the Underworld" this Sunday.)

Yes, we can renounce our Druidical beliefs, embrace the Christian dogma, and the kind and loving Christian god will save the sinning citizens.

Ys - a timeless fable

Lyonesse, Ker-Ys (or Ys/Is), and Cantre'r Gwaelod are names of mythical cities from Celtic legends in Cornwall/Scilly, Brittany and Wales. The legends overlap, and recall a city that is now under the sea. Ys was said to be the most beautiful and impressive city in the world, but quickly became a city of sin under the influence of Dahut. She organized orgies and had the habit of killing her lovers when morning broke.

There are many variations of era and detail, but a common theme is that "good" King Gradion trusted his "feckless" daughter Dahut with the key to the gate of the dyke that kept the sea out of the city at high tide. But she was tempted to handover the key by men, or the devil, causing the city to flood, the people to drown and just the king to escape. He had to sacrifice his daughter to the waves and she became a mermaid. Yes, women are to blame for the downfall of civilisation.

The Brittany picture shows The Bay of Trespasses in the Bay of Douarnenez, one of the possible locations for the drowned city. We visited this bay last December; it's near Finisterre, and it is a most unsettling feeling watching the sea from this beach. There's something about the topography of the headlands or seabed that makes it look like the waves out at sea, only fifty metres away, are much higher than the beach, and that a big wave will rear up and swamp us tiny creatures on the beach. Maybe it's an echo of a folk memory, maybe it's a romantic thought from an overly suggestible mind, but it was very creepy. We watched the waves for half an hour, listening for the echo of the tolling of the city's bells, and thinking back to the Druid culture that is still hanging in there at the north west corner of Europe. And by a chance encounter with a wonderful Celtic harpist from Norfolk playing in Colchester http://www.thedimgoddess.blogspot.com/ I have discovered Joanna Newsom's take on the Ys legend. It has pushed itself so deep into my psyche, I can't stop singing it (only in my head!), as I marvel first at Joanna's wonderful storytelling, then the melodies and composition, her harp playing and her beautiful and quirky singing. On top of all that there's the wonderful orchestration by Van Dyke Parks. A quick look at the web confirms that it has stirred many listeners, and it appears in many lists of favourite albums of the year, decade and ever.

Of course, it's a more modern take on the legend, as the narration richly and earthily explores the themes. And don't get too judgemental of the people of Ys. King Gradion set up inland at nearby Quimper, and Paris took over as the new city of sin. But when Paris ("Par-is" means "simliar to Ys" in Breton) falls under the weight of its moral turpitude, Ys will rise from the sea. I hope I'm back there to see it......

Fiddler on the roof and under water

There's a quivering wreck in Prettygate this week and his name is Big Swifty. He's up on the summer house roof applying bitumen sealant swishing with a sticky mop, and laying roofing felt slashing around with a Stanley knife. But it's a 30 degree slope and the temperature feels like 30 degrees, so he's sinking into the roofing felt unless he keeps dancing around, continually moving his formerly athletic figure to get the job done, whilst staying rigidly still to avoid falling off the roof. A sweat inducing tense session.

For no apparent reason, one's mind drifts away to appropriate soundtracks to the episodes of one's life, and everyone's favourite "Fiddler on the Roof" seemed appropriate, but "If I were a rich man" I would have paid someone else to do the job.

Then it's Friday night and I'm down the docks for a gig on the Hythe Lightship, where I catch a fiddler underwater. On the bill are five acts, three of them from the individual members of Dead Rat Orchestra. My late arrival meant that I missed two of the three Rats, but still had a splendid evening, with Daniel Merrill and the Flowers of Evil playing an engaging set.

Descending to the ship's engine room, we were confronted with Daniel's own backing recording, and a bunch of people in the audience wondering what was going to happen next. Then Daniel appeared in the spotlight from between items of machinery, pipes and girders. I don't know where Daniel gets his musicial ideas from but it reminded me of an astonishing take on the output of people like Eric Satie, Velvet Underground, Kurt Weill, Stranglers, Paganini, Terry Riley, Bela Bartok and folk, circus and gothic music from eastern Europe and Russia.

