Everybody's Free (To Wear Sunscreen)
Baz Luhrmann
Written by Mary Schmich
[from the single: 'Everybody's Free (To Wear Sunscreen)', EMI, 2000]
Five pieces of music which make me cry:
(1) ‘The Leaving of Liverpool’ – The Spinners
(2) ‘Moonlight Sonata’
(3) ‘Abide with me’
(4) ‘Dignity’ – Deacon Blue
(5) ‘The Sunscreen Song’
Main Theme
Composed by W.G. Snuffy Walden
[from: 'My So-Called Life: Original Soundtrack', 1995]
There is something gut wrenching about the cancellation of a favourite television show, especially a drama. Over the period of broadcast the viewer invests a certain emotional interest in the lives of the characters. So when these characters are left in the middle of story arcs or plotlines we are denied something which he rightly expect in real life. Closure. One show in particular was a particular pain.
For some reason I keep coming back to ‘My So-Called Life’. Every year I get the shows out and watch them again. Every year I see new things. I understand more. I'm twenty-eight now. What's going on?
When you're a teenager, and you have those problems, and you know your friends will make fun of you if you tell them, you look to film, music and TV for answers. Living in England, honest to goodness teen shows are pretty thin on the ground. There's 'Byker Grove', 'Grange Hill' and hints of 'HollyOaks' and that's about it. The trouble is that none of them quite has the audacity or time slot to cut to the heart of what its actually like to be a teenager. Most of the time you have to look to US shows like 'Dawson's Creek' or 'Buffy: The Vampire Slayer'. But standing above them all was 'My So-called Life' a television programme that answered all of our questions. When the show was transmitted on our Channel 4 in 1995 it was stupidly popular.
No one had seen anything like this. Suddenly you knew what to do about that older boy or girl you fancy. Or if you have feelings for the girl next door. Or if you weren't sure about your sexuality. Or if someone loved you but you couldn't return their feelings. Or if you got handcuffed to a bed. Your heart was broken by it week after week, but you came back for more because you knew it was doing you good. A free hour of therapy.
Even if you didn't want to admit it, you were one of them. You were Rayanne Graffe, afraid of the world and overcompensating. Sharon Cherski, searching for your own identity beneath the expectations of others. You were Ricki Vasquez unsure who you were but quietly finding an equilibrium. You were Jordan Catalano torn between your friends and something else. You were Brian Krakow, the romantic with so many high expectations of people. You were Danielle Chase, always being kicked out of different rooms. You were Patty Chase fighting to keep your family together. You were Graham Chase fighting to keep yourself together. And you were always Angela, your world falling apart around you, every choice being wrong, every moment a battle, but somehow slowly working it all out.
Then, after nineteen episodes, it was gone. Replaced, I believe, by a rerun of 'Matlock'. The show should never have been cancelled. It wasn't fair goddam it. And not on that cliffhanger. But perhaps it had the right end. The perfect ending. The only ending this show could have had. Making a choice then watching in pain the road not travelled. So like life. So-called Life.
This year we would have had its sixth season. All of the contracts would have been up for renewal. The teenagers would have been twenty something. Characters would have gone, new characters brought in. The writing teams change. But it would not have been the same show.
The show I keep coming back to.
Composed by W.G. Snuffy Walden
[from: 'My So-Called Life: Original Soundtrack', 1995]
There is something gut wrenching about the cancellation of a favourite television show, especially a drama. Over the period of broadcast the viewer invests a certain emotional interest in the lives of the characters. So when these characters are left in the middle of story arcs or plotlines we are denied something which he rightly expect in real life. Closure. One show in particular was a particular pain.
For some reason I keep coming back to ‘My So-Called Life’. Every year I get the shows out and watch them again. Every year I see new things. I understand more. I'm twenty-eight now. What's going on?
When you're a teenager, and you have those problems, and you know your friends will make fun of you if you tell them, you look to film, music and TV for answers. Living in England, honest to goodness teen shows are pretty thin on the ground. There's 'Byker Grove', 'Grange Hill' and hints of 'HollyOaks' and that's about it. The trouble is that none of them quite has the audacity or time slot to cut to the heart of what its actually like to be a teenager. Most of the time you have to look to US shows like 'Dawson's Creek' or 'Buffy: The Vampire Slayer'. But standing above them all was 'My So-called Life' a television programme that answered all of our questions. When the show was transmitted on our Channel 4 in 1995 it was stupidly popular.
No one had seen anything like this. Suddenly you knew what to do about that older boy or girl you fancy. Or if you have feelings for the girl next door. Or if you weren't sure about your sexuality. Or if someone loved you but you couldn't return their feelings. Or if you got handcuffed to a bed. Your heart was broken by it week after week, but you came back for more because you knew it was doing you good. A free hour of therapy.
Even if you didn't want to admit it, you were one of them. You were Rayanne Graffe, afraid of the world and overcompensating. Sharon Cherski, searching for your own identity beneath the expectations of others. You were Ricki Vasquez unsure who you were but quietly finding an equilibrium. You were Jordan Catalano torn between your friends and something else. You were Brian Krakow, the romantic with so many high expectations of people. You were Danielle Chase, always being kicked out of different rooms. You were Patty Chase fighting to keep your family together. You were Graham Chase fighting to keep yourself together. And you were always Angela, your world falling apart around you, every choice being wrong, every moment a battle, but somehow slowly working it all out.
Then, after nineteen episodes, it was gone. Replaced, I believe, by a rerun of 'Matlock'. The show should never have been cancelled. It wasn't fair goddam it. And not on that cliffhanger. But perhaps it had the right end. The perfect ending. The only ending this show could have had. Making a choice then watching in pain the road not travelled. So like life. So-called Life.
This year we would have had its sixth season. All of the contracts would have been up for renewal. The teenagers would have been twenty something. Characters would have gone, new characters brought in. The writing teams change. But it would not have been the same show.
The show I keep coming back to.
Eric's Ghost
Lisa Coleman
[from: 'Eroica: Piano Improvisions', Virgin, 1990]
Looking over the compilation I’m not sure now what I was trying to achieve. I think I was hoping to complement the tone of the weblog, include some of my favourite music and also offer a few surprises. I think I’ve done that. The trouble with compilations is that they can imply that this is my musical taste, and look over the track listing I’m not sure that’s what’s here. ‘The Heights’ track is on the edge, as is ‘The Flying Pickets’, curiosities more than anything else. Ironically, ‘Extremis’ may well also have been a mistake. But it could have been a lot worse. I nearly did include the aforementioned Richard E. Grant dance record. And a ‘This is the World Trade Centre’ track I’m particularly fond of. But this was originally put together in May this year and I’ve discovered a bunch of new music since then so I’m thinking about a sequel featuring just instrumental music. Which would be an odd way of expressing a medium built so much on words.
Lisa Coleman
[from: 'Eroica: Piano Improvisions', Virgin, 1990]
Looking over the compilation I’m not sure now what I was trying to achieve. I think I was hoping to complement the tone of the weblog, include some of my favourite music and also offer a few surprises. I think I’ve done that. The trouble with compilations is that they can imply that this is my musical taste, and look over the track listing I’m not sure that’s what’s here. ‘The Heights’ track is on the edge, as is ‘The Flying Pickets’, curiosities more than anything else. Ironically, ‘Extremis’ may well also have been a mistake. But it could have been a lot worse. I nearly did include the aforementioned Richard E. Grant dance record. And a ‘This is the World Trade Centre’ track I’m particularly fond of. But this was originally put together in May this year and I’ve discovered a bunch of new music since then so I’m thinking about a sequel featuring just instrumental music. Which would be an odd way of expressing a medium built so much on words.
Stray Thoughts
Eleanor McEvoy
Written by Eleanor McEvoy
[from: 'Eleanor McEvoy', Geffen, 1997]
I lost my mobile phone on the train to work this morning. I’d moved it into my fleece pocket in case it rang so that I could hear it and as I alighted at the station I felt into my pocket for my season ticket and realised the phone wasn’t there. I dashed back onto the train to were I was sitting and it wasn’t on the seat and the lady who was sitting there wasn’t too forthcoming as she read the newspaper I’d left on the table. I was distraught. It felt like I’d lost a part of my life – as though there was a gap in my mind somehow.
On the platform I ran to the stationmaster. No one had handed it in. Then it occurred to me – I knew the number. He drew out his phone and I dialed the number. I listened. It rang. And rang. Then my own voice spoke, my answering service like a plea in the darkness ‘Hi! It’s Stuart. You know what to do…’
Where was it? Who had it?
I headed into work, stopping off at a telephone kiosk on the way to call the number again. It rang again, but less than last time. I met a former manager. We chatted on the walk up to work. I managed to keep the conversation going but all I could think about was the phone.
In work I took the nearest phone and called the number again. By this time, my hands were shaking. Someone answer.
‘Hello?’ I said. ‘I think I lost this phone, and you’ve picked it up.’
