I thought I’d jot down a public record of songs I’m working on at the moment, some are finished, most are well on the way. It’ll be interesting to see what turns up where, if anywhere.
Mountains
Suspended on A Dream
Triumph of My Will
Wake Up Amelie
From The Desk of Dr Shrink
Every Song Says I Love You
Forever Seems Like A Long Time Ago
Love and Laughter
She Thinks
The Melody Inn
Tell Me In The Morning
Another Day Out Of Reach
Incantation
Oner Step Further From Home
Raindrop In The Ocean
Fast Track To My Heart
Rescue Me
Parliament of Owls
The Only Life I Know
Mary Jane (What A Way To Spend The Day)
And Though My Style May Seem Borrowed
Marianne
Have Mercy
Secret Games
Little Angel
I Know, I Know
I Don’t Think I’ll Make It
Claim
Siesta
No Money In My Pocket
A Message
The Sound Of The Summer
Safe
Miomi
Made Up My Mind
Lay Me Down
Martha
St Peter In Chains
The Drowning of The Daisies
Come On (You Know You Won’t Regret It)
Mountain High/Drowned In a River
Stella
Someday
Right Here With Me
I Want You Back
Lost For Life
Young Japan
Trying to Get Where I’m Going
So Long, Slowcoach
Out On A Limb
My E.S.P
I Would Like A Better Kind of Insight
Breaking Out The Strong Stuff For You
Mother’s Milk
A couple of weeks ago I was asked to participate in one of Richard James’ Song/Poetry nights at Chapter. They are called, appropriately enough, ‘Chapters’ and they explore a central theme; trains, cafes etc. I was asked to write and perform a song with a bird shaped soul. I know I said I’m not going to play anymore but I like a challenge and besides, it gets lonesome on your ownsome, word.
Being a lazy BASTARD I invited my followers on Twitter to throw some bird names at me, hoping for a quick-fix inspiration kick; what my friend, Colourblind Elfyn, would call ‘a bolt between the baby blues’. The Boobs,Tits and Shags flapped in, followed by an interesting array of the familiar, the exotic and the completely shit. A friend of mine fluttered a collective noun my way ‘A Parliament of Owls’, topical and topical. Ace, I’m in.
The night was ace. I had a massive band, drummers, bassists, violinists, banjoists, cellists, laptopists, electric guitarists and me in the middle squawking a silly song about owls. Brilliant. The other songs and poems were an interesting bundle of epistle, memoir and eulogy, of krautrock, folk and sweet, sweet psychedelia. I apologised about rhyming ‘Rooks’ with ‘Coots’ then but I retract that apology. It’s a vast, barren land out there and they will cut you for an iphone . You do what you have to do.
I documented fragments of the recording process on Twitter (I love Twitter, come talk to me, I’m almost always hilariously stoned/knackered and up for talking about the Beatles), if you missed that, basically, I recorded it in the wrong key and my computer couldn’t handle the large project. Also, my singing is shit but OTHERWISE it’s turned out alright. I’ve moved the studio back into the house and I’m knocking out music that sounds better than it’s ever done, more time is all I’m needin’.
Two days ago this sounded AWESOME but I had a few crashes and blips, burps and bustibles and ended up BOUNCING TRACKS on this song, in this century. That is some 1986 shit right there but at least on a computer you don’t get the seething hiss with each overcrowded reduction pass. But it doesn’t PULSE and BREATHE the way it did before The Crashes and I forgot to record the final chorus, the one that resolves the most shaky of conceits, the one with the best words in. I forgot my head because it wasn’t screwed on.
Ok, I’ve almost got somebody to sing for me so this’ll be re-recorded at some point in the not too distant. Get it out. Finished. Done. Next.
Click on the Owl to hear the track.
Since November I’ve finished fifteen songs. I’m currently trying to finish five or six and there are countless others, waiting patiently for the hand of
creation to make them presentable. Only about five of these songs are suitable for sending off to publishers, the rest are too, well, too me.
I’ll make a song progress widget, so you can see that I’m working even if it looks like I’m spending twenty three hours a day on twitter.
The rest of the songs I’ll be recording later in the year if I can find the money to do so, this will probably mean going to the bank. I’ll keep you informed.
I’m really happy with all the music I’m making at the minute, I just wish I had a more definite ida of where everything will end up. I’m at one of those periods where I’m
questioning the validity of what I do, especially now that I have a family. I can’t keep risking the mortgage on making albums but on the other hand I can’t imagine doing
anything else. I love what I do and I’m pretty good at it, trying to make it pay is another matter.
I’ll put some music up soon, so you can hear what I’m up to.