Very rich fare indeed, and immensely stimulating and entertaining as Daniel played his violin accompaniment to it all. Again, a wide range of pace and style; sometimes lyrical, sometimes noise, sometimes both at once. Visually interesting, and spiced up by the amazing acoustic of this unusual concert space. Imagine the sound bouncing around in a 7m square steel box, 3m deep; with the tide rising up the outside of the wall of the room, so that Daniel and the audience were underwater by the end of the set.

A fascinating musical set, a dry summerhouse, and the end of a good week. Fiddlers on the roof and underwater rool OK? Catch Daniel when you can.......

Hellhound on our trail

We've a Hellhound on our trail, and its name is Diabetes. It's a foul nasty beast that gets extra pleasure from popping up and biting at the rare moments when we're daring to relax. Just when we think we are doing well, our very own Cerberus visits from Hades and brings a nasty morsel for us. It jumps into our faces, and bites our arses.

Frank's been diagnosed Type 1 diabetic, for nearly 600 days. It's not just the 1800 finger-prick blood tests, or the 1200 insulin injections since then. (And the sums will be much larger for the next 600 days.)

It's not just the side issues of excessive thirst, and the consequent bedwetting, sometimes needing three sets of a linen per night.

It's not just the health implications of his conditions - will he lose his sight by the time he's 15, will he have kidney damage by the time he's an adult, will his circulation deteriorate so that he becomes gangrenous by the time he's 30, will he suffer the pain of neuropathy, will he have a stroke or heart disease at a young age, will he develop related conditions like coeliac's? And who will look after him if we're not around (yes, we're all getting older..)?

It's really not the diet, coming up with suitable meals for diabetics is no problem for foodies like us. Calculating carbohydrates and insulin doses is a doddle.

What's so difficult is the incessant nature of it all. It's not just an every morning pills cocktail, it's not about remembering to take a set dose before each meal, in the way one would for some diseases. With diabetes, it's about watching all the time, looking for signs. We take into account what has been eaten, how much insulin has been given (and what type - he takes two), how far out of "normal" range he is, and the balance between carbs, protein, fats recently consumed. Then it get spiced up with thinking about exercise he's had in the last few hours, what's happening now, and what's coming up next. Then we can only guess if he's having a growth spurt or fighting a bug he's recently been exposed to. Constant observation, and fine tuning with insulin shots or snacks or pushing him to exercise.

"I gotta keep movin', I've gotta keep movin', blues falling down like hail" And that's our life with Frank, keeping moving, checking him every ten minutes, running through the mental calculations to assess where his blood sugars might be, avoiding the hail that could blast him off balance, into hyper- or hypo-glycaemia, with more damage to the body, and the possibility of coma, brain damage and death. "And the days keeps on worrying me, hellhound on my trail"

Frank's parents are run ragged by it all. But Frank looks well on it all; he appears and behaves like a normal healthy little boy. Knowing we are doing our best with a very imperfect and rickety assessment, is the greatest possible reward. It keeps us going in the face of the Hellhound that will never leave us alone.

("Hellhound on my trail" recorded by Robert Johnson, Dallas, 1937)

Dead Rat Orchestra v Brighton and Hove Albion

I don't get out much, of an evening. And this week I had two choices. On Monday night Colchester United v Brighton and Hove Albion at the Cuckoo Farm Community Stadium, and on Tuesday Dead Rat Orchestra, Eric Chenaux, Reverend Simpkins and Dim Goddess performing music at St Peter's Church on North Hill.