‘Actually,’ said the voice, ‘I’m the guard on the train – your phone was handed in by an elderly couple.’ I remembered them, sitting opposite me, his cloth cap, her bright yellow coat. I’ll never say anything bad about pensioners again.
The guard sent the phone back to Lime Street on the next train and I picked it up tonight, offering the somewhat appropriate password, ‘Thomas The Tank Engine’. When it was back in my hands, I kissed it lightly. I’ll never lose my phone again.
Something I neglected to mention. This is the day that everyone decided to call my mobile phone. Which was sitting in the lost property office at Lime Street Station. So everyone who called, from my Mum and Dad, to my friend Chris and his friend Simon spoke to the old gentleman in the lost property office, bewildering all of them with his gruff voice and tales of my lost phone. Apparently when my Mum called later on to find out when they close (yes, that’s right) he sounded as though he was about to throw it under the rails if anyone rang again…. Incidentally my ringer is ‘Enola Gay’ by OMD – I hope he’s never been in a war …. [28th December 2001]
Eleanor McEvoy
Written by Eleanor McEvoy
[from: 'Eleanor McEvoy', Geffen, 1997]
I lost my mobile phone on the train to work this morning. I’d moved it into my fleece pocket in case it rang so that I could hear it and as I alighted at the station I felt into my pocket for my season ticket and realised the phone wasn’t there. I dashed back onto the train to were I was sitting and it wasn’t on the seat and the lady who was sitting there wasn’t too forthcoming as she read the newspaper I’d left on the table. I was distraught. It felt like I’d lost a part of my life – as though there was a gap in my mind somehow.
On the platform I ran to the stationmaster. No one had handed it in. Then it occurred to me – I knew the number. He drew out his phone and I dialed the number. I listened. It rang. And rang. Then my own voice spoke, my answering service like a plea in the darkness ‘Hi! It’s Stuart. You know what to do…’
Where was it? Who had it?
I headed into work, stopping off at a telephone kiosk on the way to call the number again. It rang again, but less than last time. I met a former manager. We chatted on the walk up to work. I managed to keep the conversation going but all I could think about was the phone.
In work I took the nearest phone and called the number again. By this time, my hands were shaking. Someone answer.
‘Hello?’ I said. ‘I think I lost this phone, and you’ve picked it up.’
‘Actually,’ said the voice, ‘I’m the guard on the train – your phone was handed in by an elderly couple.’ I remembered them, sitting opposite me, his cloth cap, her bright yellow coat. I’ll never say anything bad about pensioners again.
The guard sent the phone back to Lime Street on the next train and I picked it up tonight, offering the somewhat appropriate password, ‘Thomas The Tank Engine’. When it was back in my hands, I kissed it lightly. I’ll never lose my phone again.
Something I neglected to mention. This is the day that everyone decided to call my mobile phone. Which was sitting in the lost property office at Lime Street Station. So everyone who called, from my Mum and Dad, to my friend Chris and his friend Simon spoke to the old gentleman in the lost property office, bewildering all of them with his gruff voice and tales of my lost phone. Apparently when my Mum called later on to find out when they close (yes, that’s right) he sounded as though he was about to throw it under the rails if anyone rang again…. Incidentally my ringer is ‘Enola Gay’ by OMD – I hope he’s never been in a war …. [28th December 2001]
Minneapolis #2
Lisa Coleman
[from: 'Eroica: Piano Improvisions', Virgin, 1990]
When I was a student (mid-nineties) I knew two things. The first was that by the year 2000 my life would be complete. The second was that club music in all it's forms was the work of the devil to draw the populace away from real music. And I pretty much kept that opinion for the rest of the decade. Then last year something strange happened. I was standing in record shop and the DJ began to play 'GrooveJet' by Spiller featuring Sophie Ellis-Bextor. Here was a record almost designed to talk me around to the Ibiza way of thinking. A dance record with a good lyric and melody of sorts which also had the kind of structure I'd never heard before. I walked to the counter and bought the thing straight away - and listened to it five times as soon as I was home.
My distrust of dance music still exists, much of it seeming too easy for words. There are the exceptions - the crossover music which I now feel myself not only appreciating but going positively radio gaga over. I'm becoming particular impressed by R&B. During my long and delayed train journey home tonight, I was welcome of the company of Mary J Blige and her 1997 album, 'share my world'. I should not like this album. I mean it features R Kelly for god's sake. But here I am, listening to it again whilst I write this. I want to gas on about her vocal range (extraordinary) or the production (as you'd expect, with glimpses of genius) And as I 'groove' along to the track 'round and round' I've come to a startling conclusion, and believe me, this is something of a revelation...there isn't one type of music I don't like....
Actually that may not be true. I'd run a mile from Kenny Rogers, James Galway and in fact most people with beards. And I'll draw the line at boy bands. And Atomic Kitten (mention number three on this weblog - six to go possibly). But when it comes to everything else, I think I can - if not rave - at least understand. There isn't probably anything better at one o'clock in the morning having had many beers than throwing your weight around S Club 7's 'Reach for the Stars'. The rush of a Slipnot concert will be extreme. And quiet stylings of Vangelis lead you into believing that a calmer world is possible. The only boundary in music should be quality... [1st September 2001]
Lisa Coleman
[from: 'Eroica: Piano Improvisions', Virgin, 1990]
When I was a student (mid-nineties) I knew two things. The first was that by the year 2000 my life would be complete. The second was that club music in all it's forms was the work of the devil to draw the populace away from real music. And I pretty much kept that opinion for the rest of the decade. Then last year something strange happened. I was standing in record shop and the DJ began to play 'GrooveJet' by Spiller featuring Sophie Ellis-Bextor. Here was a record almost designed to talk me around to the Ibiza way of thinking. A dance record with a good lyric and melody of sorts which also had the kind of structure I'd never heard before. I walked to the counter and bought the thing straight away - and listened to it five times as soon as I was home.
My distrust of dance music still exists, much of it seeming too easy for words. There are the exceptions - the crossover music which I now feel myself not only appreciating but going positively radio gaga over. I'm becoming particular impressed by R&B. During my long and delayed train journey home tonight, I was welcome of the company of Mary J Blige and her 1997 album, 'share my world'. I should not like this album. I mean it features R Kelly for god's sake. But here I am, listening to it again whilst I write this. I want to gas on about her vocal range (extraordinary) or the production (as you'd expect, with glimpses of genius) And as I 'groove' along to the track 'round and round' I've come to a startling conclusion, and believe me, this is something of a revelation...there isn't one type of music I don't like....
Actually that may not be true. I'd run a mile from Kenny Rogers, James Galway and in fact most people with beards. And I'll draw the line at boy bands. And Atomic Kitten (mention number three on this weblog - six to go possibly). But when it comes to everything else, I think I can - if not rave - at least understand. There isn't probably anything better at one o'clock in the morning having had many beers than throwing your weight around S Club 7's 'Reach for the Stars'. The rush of a Slipnot concert will be extreme. And quiet stylings of Vangelis lead you into believing that a calmer world is possible. The only boundary in music should be quality... [1st September 2001]
Tom's Diner
Suzanne Vega
Written by Suzanne Vega
[from: 'Soltude Standing', A&M, 1987]
I went to Starbucks the other day. As you know, I work in Manchester. In Liverpool we get by with only two Starbucks. But Manchester seems to have hundreds. Trouble is when I'm in line I squint at the menu and simply can't decide what to have, so by the time I get the counter I panic ... and ask the clerk what they're favourite flavour is ... and just have that.
So it's lunch time from the job I can't mention the other day and I'm there again. The girl clerk waits patiently before I say:
"Oh I don't know err ... what would you have?"
"Well I'd have a hot chocolate ... so ..."
"Um."
"Come on. They all taste the same."
"You're not suppose to say that."
"OK ... we at Starbucks offer a whole range of flavours to suit all tastes."
"Erm..."
"Well do you want something sweet or bitter?"
"Sweet." I answer definately.
"Well there is ... mumble .... mumble .... mumble .... something with caramel." People who work in coffeehouses have their own language. They should hire translators. I try and jump in...
"That sounds nice. I'll have that."
"Which one?"
"Oh .. the first one ..."
"Large or small."
"Small. I'm not going to be here long."
I pay and join the queue. The business couple who came in after me are served their Lattes first.
Girl clerk: "Yours is a work of art so it'll just take a little bit longer."
"OK."
A boy clerk is working on my order. He looks like a mad scientist putting parts on a new machine as he pours syrups and milks together.
Two minutes later a mug arrives in the centre of the counter. The boy clerks throw his hands in the air in victory.
"Taa daa." He shouts.
I find myself clapping slightly.
I sip the coffee. It tastes like a little piece of heaven.
Who knew just ordering a coffee could be so much fun?