I started writing a song called ‘Mountains’ about six months ago. I liked the epic title and the suitably epic chord structure that went with it. I knew that I would never be able to sing it myself but I figured Mary would do it and so I worked on it without worrying about the limitations of my voice. Originally I recorded it onto my phone, one long ago forgotten night with the baby in bed and Mary up in her office working. This would be me voicing wordlessly over guitar chords. I never remember to inform my future self what key it’s in or if Im utilising a different tuning or a capo and sometimes I can’t work out what it is that I’m doing on the guitar. These first drafts are extremely important, not just for the melody and structure (if one exists) but for phrasing and inflection. I tend to find that on the first draft, which is usually me singing the same thing over and over again, there are tiny pieces of interesting harmonic accidents (or rather, incidents, the whole thing at this stage could be described as an accident; groping as I am for some kind of compelling melodic structure) that only happen once but which are worth keeping and every now and again a word or a phrase will surface from the nonsense that makes complete sense, that fits the mood or gives me a title or a subject to hang the lyric on.
I find it worthwhile to do a number of these drafts, after the first I usually start singing and playing into Ableton (for the uninitiated Ableton is a music sequencer, basically a recording studio on my desktop) over the course of a few days or even weeks (I’ve usually got quite a few song ideas going on at the same time). This helps to hone the melody and I can also start working out harmonies and instrumentation.
With ‘Mountains’ I had the same chord structure and melody until a couple of nights ago. This was when I sat down to actually ‘write’ the song i.e. to finalise the structure, write the lyrics and find the definitive melody. I knew I was going to have problems because, although I hadn’t listened or played the song for a couple of months, my brain has been constantly working on it, working on all of them. They present themselves to me while I’m doing something else as if to say, “Well, here I am, what else have you got for me?” and whenever ‘Mountains’ nudged me I was at a loss, certainly lyrically. I had a big build up ‘bababababa like MOUNTAINS…’ and nothing else. ‘Like Mountains’? What can be associated with a mountain that will reflect a facet of humanity, make it empathetic to the listener? Longevity, scale, solidity, beauty.. sounds like a love song. But I don’t believe that love lasts forever, or Mountains for that matter so unless I bury my personal beliefs and write that kind of song I’ll have to write that idea off. Well, it’s easily done and since I’m trying to write songs of a commercial nature it would be an obvious step but for me the joy of songwriting is that they (the songs) mirror my life and experiences or lack thereof and to write something that I don’t feel or believe would take all that away and I wouldn’t enjoy it and then I may as well go work in an office for the rest of my life.
So I sat here and I played it over and over and recorded myself doing so a couple more times but nothing was happening, or nothing new was happening anyway. I then tried out just singing the word ‘Mountains’ in the chorus, this was much better, freeing me as it did from having to explain myself in the chorus (songwriting is odd, it’s the most important thing in the world to me yet I understand that it doesn’t matter at all and I’m happy to throw out ideas I’ve had for months, years even, if I think they’re not going to work). Now I can work on a lyric that can be a little more opaque. I also started singing different melodies, the one I had was pitched a little low, one of those verses that you have to sit through twiddling your thumbs waiting for the main event (see every Leona Lewis song, in fact almost every modern pop song on the radio). I swapped a couple of chords round, changed the key and suddenly a new melody presented itself, one that I sang again and again because it was so good to sing. A good melody can feel good in your mouth, coming out of your mouth and into the air, creating hues and harmonies that bounce of the walls and it feels natural and simple and true.
The last gig in London was ace; Sice was there, we played well and The Union Chapel is possibly the most beautiful venue in the land. Jimmy Webb, in thanking me from the stage, called me a ‘doll’ and a ‘beautiful cat’ so a decision that had been lurking around my head these past few months was made. This was to be my last live performance and there will be no more records for the foreseeable future. Everytime I play or record I end up losing money and the all the good albums and great reviews in the world won’t make a difference to that.
I’m going to concentrate instead on writing songs for other people. I don’t know how to do this but I do know where to begin; I want to spend what little free time I have nowadays working on my writing. It does feel like weight has lifted. I’m not one of those men who leave bringing up the kids and most household stuff to the little woman. We share everything and I’ve been trying to do too much lately with the usual result being that I completed nothing to anyone’s satisfaction, least of all my own.
I will still write stuff on here, chart my way through this new phase of my life and I will be posting new songs and demos whenever I can, so stick around. It might even get interesting.
Love
Martin
We need to vacate the apartments by eleven so we’re on the road shortly thereafter heading for Gateshead. By the time we hit the Pennines the rain is beating mercilessly on the roof of the Bongo and visibility is almost zero. It clears up though and we reach the Sage Theatre on a sunny, although very cold, early evening.