So what to do? The football costs about £17 to sit in a a freezing windy stand, and watch professional footballers earning £1000+/week, charging around for 90 minutes and hoofing the ball up in the air. I've been to hundreds of matches, and studies I've made at the University of Life show that 19% of games are excellent or good, 43% are average, and 38% are poor or appalling. I have no connection with Colchester United, except that I've supported them for 44 years.

The music tickets were £5, for a pew in a freezing cold church, for four acts, giving two and a half hours entertainment. I knew little about the artists, but it sounded interesting. My live music experiences are that 35% are excellent or good, 47% are average and 17% are poor to appalling. I have a slight connection in that I had met one of the Dead Rat Orchestra nearly four years ago at an ante-natal class, and his wife is a facebook pal who writes funny stuff about family life, takes great pictures, and is always friendly to me when our paths cross.

I plumped for the live music. The football turned out to be 0-0, and from what I've read Colchester were lucky to get nil. Less than 4,000 turned out on a cold night, even though the U's are fourth in the league.

So how was my evening? All the clues suggested a concert of "interesting" music, and I feared some cacophony of random noise, especially from DRO. First up was Dim Goddess, pictured above, a woman accompanied by harp. Now I can only take so much harp, but I was enchanted by her playing and singing - a wonderful set. It was so cold she had to stop on occasions to rub her hands and restore feeling, before resuming playing. The church was heated, in the sense that horizontal pipes ran along the aisle, giving heat only to passing mice, with no warmth reaching our willing musicians. She finished with her interpretation of W B Yeats' poem, The Stolen Child, which she dedicated to Alexander McQueen. I knew this piece as my least favourite track on one of absolute favourite albums, The Waterboys' Fisherman's Blues. She stripped out the fiddle-dee-dee Irishness and delivered an earthy elemental interpretation. Marvellous.

Next up was Reverend Simpkins, playing the mighty church organ from the loft. He started with some Bach, which I adored, and this led into his interpretation of the Velvet Underground's Jesus, a simple and very powerful song I know well. Running through some originals which I enjoyed, he then played the Beach Boys' God Only Knows, my absolute favourite BB track. Using the colour of the church organ, and a fair stab with his single voice, at the harmonies of the BB's composition, it was so uplifting. By this time I was wondering if the whole evening was tailored to my personal musical taste. More originals, including a song about Helena of Colchester. Hurrah for celebrating our town in song - you don't have to sing about Wichita or San Francisco for romance.

Eric Chenaux was on next, shuffling up to the front, wearing a flat cap, scarf and overcoat, looking slightly like Bill Bryson. He immediately went into a very fast bit of jazz-style acoustic guitar, and I feared a set of Derek Bailey-type improvisations. But I think he literally was warming-up, and Eric soon settled down into a series of melodic songs, using folk, jazz and blues styles. With some beautiful pauses, unaccompanied singing and very creative instrumental breaks, I was absolutely spellbound by Eric's music's content and performance. Despite the cold I was enchanted by the tales he was telling, his beautiful soft voice and delivery.

Last of all came the Dead Rat Orchestra, a three-piece using classical musical instruments, found objects, electronics and an array of percussion. Two very bearded guys, heaps of kit and a beardless one on amplified violin. Having listened for decades to Edgar Varese, Captain Beefheart, Can, Sigur Ros, The Velvet Underground, Frank Zappa, Faust and Charles Ives, I was quite prepared for any noise they wanted to throw at me. The DRO's sonic journeys were easy enough for my ears, with some wonderful lyrical violin, at times almost English pastoral in style. The pieces included some slow paced vocal sounds building up layers, and some fascinating sounds of metal pieces falling on the church's stone floor. The audience was enraptured by the exploration of noise, music and silences from the Dead Rat Orchestra.

An excellent evening's entertainment, the art keeping me warm in the freezing building. The audience hugely appreciated the show, the only shame being the low attendance. With around fifty in the crowd it doesn't take Stephen Hawking to work out that these talented musical people were earning something rather less than the footballers that were paid to kick the ball up in the air, on a pitch three miles north of the church. I guess the musicians are the same as the footballers; they love their game. I hope the musicians at least get some satisaction that they had a very appreciative audience; more than can be said of the football crowd, from what I've read.