[13th May 2002]
Suzanne Vega
Written by Suzanne Vega
[from: 'Soltude Standing', A&M, 1987]
I went to Starbucks the other day. As you know, I work in Manchester. In Liverpool we get by with only two Starbucks. But Manchester seems to have hundreds. Trouble is when I'm in line I squint at the menu and simply can't decide what to have, so by the time I get the counter I panic ... and ask the clerk what they're favourite flavour is ... and just have that.
So it's lunch time from the job I can't mention the other day and I'm there again. The girl clerk waits patiently before I say:
"Oh I don't know err ... what would you have?"
"Well I'd have a hot chocolate ... so ..."
"Um."
"Come on. They all taste the same."
"You're not suppose to say that."
"OK ... we at Starbucks offer a whole range of flavours to suit all tastes."
"Erm..."
"Well do you want something sweet or bitter?"
"Sweet." I answer definately.
"Well there is ... mumble .... mumble .... mumble .... something with caramel." People who work in coffeehouses have their own language. They should hire translators. I try and jump in...
"That sounds nice. I'll have that."
"Which one?"
"Oh .. the first one ..."
"Large or small."
"Small. I'm not going to be here long."
I pay and join the queue. The business couple who came in after me are served their Lattes first.
Girl clerk: "Yours is a work of art so it'll just take a little bit longer."
"OK."
A boy clerk is working on my order. He looks like a mad scientist putting parts on a new machine as he pours syrups and milks together.
Two minutes later a mug arrives in the centre of the counter. The boy clerks throw his hands in the air in victory.
"Taa daa." He shouts.
I find myself clapping slightly.
I sip the coffee. It tastes like a little piece of heaven.
Who knew just ordering a coffee could be so much fun?
[13th May 2002]
Ewok Feast/Part Of The Tribe
Ewoks
Written by John Williams
[from: 'Return of the Jedi: Special Edition Original Soundtrack ', RCA, 1995]
Overheard on the train home tonight ... two men in suits ...
"So you know my sister?"
"Yeah."
"The one who's a graphic designer? She's freelancing after y'know."
"Yeah."
"And she's been working on TV, and she got three job offers. And she only knew about one of them."
"Which one?"
"Well she knew about on a tv series series called Farscape."
"What's that?"
"It's on the BBC. It's from Jim Henson, you know who made the Muppets."
"OK."
"So she took that job because she knew what it was and she needed the money."
"OK ..."
"Then she found out what the other jobs were that she couldn't take now. One was on the second Matrix film. And the other was Star Wars." [24th May 2002]
I called my friend Chris earlier:
Me: I'm waiting for the bus. It's my world music course tonight.
Chris: You'll miss it.
Me: Miss what?
Chris plays sample of Star Wars theme down phone at me (he's by a computer)
Me: I'm not so sure about The Empire Strikes Back anymore
Chris:Why?
Me: It's the director, Irvin Kirshner.
Chris: Yes.
Me: He was just Lucas' patsy. I mean what did he do? I mean we haven't seen anything by him since.
Chris: He didn't need to make any more ... [8th October 2002]
Ewoks
Written by John Williams
[from: 'Return of the Jedi: Special Edition Original Soundtrack ', RCA, 1995]
Overheard on the train home tonight ... two men in suits ...
"So you know my sister?"
"Yeah."
"The one who's a graphic designer? She's freelancing after y'know."
"Yeah."
"And she's been working on TV, and she got three job offers. And she only knew about one of them."
"Which one?"
"Well she knew about on a tv series series called Farscape."
"What's that?"
"It's on the BBC. It's from Jim Henson, you know who made the Muppets."
"OK."
"So she took that job because she knew what it was and she needed the money."
"OK ..."
"Then she found out what the other jobs were that she couldn't take now. One was on the second Matrix film. And the other was Star Wars." [24th May 2002]
I called my friend Chris earlier:
Me: I'm waiting for the bus. It's my world music course tonight.
Chris: You'll miss it.
Me: Miss what?
Chris plays sample of Star Wars theme down phone at me (he's by a computer)
Me: I'm not so sure about The Empire Strikes Back anymore
Chris:Why?
Me: It's the director, Irvin Kirshner.
Chris: Yes.
Me: He was just Lucas' patsy. I mean what did he do? I mean we haven't seen anything by him since.
Chris: He didn't need to make any more ... [8th October 2002]
Under The Bridge
The New Flying Pickets
Written by Flea, John Frusciante, Anthony Kiedis & Chad Smith
[from: 'Under The Bridge', 2001]
I’ve a feeling The Red Hot Chilli Peppers never had this in mind. Which is a great thing about bizarre cover versions, they’ll stretch the originals to breaking point. Unlike the All Saints equally sublime version, they make no attempt to replicate the opening guitar solo vocally and everything is subservient to the vocal. It should sound as wrong as Oasis clashing through Bobby Mcpherin’s ‘Don’t Worry Be Happy’ but doesn’t. There are of course really bad cover versions. There are the bland karaoke copies (anything by Atomic Kitten, Blue, Westlife and that crowd), and pointless dance versions like Madhouse(somewhere there is a dance version of All About Eve’s ‘Martha’s Harbour’). But midway between there will always be joy like this. And Donald Duck’s version on ‘Yesterday’.
The New Flying Pickets
Written by Flea, John Frusciante, Anthony Kiedis & Chad Smith
[from: 'Under The Bridge', 2001]
I’ve a feeling The Red Hot Chilli Peppers never had this in mind. Which is a great thing about bizarre cover versions, they’ll stretch the originals to breaking point. Unlike the All Saints equally sublime version, they make no attempt to replicate the opening guitar solo vocally and everything is subservient to the vocal. It should sound as wrong as Oasis clashing through Bobby Mcpherin’s ‘Don’t Worry Be Happy’ but doesn’t. There are of course really bad cover versions. There are the bland karaoke copies (anything by Atomic Kitten, Blue, Westlife and that crowd), and pointless dance versions like Madhouse(somewhere there is a dance version of All About Eve’s ‘Martha’s Harbour’). But midway between there will always be joy like this. And Donald Duck’s version on ‘Yesterday’.
Please can I go now?
GMT and Hinda Hicks
Written by Guy Sigsworth
[from: 'GMT: Music from the film', Island, 1999]
I never say goodbye to people. Even when they’re disappearing to another continent or I’m leaving a place never to return, I’ll only turn to people I’ve become close to and tell them to take care, and often that I’ll see them next time. I never used to be like that. When I was twelve, I stood on a station platform crying my eyes out because a school mate was going to Australia. The problem was that I always did see them. And usually in the strangest of places. And having said all of the things you need to say when you aren’t going to see someone again, there was the disappointment because even after five years there wasn’t much to add.
I stopped saying goodbye to people when I saw the Channel 4 adaptation of the Anthony Powell novels ‘A Dance to the Music of Time’. This told the story of a group of school friends as they grew up during the last century into old age. The dance being the weaving in out of their lives, spinning off into the ballroom floor of time, returning to each other’s company the way people do as the music hits specific beats and rhythms. Some of them have two left feet and fall to the side; some aren’t invited up and don’t waltz at all. As I watched I noticed the same movements in my own life. The best television informs us all.
Years later I did meet my school friend, back from Oz for only a few moments – he happened to be in the UK for a few days for a conference. Sure enough, because of our big pronouncements we just looked at each other and asked what we’d been up to. No spark in the old friendship. Post ‘Dance’, I saw someone I’d once worked with but also knew through a mutual friend; we’d been close enough to whisper secrets but had lost touch when I’d left the job. I’d just waved when I left, with a shouted 'See you!'. When we saw each other this time we just kept grinning insanely, and talked for hours (well for as long as our train journey). At the end, my friend had remembered what I’d said before and said, “I’ll see you next time…”, and know she will.
GMT and Hinda Hicks
Written by Guy Sigsworth
[from: 'GMT: Music from the film', Island, 1999]
I never say goodbye to people. Even when they’re disappearing to another continent or I’m leaving a place never to return, I’ll only turn to people I’ve become close to and tell them to take care, and often that I’ll see them next time. I never used to be like that. When I was twelve, I stood on a station platform crying my eyes out because a school mate was going to Australia. The problem was that I always did see them. And usually in the strangest of places. And having said all of the things you need to say when you aren’t going to see someone again, there was the disappointment because even after five years there wasn’t much to add.
I stopped saying goodbye to people when I saw the Channel 4 adaptation of the Anthony Powell novels ‘A Dance to the Music of Time’. This told the story of a group of school friends as they grew up during the last century into old age. The dance being the weaving in out of their lives, spinning off into the ballroom floor of time, returning to each other’s company the way people do as the music hits specific beats and rhythms. Some of them have two left feet and fall to the side; some aren’t invited up and don’t waltz at all. As I watched I noticed the same movements in my own life. The best television informs us all.