Romulus, by Sufjan Stevens

Every now and then a piece of music grabs me and I can't shake it off. Here's "Romulus" from Sufjan Stevens' album "Michigan". A very touching tale of a son's relationship with his elderly mother. (And really absolutely nothing like me and my mum.) This is my favourite track from an album I'd highly recommend.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SnYUOYNqCqY

Big Swifty ignores person in wheelchair

I was sitting in the Bull on Tuesday (note: I was not Chief Sitting Bull) after work, to meet some friends before the single showing of the "No distance left to run" film at the Odeon. This was a local performance that had been secured by a Facebook group, the cinema previously having decided not to show it here despite Blur coming from Colchester.

In the Bull was a woman in a wheelchair who looked familiar, and I soon worked out that it was someone I had met recently in connection with my work and the Walk Colchester project. I would have liked to pop over and say hello, but I was only 95% certain it was her. With these odds I would usually take a chance and say "hi", but I had this fear that it wasn't her, and this stranger would say "so you think us people in wheelchairs all look the same do you?". I enjoy Ricky Gervais' comedy challenging our attitudes, and his wheelchair and disability themes in "The Office" and "Extras", I find very thought provoking. But the net result of my shyness and sensibilities was that I treated this person differently because they were in a wheelchair, though I don't suppose they were robbed of anything by me lacking the confidence to say hello. Ah the modern dilemma.

Anyway, I looked her up on Facebook, and said hi that way, and she confirmed it was indeed her in the pub, and apologised for blanking me!

What about the film? I had expectations that it would be an arty film, but it had a linear narrative, covering their recent reunion tour, interspersed with interviews and a potted history from Damon's appearance in The Stanway School play, through the britpop years, the arguments, and the getting back together. Maybe too many close-ups of their faces, some good old slo-mo film effects, and all one big love-in for the band and their fans. Very enjoyable it was too.

Earlier that evening the press had caught on to the idea that Blur fans were going to meet at the Bull before their hero-worship at the cinema. The camera man got all of us in the Bull to pose as excited Blur fans, and the following morning our picture was in the paper. In the front row a woman in a wheelchair, and in the back row a baldy middle aged man wondering if he should say hi. All the drama and angst captured on page 12 of The Colchester Gazette.

the worst album ever?

If anyone says "music was so much better in the 60s" they must have faulty or selective memory. Sure, there's been some classics - Hendrix's Are you Experienced?, Beatles' Revolver, Beach Boys' Pet Sounds, Love's Forever Changes, Velvet Underground's White Light White Heat, insert your favourite here. But what about this one? Pete Brown's Battered Ornaments LP "A meal you can shake hands with in the dark". My vinyl collection has been slimmed down several times over the last thirty years, but I've never managed to clear this one out. I've always saved it, just in case I ever slip into a nostalgic coma, and witter on about some imaginary golden age of music that was the sixties. With a flower in my (almost non-existant) hair. Play this album to me if I ever utter the phrase "modern music is rubbish".

This album features Pete Brown, the self-styled fourth member of Cream, but I don't think Jack, Ginger or Eric would say that. His band The Battered Ornaments are game enough, but Brown's singing and Bongos are terrible. On the eve of a big gig at Hyde Park to support the Rolling Stones, Brown got sacked by his own band. Unpeturbed, he came back in the early seventies with another band, Pete Brown and Piblokto. A few years after they broke up I saw Pete at my college in London, playing in a three-piece. I couldn't believe that my hero Pete Brown, who had written the lyrics for some of my favourite Cream tracks, had come to play at my SU. About fifty people turned up, and Pete was still trying to sing and beat the bongos, spiced up with interludes of his poetry. The boozy audience appeared to be ignorant of Brown's rock status, and heckled him mercilessly, and, let's be honest, he was an easy target.

This album was Frank's random selection for today, and very enjoyable it was too, for J, S and F, who had never before heard anything like it, and never want to hear it again, not even his version of "Politician". So, what are your favourite worst albums of all time?

Post-woodenists throne away

For ten years we've been woodenists, generally choosing real wooden items to use or furnish our home, in preference to MDF or plastic. Butt we've had enough with real wood (and useless) toilet seats. So yesterday we went to Next home furnishings and chose the first bog seat that we liked, following our purchasing policy of kitsch and random, combined with "it's only a toilet seat so we should select one within five minutes". The new seat is now installed, and Frank can practice his newly acquired skill of weeing into a toilet bowl, without the danger of a heavy wooden seat falling down on his ... It's just too awful to even think about. And the old seat? It's throne on the fire, and we're warming out tootsies. Now that's something you can't do with a plastic toilet seat.

And talking about Frank, today we invited him to choose the music, and he randomly picked out some vinyl from my collection. It makes a change from my usual selection of a familiar favourite, and gives an opportunity to re-discover a forgotten treasure. And by chance Frank chose Saint Saens' "Carnival of the Animals", one of only two or three records of music written for children, out of a four feet wide shelf of 12" vinyl. Many familiar tunes, first heard by me as a schoolboy, yet not known at all by our cultured French lodger.

It was enjoyed by all, which is more than can be said for the second random selection, where I pulled out "Grateful Dead" (the skull and roses album for any Deadheads reading this) and randomly played side two, with its single eighteen minute track "The Other One". The opening drum solo was tolerated for about five minutes, before it was turned down as it was curdling the wine and causing the peas to roll across the table. If we lived in a democratic household, the Grateful Dead would have joined the toilet seat on the fire, but I'm a benign dictator and I discretely slipped it back on the shelf. If they had listened to the "Wharf Rat/ Not Fade Away/ Goin' Down the Road Feeling Bad" medley on side four they would have shown it more mercy. Given the five-year slumber of my vinyl records, I can hardly wait to discover what Frank plucks out of obscurity tomorrow.

Flavor bud living

For those that wondered, this blogspot's title is a play on this piece of music, one of my favourite "tunes". It is a Captain Beefheart composition, and he appears briefly at the beginning of this one minute long piece of music. Gary Lucas then works his way through this wonderful jangling music, wrestling with the guitar to play all the notes dictated by the Captain. I love the way it hints at a tune, but turns away just when we're on the brink of a melody, before it can properly become established. Wonderful invention, and well played Mr Lucas. For those less familiar with Don Van Vliet's work I suggest playing this short film three times, and then you can decide for yourself if you never need hear it again, or if you are hooked into the wonderful world of Beefheart's music.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CXIObTwo4b8

"Lest we forget" - how could we, watching the daily news?

Eight tiny jeeps took the veterans from the Town Hall to the War Memorial. But it's not just about the old guys and their time in the first and second world war; it's also about all the conflicts since, right up to the current day with Colchester's soldiers losing their lives in Afghanistan.

The High Street was closed to traffic, so that the space could be used for those taking part in the parade, and the onlookers. The crowd were respectfully quiet, as they watched the veterans, current soldiers, cadets and various local organisations, including The Town Watch.

A solemn ceremony at the castle park gates commemorated the fallen, a very moving experience. The band played Elgar's Nimrod magnificently, full of restraint and masterfully maintaining the requisite slow pace. The last post and silence followed the Town Hall striking 11 o'clock.

The crowd reflected on the occasion, no doubt thinking about the lost comrades, families and friends. Looking back, we can all see how the events on a world stage affected the outcomes of our own lives. My father's father died in the blitz in London, so I missed him by about fifteen years. But of course, my family's history would have been completely different if the second world war had not happened. My dad wouldn't have first been evacuated to the fens, and served in the RAF, and returned to the fens where he met my mum.