Years later I did meet my school friend, back from Oz for only a few moments – he happened to be in the UK for a few days for a conference. Sure enough, because of our big pronouncements we just looked at each other and asked what we’d been up to. No spark in the old friendship. Post ‘Dance’, I saw someone I’d once worked with but also knew through a mutual friend; we’d been close enough to whisper secrets but had lost touch when I’d left the job. I’d just waved when I left, with a shouted 'See you!'. When we saw each other this time we just kept grinning insanely, and talked for hours (well for as long as our train journey). At the end, my friend had remembered what I’d said before and said, “I’ll see you next time…”, and know she will.
Extremis
Hal featuring Gillian Anderson
Written by Hal
[from: 'Extremis', Virgin, 1997]
This is from a time when Gillian Anderson was actually pleased to be working on the most popular sci-fi show in the world and wanted to milk things as much as possible. So as well as introducing ‘Future Fantastic’ (a up-to-date ‘Arthur C. Clarke’s ‘World of Strange Powers’), she was involved in this opus. The lyrics:
Hal featuring Gillian Anderson
Written by Hal
[from: 'Extremis', Virgin, 1997]
This is from a time when Gillian Anderson was actually pleased to be working on the most popular sci-fi show in the world and wanted to milk things as much as possible. So as well as introducing ‘Future Fantastic’ (a up-to-date ‘Arthur C. Clarke’s ‘World of Strange Powers’), she was involved in this opus. The lyrics:
“Atom by atom, Molecular beings, Transport me away To the place of my dreams. A point in space, Where time is still, Colliding worlds, In limbo until Extremis. A melting of minds, A cerebral mesh, union of liquid, And virtual... flesh. Automaton love, Your caress is pneumatic, I'm a slave to your touch, My response automatic. The circuits burn out, And the paradigm shift, Its elision, My emotions drift. Clarity fades, And my faculties haze, Deep down in formals, hound me for days. Extremis. Your reasons are noble, A quintessence of lust, In the arms of angels, My dreams turn to dust. Extremis. I don't want to hear about the future. I want to see it, I want to feel it, I want to taste it. There is a tendency to forget that the darkness automatically brings about fear in the world. But I have already got a piece of the darkness. Trouble begins in the light, if you come around here. Extremis.”Glorious really. It should be noted that she’s using her ‘Scully’ accent, not the one we heard on Parkinson the other week. Sadly I was unable to fit on Richard E. Grant narrating a dance version of the ‘To Be or Not To Be’ soliloquy from ‘Hamlet’ – Grant hasn’t been making many Hollywood films lately has he?
What's Up?
4 Non Blondes
Written by Linda Perry
[from the single: 'What's Up?', Alex, 1993]
There are few words. Strangely not in the mood the write, except to offer my condolences to any American readers, and anyone else effected by this. I've sent a circular email to anyone I know may be a regular reader, but to anyone I don't know -- take care of yourself, on today off all days... [11th]
The train this morning was almost silent as people read the collected stories of yesterday in their newspapers of choice. Silent except for the chatter of two girls more interested in their lipsticks and shoes, in denial, unable possibly to grasp the enormity of the events we've witnessed. Eventually, the hush consumed them as well. This is something which has effected everybody. Something changed yesterday. [12th]
The bus to the station was deathly quiet again this morning. Apart from a baby crying. It is getting easier to live now, although everything is still in the back of my mind. I simply can't understand why this has affected me, whilst my co-workers and people I see about seem to be able to get on with their lives efficiently. My Mum said it was because of 'The way you are.' I wonder what that means. I think I'm mostly filled with foreboding about the days and months ahead. Even in Liverpool this will never go away -- everyone is connected somehow. I was one of the few to volunteer to take calls tomorrow during the three minutes silence, for those who don't want to respect it (although I can't imagine who). I think the thing which will stand after this is 'perspective'. Suddenly, all of the little niggling things which seemed really important on Monday just don't seem to matter now. It occured to me earlier I haven't listened to any music since Tuesday morning. I should go do that. [13th]
Observed the three minutes silence in the end today anyway -- strange to be doing so in the kind of office those people lost their lives in. Just underlined how lucky we are to be alive. [14th]
As news gatherers begin to acknowledge there is other news happening, I too find it's possible to write and think about other things. I do agree with sentiments at the end of this article that everything has changed. The world doesn't seem as interested in showbiz types and soap operas -- real life dramas have become much more potent.[15th]
People are describing this time as the aftermath. After what? This isn't over yet. Not yet. This is a pause. A respite. A moment of reflection. A preparation for the coming whatever. [17th]
4 Non Blondes
Written by Linda Perry
[from the single: 'What's Up?', Alex, 1993]
There are few words. Strangely not in the mood the write, except to offer my condolences to any American readers, and anyone else effected by this. I've sent a circular email to anyone I know may be a regular reader, but to anyone I don't know -- take care of yourself, on today off all days... [11th]
The train this morning was almost silent as people read the collected stories of yesterday in their newspapers of choice. Silent except for the chatter of two girls more interested in their lipsticks and shoes, in denial, unable possibly to grasp the enormity of the events we've witnessed. Eventually, the hush consumed them as well. This is something which has effected everybody. Something changed yesterday. [12th]
The bus to the station was deathly quiet again this morning. Apart from a baby crying. It is getting easier to live now, although everything is still in the back of my mind. I simply can't understand why this has affected me, whilst my co-workers and people I see about seem to be able to get on with their lives efficiently. My Mum said it was because of 'The way you are.' I wonder what that means. I think I'm mostly filled with foreboding about the days and months ahead. Even in Liverpool this will never go away -- everyone is connected somehow. I was one of the few to volunteer to take calls tomorrow during the three minutes silence, for those who don't want to respect it (although I can't imagine who). I think the thing which will stand after this is 'perspective'. Suddenly, all of the little niggling things which seemed really important on Monday just don't seem to matter now. It occured to me earlier I haven't listened to any music since Tuesday morning. I should go do that. [13th]
Observed the three minutes silence in the end today anyway -- strange to be doing so in the kind of office those people lost their lives in. Just underlined how lucky we are to be alive. [14th]
As news gatherers begin to acknowledge there is other news happening, I too find it's possible to write and think about other things. I do agree with sentiments at the end of this article that everything has changed. The world doesn't seem as interested in showbiz types and soap operas -- real life dramas have become much more potent.[15th]
People are describing this time as the aftermath. After what? This isn't over yet. Not yet. This is a pause. A respite. A moment of reflection. A preparation for the coming whatever. [17th]
How Do You Talk To An Angel
The Heights
Written by Stephanie Tyrell, Barry Coffing & Steve Tyrell
When I first moved in my tower block, the council had installed a communal BSB Squarial on the roof. At first it picked up their Sport Channel, but when Sky absorbed the fledging satellite company this was changes to Sky One. Which meant that during the early nineties I could enjoy the Johnny Depp series ’21 Jump Street’ and the other US imports the main channels at the time wouldn’t touch with a barge pole. ‘The Heights’ was one of these shows, Aaron Spellings attempt to transfer ‘Melrose Place’ to Seattle and set it around a rock band. And each episode would end with the band singing a new song. It sounds awful, but it was actually very very good, partly helped by the quality of the writing, but also the unknown performers. In one episode the drummer finally managed go get the girl of his dreams into the bedroom – and she fell in love with him because he was the one whop wanted to wear the condom. OK – perhaps it was in the playing.
In the first episode, the band was looking for a new lead singer and stumbled upon Jamie Waters. In the show he had fallen for a backing vocalist and wrote her a poem, which eventually became ‘How Do You Talk To An Angel’. The spin-off single did great business in the US (I believe it went to number one) but tanked here. No one watched on either side of the atlantic and the show and it was never renewed (what is it with me and cancelled shows?). Waters tried to go on and get a career on the back of this single but that never really happened either (the album, which I found in a second hand shop in Birmingham is very bad). But here is the single for you to enjoy. It’s a bit dated (a bit), but the words work quite well. Expect Travis to cover it next Glastonbury.
The Heights
Written by Stephanie Tyrell, Barry Coffing & Steve Tyrell
When I first moved in my tower block, the council had installed a communal BSB Squarial on the roof. At first it picked up their Sport Channel, but when Sky absorbed the fledging satellite company this was changes to Sky One. Which meant that during the early nineties I could enjoy the Johnny Depp series ’21 Jump Street’ and the other US imports the main channels at the time wouldn’t touch with a barge pole. ‘The Heights’ was one of these shows, Aaron Spellings attempt to transfer ‘Melrose Place’ to Seattle and set it around a rock band. And each episode would end with the band singing a new song. It sounds awful, but it was actually very very good, partly helped by the quality of the writing, but also the unknown performers. In one episode the drummer finally managed go get the girl of his dreams into the bedroom – and she fell in love with him because he was the one whop wanted to wear the condom. OK – perhaps it was in the playing.
In the first episode, the band was looking for a new lead singer and stumbled upon Jamie Waters. In the show he had fallen for a backing vocalist and wrote her a poem, which eventually became ‘How Do You Talk To An Angel’. The spin-off single did great business in the US (I believe it went to number one) but tanked here. No one watched on either side of the atlantic and the show and it was never renewed (what is it with me and cancelled shows?). Waters tried to go on and get a career on the back of this single but that never really happened either (the album, which I found in a second hand shop in Birmingham is very bad). But here is the single for you to enjoy. It’s a bit dated (a bit), but the words work quite well. Expect Travis to cover it next Glastonbury.
That Day
Natalie Imbruglia
Written by Natalie Imbruglia & Gary Clark
[from: 'White Lilies Island', BMG, 2001]
I feel strangely ambivalent about today. I'm aware that when I go places there isn't some with me holding my hand, but this year it just feels like something other people do. Perhaps it's because for once I'm not in love with someone -- in previous years I've been looking dewy eyed at the girl from afar or good friends with them just to be around them for much the same reason. But this year no one. I know it's my situation. My life's on pause -- I'm like Scott Campbell in the film 'Singles', forever locked in a room (in my case metaphorically) wigging away, waiting for the next thing to happen. Which doesn't mean to say that if I got a serious valentine later I wouldn't be interested. My shoulder is looking out of practice -- it looks like it needs someone to lean against it soon. [Valentines Day, 2002]
Natalie Imbruglia
Written by Natalie Imbruglia & Gary Clark
[from: 'White Lilies Island', BMG, 2001]
I feel strangely ambivalent about today. I'm aware that when I go places there isn't some with me holding my hand, but this year it just feels like something other people do. Perhaps it's because for once I'm not in love with someone -- in previous years I've been looking dewy eyed at the girl from afar or good friends with them just to be around them for much the same reason. But this year no one. I know it's my situation. My life's on pause -- I'm like Scott Campbell in the film 'Singles', forever locked in a room (in my case metaphorically) wigging away, waiting for the next thing to happen. Which doesn't mean to say that if I got a serious valentine later I wouldn't be interested. My shoulder is looking out of practice -- it looks like it needs someone to lean against it soon. [Valentines Day, 2002]
Baby One More Time
Travis
Written by Martin
[from: Galstonbury 1999]
I’ve a confession to make. I’ve a feeling I’ll be buying Britney Spears version of ‘I Love Rock and Roll’. It’s not a great song, and she does it very badly. But it’s to go in a collection, you see. Of weird cover versions. It’s never been clear why some artists go so far out on a limb sometimes to show that they do have a wide musical interest – or why others would try and pretend they’re still cool by keeping up with the youngens. But as someone who’s sat through all ten verses of Bob Dylan’s version of ‘One Man Went To Mo’ I can tell you this. They’re bloody good entertainment, and this track demonstrates, the really good songs can stand any treatment. The crowd you can here in the background of this track probably wouldn’t be seen dead in HMV buying Spears first album, yet here they are, singing word perfect to their indie heroes. The reason is – it’s a bloody good song. That’s why she picked it. That’s why they’re singing it. End of part one.
Travis
Written by Martin
[from: Galstonbury 1999]
I’ve a confession to make. I’ve a feeling I’ll be buying Britney Spears version of ‘I Love Rock and Roll’. It’s not a great song, and she does it very badly. But it’s to go in a collection, you see. Of weird cover versions. It’s never been clear why some artists go so far out on a limb sometimes to show that they do have a wide musical interest – or why others would try and pretend they’re still cool by keeping up with the youngens. But as someone who’s sat through all ten verses of Bob Dylan’s version of ‘One Man Went To Mo’ I can tell you this. They’re bloody good entertainment, and this track demonstrates, the really good songs can stand any treatment. The crowd you can here in the background of this track probably wouldn’t be seen dead in HMV buying Spears first album, yet here they are, singing word perfect to their indie heroes. The reason is – it’s a bloody good song. That’s why she picked it. That’s why they’re singing it. End of part one.
Just Like Fred Astaire
James
Written by James
[from: 'Millionaires', Mercury, 1999]
He sweated everywhere. Jeans, T-shirt, Jacket all wet with the salty liquid, soggy with no clear way of drying himself out in this atmosphere, humid and steamy. The bench at the edge of the makeshift dance floor was low and uncomfortable. His knees were in front him, higher than his waist, his hands resting on them, his feet tapping in time with the drum-ridden rubbish that was being played, rubbish which had been in the music chart at sometime. Although not a drink had passed his lips all night, he couldn't think straight. He was tired, excited and jealous all at the same time.
Next to him, a bespeckled man glasses was comparing tongue length with a half- burned blonde. His eyes were close, as though he didn't want to realise that she was only kissing him between sips of lager and puffs of a half burnt cigarette, both of which she held with the hand that wasn't making the lonely dance under the T-Shirt of her 'stand' for the evening. It was a compelling sight. The other side, a woman a few years older than him, in a large, floppy maroon hat, seemed as bored as he was as she glanced at her watch. It was close to midnight. This was her celebration after graduation, but the friend she had come with had disappeared into the crowd with an ex- boyfriend. He thought better of striking up a conversation - the idea of screaming some half-hearted questions about courses over the loudspeaker which hovered above them, wasn't very appealing. He continued to sit and sweat.
Cigarette smoke wafted through the air, mixing with the fibres of his clothing. He thought of the launderette visit which would follow on the Monday, and the owner, who sat strangely, in the shadows, making dribbling noises occasionally. Unknown to him, the graduate had also been there once and a faulty machine had eaten her favourite leggings. Which why she was wearing odd ones tonight - pink and black, green and yellow, they clashed desperately, but worked - somehow.
She got up and disappeared into the dancing mass, as did the tonsil twins, still joined at the mouth. He waited hopefully for some Rock. He could Mosh very well, but anything would be better than this hell on vinyl which was making his heart beat irregularly. He crossed his legs, closed his eyes and placed his head on the wall of the stage. He was going to ride this out.
When he opened them, time seemed to have stopped, all movement being held stationary, apart from one thing. Just in front, glazed in blue light, danced an apparition. Her body seemed to become the source of the music, not just ebbing and flowing with it. Nothing about her was that different from her fellow dancers. She was quite short - shoulder length brown hair. A stripy-blue tank top extenuated a ... generous figure. Though he was all too aware of her, she was only aware of the music - her feet sliding her across the dance floor, until the world she lived in eclipsed a party light.
It felt uncomfortable and excited. He knew he was staring, but his eyes would not leave her. What was she thinking? What memories were hidden under the hair which was hovering her hair and rapidly covering her whole face. He ran his fingers through his hair and she repeated the action, the strands disappearing behind her shoulders.
The drums ended, the synthesizers died. Time began again. The small pocket of reality she occupied that he had invaded disappeared. She smiled at some at some friends at the other side of the hall and disappeared into the crowd. He smiled broadly and stood up to rejoin his friends, who were crashing into each other drunkenly on the other side of the hall. He tried to join in, but it was only half-heartedly. The reality he had just experienced, which he had not asked for was infinitely better than the reality had chosen.
James
Written by James
[from: 'Millionaires', Mercury, 1999]
He sweated everywhere. Jeans, T-shirt, Jacket all wet with the salty liquid, soggy with no clear way of drying himself out in this atmosphere, humid and steamy. The bench at the edge of the makeshift dance floor was low and uncomfortable. His knees were in front him, higher than his waist, his hands resting on them, his feet tapping in time with the drum-ridden rubbish that was being played, rubbish which had been in the music chart at sometime. Although not a drink had passed his lips all night, he couldn't think straight. He was tired, excited and jealous all at the same time.
Next to him, a bespeckled man glasses was comparing tongue length with a half- burned blonde. His eyes were close, as though he didn't want to realise that she was only kissing him between sips of lager and puffs of a half burnt cigarette, both of which she held with the hand that wasn't making the lonely dance under the T-Shirt of her 'stand' for the evening. It was a compelling sight. The other side, a woman a few years older than him, in a large, floppy maroon hat, seemed as bored as he was as she glanced at her watch. It was close to midnight. This was her celebration after graduation, but the friend she had come with had disappeared into the crowd with an ex- boyfriend. He thought better of striking up a conversation - the idea of screaming some half-hearted questions about courses over the loudspeaker which hovered above them, wasn't very appealing. He continued to sit and sweat.
Cigarette smoke wafted through the air, mixing with the fibres of his clothing. He thought of the launderette visit which would follow on the Monday, and the owner, who sat strangely, in the shadows, making dribbling noises occasionally. Unknown to him, the graduate had also been there once and a faulty machine had eaten her favourite leggings. Which why she was wearing odd ones tonight - pink and black, green and yellow, they clashed desperately, but worked - somehow.
She got up and disappeared into the dancing mass, as did the tonsil twins, still joined at the mouth. He waited hopefully for some Rock. He could Mosh very well, but anything would be better than this hell on vinyl which was making his heart beat irregularly. He crossed his legs, closed his eyes and placed his head on the wall of the stage. He was going to ride this out.