Hitler invades Poland, and one of many millions of consequences is - here I am.

The Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band changed my life forever

An evening of nostalgia was expected, and a two-man show (Isoceles in association with Useful Idiots) served this up at Colchester Arts Centre, with lashings of pathos on top. Half expecting a show full of obscure references to the Bonzos, I was slightly disappointed that there were few Doo-Dah Band in-jokes or tunes, however the compensation was that the show could be enjoyed by anyone. But it would help to be at least 55 to know all the songs.

The two actor/singers were playing a has-been minor rock performer, and a never-was Vivien Stanshall impersonator, both waiting to audition for a "60s, one-hit wonders tribute show". With a nod to "Waiting for Godot", the audition never happens, as the players philosophise on life, interweaving lyrics from popular songs, and singing much reduced versions with their two voices accompanied by an electronic keyboard.

It was a tragi-comedy, and I'm sure most of the audience empathised with the lives portrayed by the artists. And the final line of the show was (almost inevitably) "here comes the twist, I don't exist" as the stage fell into darkness.

So, did I enjoy it? Well yes, but part of the fun was the audience. Remember the comedy sketches about "the nut on the bus" that always chooses to sit on the empty seat sit next to you? Well folks, that was my evening out. Just before the start this very nervy man occupied the inviting seat that was left after all the other groups, couples and singletons has taken most of the other 52 seats. With his Sainsbury's plastic bag full of whatever he needed to get through the evening, he fidgeted all show, dipping into his wrestling and boxing mags whenever the lights came on. Various rocking movements, and the odd puff on some electronic gadget that "smoked" his cigarettes, suggested he was struggling with (giving up?) smoking. Now and then he would madly laugh at an inappropriate moment, and he had a bit of a personal hygiene problem too. During the songs he would sometimes stamp his feet, though clearly his brain was beating to an entirely different drum.

And behind me was a very old man with a massive white beard, who insisted on badly whistling the tune he had last heard, even though the actors had moved on to some poignant discussion on our pitiful existence. On occasion he also gave voice to his thoughts about the play, which were quite entertaining in their own right.

There were times when I wondered if I was sitting in the middle of some performance art project, and that hidden cameras were recording my reactions to these two crazy guys. There I was expecting carefully crafted references on stage, to "my pink half of the drainpipe", and "the doughnut in granny's greenhouse", and what I got was 360 degrees of live art.

Black History Month in Colchester

Reggae in the park. A music festival on the lawn of Hollytrees House. Built in 1718, when the slave trade from Africa to America is into its busiest century. Nearly two hundred and thirty years later, and Bob Marley is born. And now, almost three hundred years later, and there's a marquee pumping out reggae and dub. And that's why I like Colchester.

The doom-mongers are telling us our town centres are dead or dying, an inevitable process given the economic downturn, out of town shopping centres, the internet, and sixty-three other agents of change. So how come the town centre was so packed with shoppers today, with so mant people around I couldn't get to what I wanted in the shops? The coffee-houses had big queues, and the chazzers were busy too. It all looks like commerce is alive and well to me, although I guess the landowners can't command the rents they asked a few years ago. Who are these commentators that knock our old town centres? What criteria are they using when passing judgement on the success (or failure) of our towns?

I remember attending a meeting with local businessmen a few years ago, and they were bemoaning the number of charity shops in town. That's why I like Colchester, the wide range of businesses and attractions in the town centre, the market and the churches, the local characters hanging around, the buskers and the Big Issue sellers. That's why I don't go to homogenised soulless places like Freeport, Lakeside or Bluewater, to get 20% off last year's trainers.

The town centre's been around for a couple of thousand years, and it still has plenty of signs of life. I think it will adapt to the future. What will happen to the shopping malls over the next fifty years, given where we are on peak oil?

I won't pretend to be a Bob Marley fan, but I'm a Wailer for Colchester.