When he opened them, time seemed to have stopped, all movement being held stationary, apart from one thing. Just in front, glazed in blue light, danced an apparition. Her body seemed to become the source of the music, not just ebbing and flowing with it. Nothing about her was that different from her fellow dancers. She was quite short - shoulder length brown hair. A stripy-blue tank top extenuated a ... generous figure. Though he was all too aware of her, she was only aware of the music - her feet sliding her across the dance floor, until the world she lived in eclipsed a party light.
It felt uncomfortable and excited. He knew he was staring, but his eyes would not leave her. What was she thinking? What memories were hidden under the hair which was hovering her hair and rapidly covering her whole face. He ran his fingers through his hair and she repeated the action, the strands disappearing behind her shoulders.
The drums ended, the synthesizers died. Time began again. The small pocket of reality she occupied that he had invaded disappeared. She smiled at some at some friends at the other side of the hall and disappeared into the crowd. He smiled broadly and stood up to rejoin his friends, who were crashing into each other drunkenly on the other side of the hall. He tried to join in, but it was only half-heartedly. The reality he had just experienced, which he had not asked for was infinitely better than the reality had chosen.
Alive
Joey Lauren Adams
Written by Joey Lauren Adams
[soundtrack unavailable]
What is it with fabulous people? I'm talking about those people who just make you smile for being who they are and how they make you feel about yourself. You fall for them almost instantaneously and you want their light to shine upon you always, always with that sinking feeling that part of your attraction is because you want to be as cool as they are. A sort of crush I suppose, but without all the emotional fallout that comes from puberty. I'm once worked with someone who completely fits this bill. She walzes into the work space and heads turn, both boys and girls, and their eyes implore her to sit with them, because it'll mean the day will be brighter. I think she sat with me at first because I'm the least threatening - because I'd been there before and I was taking my infatuation in my stride...
You see, there was this girl when I was in halls during my first year at University. Her name was Rosie. You know you meet someone and they are the most complicated, complex people, and in all the time you know them, you still don't get the measure of them? Well that was Rosie. She doesn’t know this, but, now that I'm rich and famous (he-ho) my list of influences, well, has her at the top. And it’s not because of anything she told me, or said to me, but because of her whole state of being - her spirit. I can't remember when I first met her, or spoke to her. I guess it was at some party or other. I don't even remember going out of my way to speak to her, but I think she was on one of her friendliness benders and wanted to know everyone. I don’t even really remember us hitting it off as great friends but I found out later she warmed to me after I helped this gentleman, lets call him Army Ben, to walk her friend Helen home from the first big party at the hall (I’ll tell you that story another time). She was one of these people who just went out and did things without question and succeeded. She was a fabulously convincing actress (we sat some nights reading Shakespeare). I'd be depressed about something, and her sunny personality would beat down on me so warm it would burn.
But she had this darker side which interfered with all of this. She knew it existed, but I don't think she knew herself how to control it. She was a person of opposites. She had asthma, yet she smoked. She was extremely intelligent, but slacked off and never did any work, to the point of only passing one module. She also had this rebellious nature which I admired. She'd been expelled from some schools for the craziest things (you know using sherbet bombs in toilets, that kind of thing). So I look back on my friendship with Rosie with regrets. Despite the fact that she was this incredible person, because she had all of these paradoxes, I found it difficult to get on with her. I didn't make the most of our friendship while it was there. But as I’ve said before my time in halls was just one long fight for acceptance. To move from the wrenching loneliness at the beginning of the year to something pretty similar at the end. The whole hall would be out clubbing, and I would be in the common room watching a Fellini movie on television (and ‘La Dolce Vita’ is a long film when you’re not expecting it). I got really high marks at the expense of my social life. I wasn't exactly monastically reclusive you understand, just really highly strung - I was young, I was inexperienced, it really was the 1990s . . . But she accepted me.
The thing of it is, I think that Rosie might have had ideas about me. She never actually told me of course. She would just say certain things and drop little hints. None of which I picked up, of course. Like I said, I was young, and inexperienced ... 'The Simpsons' had only just begun ... She once left a note on my door frame, which said that she wanted to 'consummate our special relationship'. And ... apparently, she and a couple of the girls sat around one night writing their top ten men in the hall and I made a good second on her list. So that's Rosie ... The sick thing is, and the thing which has sticks in my life like a bone in between my teeth whenever I eat fish, is that because we had this divide between us (of both our makings) which meant by the end of the year, we were hardly speaking. So I never really got to say goodbye to her. I heard that she lived on the streets in Leeds for a few months (she couldn't afford the ticket back to Somerset). I met her again a few years later, and she hugged me - so – hard, like I was the one thing which was missing from her life. There was nothing I could do. But I just felt like . . . feel like I should have done . . . something. If I ever met her again? I suppose I’d thank her. There are some people who are never defined and whose purpose is only thought about after death. She’s given me something to latch onto. And if I only got one thing from her, it was the fabulous way she pronounced Somerset . . .
Joey Lauren Adams
Written by Joey Lauren Adams
[soundtrack unavailable]
What is it with fabulous people? I'm talking about those people who just make you smile for being who they are and how they make you feel about yourself. You fall for them almost instantaneously and you want their light to shine upon you always, always with that sinking feeling that part of your attraction is because you want to be as cool as they are. A sort of crush I suppose, but without all the emotional fallout that comes from puberty. I'm once worked with someone who completely fits this bill. She walzes into the work space and heads turn, both boys and girls, and their eyes implore her to sit with them, because it'll mean the day will be brighter. I think she sat with me at first because I'm the least threatening - because I'd been there before and I was taking my infatuation in my stride...
You see, there was this girl when I was in halls during my first year at University. Her name was Rosie. You know you meet someone and they are the most complicated, complex people, and in all the time you know them, you still don't get the measure of them? Well that was Rosie. She doesn’t know this, but, now that I'm rich and famous (he-ho) my list of influences, well, has her at the top. And it’s not because of anything she told me, or said to me, but because of her whole state of being - her spirit. I can't remember when I first met her, or spoke to her. I guess it was at some party or other. I don't even remember going out of my way to speak to her, but I think she was on one of her friendliness benders and wanted to know everyone. I don’t even really remember us hitting it off as great friends but I found out later she warmed to me after I helped this gentleman, lets call him Army Ben, to walk her friend Helen home from the first big party at the hall (I’ll tell you that story another time). She was one of these people who just went out and did things without question and succeeded. She was a fabulously convincing actress (we sat some nights reading Shakespeare). I'd be depressed about something, and her sunny personality would beat down on me so warm it would burn.
But she had this darker side which interfered with all of this. She knew it existed, but I don't think she knew herself how to control it. She was a person of opposites. She had asthma, yet she smoked. She was extremely intelligent, but slacked off and never did any work, to the point of only passing one module. She also had this rebellious nature which I admired. She'd been expelled from some schools for the craziest things (you know using sherbet bombs in toilets, that kind of thing). So I look back on my friendship with Rosie with regrets. Despite the fact that she was this incredible person, because she had all of these paradoxes, I found it difficult to get on with her. I didn't make the most of our friendship while it was there. But as I’ve said before my time in halls was just one long fight for acceptance. To move from the wrenching loneliness at the beginning of the year to something pretty similar at the end. The whole hall would be out clubbing, and I would be in the common room watching a Fellini movie on television (and ‘La Dolce Vita’ is a long film when you’re not expecting it). I got really high marks at the expense of my social life. I wasn't exactly monastically reclusive you understand, just really highly strung - I was young, I was inexperienced, it really was the 1990s . . . But she accepted me.
The thing of it is, I think that Rosie might have had ideas about me. She never actually told me of course. She would just say certain things and drop little hints. None of which I picked up, of course. Like I said, I was young, and inexperienced ... 'The Simpsons' had only just begun ... She once left a note on my door frame, which said that she wanted to 'consummate our special relationship'. And ... apparently, she and a couple of the girls sat around one night writing their top ten men in the hall and I made a good second on her list. So that's Rosie ... The sick thing is, and the thing which has sticks in my life like a bone in between my teeth whenever I eat fish, is that because we had this divide between us (of both our makings) which meant by the end of the year, we were hardly speaking. So I never really got to say goodbye to her. I heard that she lived on the streets in Leeds for a few months (she couldn't afford the ticket back to Somerset). I met her again a few years later, and she hugged me - so – hard, like I was the one thing which was missing from her life. There was nothing I could do. But I just felt like . . . feel like I should have done . . . something. If I ever met her again? I suppose I’d thank her. There are some people who are never defined and whose purpose is only thought about after death. She’s given me something to latch onto. And if I only got one thing from her, it was the fabulous way she pronounced Somerset . . .
Museum
Composed by Ira Newborn
[soundtrack unavailable]
There are two Starbucks in Liverpool City Centre. The first one to open serves the business quarter. The newest is on the border between a main shopping precinct and the pub and club land. It took up shop in the empty shell of one of the newer wave of bars in Liverpool City Centre - the kind which was too good to stay open too long. It was barely open a year. But the staff were friendly, they let people wear jeans and they had big couches - the only downside being the price (so not that far from being a Starbucks anyway then). There was also a lovely balcony window from which you could watch the shenanigans at the even trendier bar across the street. What really did mark it out from most other venues was that rather than offering the musical entertainment of the pub band, it allowed artists to display work on its walls. And so this was the place - my hook or crook - but more likely stealth I went to my last private view.
I remember the first art private view I ever attended. It was during a month's work experience at an art gallery and I'd been asked along to see what they were like as part of my education. I didn't really know what to expect. Actually - I expected lots of people standing around talking about the art and wondering about the universe. What I actually found was lots of people standing around drinking wine and talking about the last private view they went to. Looking around the exhibition, I didn't exactly fall to my knees and have an epiphany. Polished stone has never been one of my favourite art materials - so being dragged around room after room of the stuff I began to have flashbacks to boring visits to MFI as a child (or was it B&Q).
Eventually the moment arrived when I would be introduced to the artist. Now I had met artists before - the inspiring type of artists who work for their soul - this guy (who will remain nameless) seemed a touch - affected (something I've since realised most artists are). We shake hands and he looks down on me and asks me what I think of his exhibition. For some reason something twigged inside me. At the time, I didn't know really know what sycophancy was, but I could tell that this was the kind of reaction which had been visited on him most of his life. And somewhere in the back of my mind I decided that I wasn't going to go with the flow (believe me I never have). So I look up at him, this self-made God-like figure and say:
'To be honest I don't really like it.'
Suddenly there is silence in the group. Some embarrassed grins. A snigger. He looks a back at me - surprise obvious. And the bastard got me. He had a response.
'Well have you looked properly?'
I think so.' I answer, squirming slightly at my lack of an actual plan.
'Well I think you should come and have proper look - perhaps in your lunch hour.' Trigger cocked. Bang. In other words - I don't have a lunch hour - we artists work as the mood takes us.
My private view experiences since then have been mixed. But I think they all are except for all but a select few. Which brings us back to that opening at that trendy bar.
I was given an invite by a friend, and since there was a bar, decided that at least I'd have a choice of drink. It turned out, this time the work amounted to three paintings and a screensaver projected on a wall. And I walk in and look around it dawns on me that these aren't my people. I don't know completely what it was, as I can usually work in any given situation, but I'd entered a room full of people just looking at each other. Glancing at their beer. Looking back at each other. Sip of beer.
I like talk. I like chatter. Admittedly, a few arty types are talking and the token goths are looking bored because (quite rightly) they refuse to pay these prices. I buy a beer and begin the long dark stand to oblivion. I buy another beer. I look around and decide to bite the bull by the horns. Two girls are sitting rictus-like on a three seater couch.
I approach with a 'I don't know anyone here who are you . . .'
They look up nervously.
'Erm . . . I'm Sally.' Pipes up the brunette.
'Julie.' Mumbles the blonde.
By now I'm sitting down - and I realise that I've lost the power of speech. Creeking moments go by.
'Do you know the artist?' I ask.
'No.' says Sally.
'No.' says Julie. They got the tickets from a friend.
'I know what that's like.' I say just that little bit to loud.
I think it was Julie who glared at me first. Oh well, I think, all is not lost yet. And the exchange continues (me first):
'What do you do?'
'We're students.'
'What do you do?'
'Hispanic Studies.' (mental rictus - what the hell was I going to do with that - 'Isn't that Jennifer Lopez doing well for herself?' - I think not.)
'Second year?'
'How can you tell?' (Oh don't you know I know all and see all. My mystical Hex powers are infinite)
'You have that world weary look.' (Yes, that's what I actually said, but come on - I was desperate. So desperate, the whole mystic powers schtick has my back up).
So then we sit there. Julie nervously comments on the how she likes the décor. I ask her if she could live with it at home. She carries on talking but suddenly I'm in the Seinfeld mumbling episode, nodding along without a clue what she's saying. Sally leaves. Julie says she'll stick around and keep me company. We sit some more. I start to blabber about a friend whose got minimalist décor in his flat. She seems vaguely interested. I continue. There is no friend of course. I stole him from an interior design programme from about six months ago. Another friend arrives wondering who the hell I am. She starts getting interested about this none conversation I'm having about this fictional friend. My hands get clammy. Finally they ask me what I do. There is a brief exchange about an exhibition I thought was dull but they thought was 'Top'. Then I use my sucker punch secret weapon:
'I'm a writer. I write.'
They both perk up, and ask 'Had anything produced?'
'Not yet.'
I don't think I've seen a droop in interest as quick before. Within moments they're at the bar desperately trying cocktails.
I get up and leave.
The moral being if you've got to one of these things, take a friend, that way, if you're going to be boring, you can be boring together.
Composed by Ira Newborn
[soundtrack unavailable]
There are two Starbucks in Liverpool City Centre. The first one to open serves the business quarter. The newest is on the border between a main shopping precinct and the pub and club land. It took up shop in the empty shell of one of the newer wave of bars in Liverpool City Centre - the kind which was too good to stay open too long. It was barely open a year. But the staff were friendly, they let people wear jeans and they had big couches - the only downside being the price (so not that far from being a Starbucks anyway then). There was also a lovely balcony window from which you could watch the shenanigans at the even trendier bar across the street. What really did mark it out from most other venues was that rather than offering the musical entertainment of the pub band, it allowed artists to display work on its walls. And so this was the place - my hook or crook - but more likely stealth I went to my last private view.
I remember the first art private view I ever attended. It was during a month's work experience at an art gallery and I'd been asked along to see what they were like as part of my education. I didn't really know what to expect. Actually - I expected lots of people standing around talking about the art and wondering about the universe. What I actually found was lots of people standing around drinking wine and talking about the last private view they went to. Looking around the exhibition, I didn't exactly fall to my knees and have an epiphany. Polished stone has never been one of my favourite art materials - so being dragged around room after room of the stuff I began to have flashbacks to boring visits to MFI as a child (or was it B&Q).
Eventually the moment arrived when I would be introduced to the artist. Now I had met artists before - the inspiring type of artists who work for their soul - this guy (who will remain nameless) seemed a touch - affected (something I've since realised most artists are). We shake hands and he looks down on me and asks me what I think of his exhibition. For some reason something twigged inside me. At the time, I didn't know really know what sycophancy was, but I could tell that this was the kind of reaction which had been visited on him most of his life. And somewhere in the back of my mind I decided that I wasn't going to go with the flow (believe me I never have). So I look up at him, this self-made God-like figure and say:
'To be honest I don't really like it.'
Suddenly there is silence in the group. Some embarrassed grins. A snigger. He looks a back at me - surprise obvious. And the bastard got me. He had a response.
'Well have you looked properly?'
I think so.' I answer, squirming slightly at my lack of an actual plan.
'Well I think you should come and have proper look - perhaps in your lunch hour.' Trigger cocked. Bang. In other words - I don't have a lunch hour - we artists work as the mood takes us.
My private view experiences since then have been mixed. But I think they all are except for all but a select few. Which brings us back to that opening at that trendy bar.
I was given an invite by a friend, and since there was a bar, decided that at least I'd have a choice of drink. It turned out, this time the work amounted to three paintings and a screensaver projected on a wall. And I walk in and look around it dawns on me that these aren't my people. I don't know completely what it was, as I can usually work in any given situation, but I'd entered a room full of people just looking at each other. Glancing at their beer. Looking back at each other. Sip of beer.
I like talk. I like chatter. Admittedly, a few arty types are talking and the token goths are looking bored because (quite rightly) they refuse to pay these prices. I buy a beer and begin the long dark stand to oblivion. I buy another beer. I look around and decide to bite the bull by the horns. Two girls are sitting rictus-like on a three seater couch.
I approach with a 'I don't know anyone here who are you . . .'
They look up nervously.
'Erm . . . I'm Sally.' Pipes up the brunette.
'Julie.' Mumbles the blonde.
By now I'm sitting down - and I realise that I've lost the power of speech. Creeking moments go by.
'Do you know the artist?' I ask.
'No.' says Sally.
'No.' says Julie. They got the tickets from a friend.
'I know what that's like.' I say just that little bit to loud.
I think it was Julie who glared at me first. Oh well, I think, all is not lost yet. And the exchange continues (me first):
'What do you do?'
'We're students.'
'What do you do?'
'Hispanic Studies.' (mental rictus - what the hell was I going to do with that - 'Isn't that Jennifer Lopez doing well for herself?' - I think not.)
'Second year?'
'How can you tell?' (Oh don't you know I know all and see all. My mystical Hex powers are infinite)
'You have that world weary look.' (Yes, that's what I actually said, but come on - I was desperate. So desperate, the whole mystic powers schtick has my back up).
So then we sit there. Julie nervously comments on the how she likes the décor. I ask her if she could live with it at home. She carries on talking but suddenly I'm in the Seinfeld mumbling episode, nodding along without a clue what she's saying. Sally leaves. Julie says she'll stick around and keep me company. We sit some more. I start to blabber about a friend whose got minimalist décor in his flat. She seems vaguely interested. I continue. There is no friend of course. I stole him from an interior design programme from about six months ago. Another friend arrives wondering who the hell I am. She starts getting interested about this none conversation I'm having about this fictional friend. My hands get clammy. Finally they ask me what I do. There is a brief exchange about an exhibition I thought was dull but they thought was 'Top'. Then I use my sucker punch secret weapon:
'I'm a writer. I write.'
They both perk up, and ask 'Had anything produced?'
'Not yet.'
I don't think I've seen a droop in interest as quick before. Within moments they're at the bar desperately trying cocktails.
I get up and leave.
The moral being if you've got to one of these things, take a friend, that way, if you're going to be boring, you can be boring together.
The Old Apartment
Barenaked Ladies
Written by Ed Robertson & Steven Page
[from: 'WBCN Naked Too', Wicked Disc, 1998]
Leeds was much as I left it. If anything it's become even more of a student city, everything seemingly geared towards a particular age group. As anyone who's returned to a place they once lived after years of distance will know it's difficult not to look objectively. Around every corner is a distant memory, even in the most benign of places: the statue which had a traffic cone on it's head during my first week of university which I walked past with Sharon during the first walk back to halls from town; outside The Merrion Centre where I met Rosie that last time; the old library doorway I sat in eating fish and chips when I didn't want to go back to my lodges during my second year; the telephone box I would go to cry in when I was home sick; the museum I first saw Georgina Starr and went to my first private view; the cinema which was the only place which seemed to make sense to me much of the time. There are places which have gone: the second hand bookshop where you had to leave any bags behind the counter while you look around; the coffee shop in the city centre I would go to every Wednesday as treat because I could buy a cheese and ham baguette for 95p; the market stall were I bought the belt I still wear now to keep up my jeans; the Wendy's were I ate a square burger during my first ever movie binge ('Babe', 'Sabrina', 'The American President'); that other place were I fell in love. [30th October 2001]
Barenaked Ladies
Written by Ed Robertson & Steven Page
[from: 'WBCN Naked Too', Wicked Disc, 1998]
Leeds was much as I left it. If anything it's become even more of a student city, everything seemingly geared towards a particular age group. As anyone who's returned to a place they once lived after years of distance will know it's difficult not to look objectively. Around every corner is a distant memory, even in the most benign of places: the statue which had a traffic cone on it's head during my first week of university which I walked past with Sharon during the first walk back to halls from town; outside The Merrion Centre where I met Rosie that last time; the old library doorway I sat in eating fish and chips when I didn't want to go back to my lodges during my second year; the telephone box I would go to cry in when I was home sick; the museum I first saw Georgina Starr and went to my first private view; the cinema which was the only place which seemed to make sense to me much of the time. There are places which have gone: the second hand bookshop where you had to leave any bags behind the counter while you look around; the coffee shop in the city centre I would go to every Wednesday as treat because I could buy a cheese and ham baguette for 95p; the market stall were I bought the belt I still wear now to keep up my jeans; the Wendy's were I ate a square burger during my first ever movie binge ('Babe', 'Sabrina', 'The American President'); that other place were I fell in love. [30th October 2001]
Theme from 'Grandstand'
I got a video recorder very late in the game. Our family was never an early adopter - mostly for financial reasons. When we finally did get a video it was a hand-me-down from someone who'd bought a new one. I didn't get a computer until late either. So until my Acorn Electron arrived, if I was looking for entertainment on a Saturday I'd end up watching television. Swap Shop in the morning, followed by Wrestling on ITV at lunchtime (big fan of Big Daddy). I didn't like Dickie Davis moustache so rather than 'World of Sport' I'd be over on BBC 1 watching Grandstand. This was when football was still shown live, and so I was able to follow my team 'Everton' for much of the Eighties. And so for much of the Eighties I'd hear this theme tune.
At the time, popular TV themes would be put out as singles, which would necessitate their lengthening by another minute or so. Many took the 'Doctor Who' approach of repeating much of the tune over again. Some however, passed the time with what sounds like completely unrelated solo in the middle. So we have here something which sounds like a brass band at a Soccer match and then for no apparent reason, Brian May (or someone) appears in the middle to do an extremely seventies guitar solo. I'm surprised someone hasn't already stuck a drum beat behind this and released it into the clubs …
I got a video recorder very late in the game. Our family was never an early adopter - mostly for financial reasons. When we finally did get a video it was a hand-me-down from someone who'd bought a new one. I didn't get a computer until late either. So until my Acorn Electron arrived, if I was looking for entertainment on a Saturday I'd end up watching television. Swap Shop in the morning, followed by Wrestling on ITV at lunchtime (big fan of Big Daddy). I didn't like Dickie Davis moustache so rather than 'World of Sport' I'd be over on BBC 1 watching Grandstand. This was when football was still shown live, and so I was able to follow my team 'Everton' for much of the Eighties. And so for much of the Eighties I'd hear this theme tune.
At the time, popular TV themes would be put out as singles, which would necessitate their lengthening by another minute or so. Many took the 'Doctor Who' approach of repeating much of the tune over again. Some however, passed the time with what sounds like completely unrelated solo in the middle. So we have here something which sounds like a brass band at a Soccer match and then for no apparent reason, Brian May (or someone) appears in the middle to do an extremely seventies guitar solo. I'm surprised someone hasn't already stuck a drum beat behind this and released it into the clubs …
Jesus on a Greyhound
Shelby Lynne
Written by Shelby Lynne & Glen Ballard
[from: 'Love Shelby', Universal, 2001]
I'd just started university and I was traveling home for the first time by train. I wasn't happy. Even a month in, I was feeling homesick and university was nothing like I had expected it to be - also I was so inexperienced at life that I didn't feel like I'd made any of the right decisions - everyone else was making friends and I wasn't meeting anyone. Or so I thought. Anyway, I was sitting there and I must have looked like a wreck. This girl sat down beside me, and asked me something about when the train would reach Liverpool. I told her I didn't know - that it might arrive in two hours and made some joke about lateness. She laughed. We started talking. And it was easy. And she was listening to me. She was asking about my philosophy on life, what was important to me. It was the first time in weeks I'd talked about anything deeper that which A-levels I'd done and which University I went to. She made me feel like what I was telling was interesting, meant something. At the end of the journey we finally talked about the course stuff. It turned out she was a trainee psychologist. Apart from being a nice person, she knew all the right things to say. Damaris gave me her address and I never saw her again.
I'm not a religious man. On the rare occasion anyone asks what I am, I tell them I'm a Non-denominational spiritualist, which is a nice catch-all term which gets a laugh and covers all the bases. What it actually mean, I think, is that believe there is an order to the universe, that everything happens for a reason, and that everyone has the right to look at it their own way as long as it doesn't impinge on their own freedom (which leaves the extremists out in the cold I'm afraid). The reason I believe this is because on a few occasions I have felt really awful. Suicidal perhaps on one occasion, my self-esteem as low as possible. On each of these occasions I seem to have met someone like Damaris who has listened and made me feel that life isn't so bad, that in fact it is worth living. I've done it for other people. These aren't random things. That's what I like to think this song is about.
Shelby Lynne
Written by Shelby Lynne & Glen Ballard
[from: 'Love Shelby', Universal, 2001]
I'd just started university and I was traveling home for the first time by train. I wasn't happy. Even a month in, I was feeling homesick and university was nothing like I had expected it to be - also I was so inexperienced at life that I didn't feel like I'd made any of the right decisions - everyone else was making friends and I wasn't meeting anyone. Or so I thought. Anyway, I was sitting there and I must have looked like a wreck. This girl sat down beside me, and asked me something about when the train would reach Liverpool. I told her I didn't know - that it might arrive in two hours and made some joke about lateness. She laughed. We started talking. And it was easy. And she was listening to me. She was asking about my philosophy on life, what was important to me. It was the first time in weeks I'd talked about anything deeper that which A-levels I'd done and which University I went to. She made me feel like what I was telling was interesting, meant something. At the end of the journey we finally talked about the course stuff. It turned out she was a trainee psychologist. Apart from being a nice person, she knew all the right things to say. Damaris gave me her address and I never saw her again.
I'm not a religious man. On the rare occasion anyone asks what I am, I tell them I'm a Non-denominational spiritualist, which is a nice catch-all term which gets a laugh and covers all the bases. What it actually mean, I think, is that believe there is an order to the universe, that everything happens for a reason, and that everyone has the right to look at it their own way as long as it doesn't impinge on their own freedom (which leaves the extremists out in the cold I'm afraid). The reason I believe this is because on a few occasions I have felt really awful. Suicidal perhaps on one occasion, my self-esteem as low as possible. On each of these occasions I seem to have met someone like Damaris who has listened and made me feel that life isn't so bad, that in fact it is worth living. I've done it for other people. These aren't random things. That's what I like to think this song is about.
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