I don’t think I’ve ever played somewhere this large. I’m not sure that the tour is selling that well and a small audience would be dwarfed by the vast surroundings. I wander about the stage, taking photographs of Tim the pedal steel player and Jim and Justin Webb as they set up and play. I feel comfortable with them, I first met them in the late nineties when I was asked to Dj at their first UK gig at the Water Rats in London and over the years I’ve bumped into them at various concerts, annoying them with questions about their dad. They are lovely people, friendly, generous and astonishingly polite, that goes for all members of the traveling band.
I’m missing my family, at one point I mention Sonny on stage, about how this was the first time I’ve been away from him and the fact that he’s started walking while I was away. I choke up and I think I’m going to going to lose it but I get through it. I’m shattered by the end and I get catch a taxi back to the travel lodge just as the Webbs hit the stage.
Tuesday I stayed in bed until almost ten thirty, something I haven’t done in a long time. I wasn’t well at all and neither was Mary. Just our luck, miles apart and we both get ill so our friends Martin and Ffion looked after Sonny for us and for that we are most grateful. Sonny took his first steps that evening as well, it’s very disappointing to have missed that but I am proud of him, I can’t wait to see him.
I had planned to record some demos and write lyrics but I felt dreadful so I read and wrote letters. That evening Bernie went to Old Trafford to watch Utd play and the rest of us watched Watchmen which I thought was fantastic, different from the book but only a fool could expect otherwise. Mark and Stu then went out drinking and I was left alone. I retired to my room and smoked a joint out of the back window. The window faced a monolithic brick wall over the top of which the Hilton Hotel loomed out from the Manchester mist. Below me crouched an old back alley, blocked at either end by a wooden fence. I smoked and wondered why such drabbery appeals to me, makes me feel contented. I don’t know if it’s the elevated position and it’s not as if I’m not fond of a scene of a more picturesque value.. I flicked the glowing roach into the cold air and watched as it cascaded down towards the alleyway below. The path it traced was so sure, so accurate that it seemed as if an unseen guiding hand ushered it straight into a vent on the side of the building opposite. I froze, expecting at any moment the whole vent to explode and the wall to come crashing down in front of me. I wondered what I was going to tell the fire service and the police and whether I should sweep through the apartment hiding all traces of contraband. I watched the vent for twenty minutes before closing the window, turning out the light and falling into a long, unbroken sleep.
The next day I felt better. My insides were still lurching around but I felt able to get out of the apartment. I met up with my friend Adam Walton and we spent half an hour searching for somewhere to sell us breakfast. We ended up by Piccadilly Station, not the most friendly place in the world and found a bar that served breakfasts. We sat and chatted, he gave me a cheque for some art I had done for him and I put it in my wallet which I placed on the floor next to me as the table was small and it’s kinda too big for my pockets. I only bought the wallet a few weeks ago, I don’t really like them. Same goes for watches.
As I’m talking I slowly become aware of a large red presence that has somehow impinged my personal space. This huge, tiny lady had sat at the next table, facing us and was sucking at some manner of council snout and blowing the resulting smog our way. At first I was annoyed but I started to warm to her when I realised she was content to stare at us with a her mean little big boat and blow smoke in our faces. She really was enormously small, I can’t think of the proper way to describe her. Anyway she got bored after ten minutes and fucked off. I watched her waddle meanly up the road like a Glaswegian raspberry, happy she was gone so I could concentrate on my disgusting breakfast. Disgusting or not we still had to pay for it and when the time came I offered to settle except that my wallet had gone. The raspberry, that miniature giant, had taken it damn her rapacious minces to hell and back. I couldn’t believe it, I felt foolish, sick and annoyed. I really did want to beat her up, roll her into the road so she gets squashed by a bus and then spread the resulting wrinkly jam on the walls of the local old folks home for massive midgets as a warning. Adam was very nice about the whole thing of course, he paid the bill, tried not to giggle and found us a cosy bar where I could drown my sorrows. I cancelled my cards which was easy, all you have to do is listen to the same piece of rotten music for thirty five minutes, then give your details and wait another ten listening to the sound of a tapping keyboard. Ditto for the police.
So predictably I spent the rest of the day drinking, ending up in a curry house with the others and a man named Moff who I know through Twitter and had I’d met up with earlier and had enjoyed spending time with. It’s not the wallet she stole, or the cards or the photographs, receipts, driving license etc She stole another piece of goodwill and that is in short supply these rotten days. She owes me and I will collect.
Woke at 5.30am. I could hear Sonny shouting from his room which was normal but something wasn’t quite right. Mary was breathing gently beside me, lost in a house of dreams and as I got out of bed the whole room span around me and I had to sit straight back down. My stomach was cramping and I felt sick. I’ve had food poisoning recently and that’s what it felt like. I got up slowly, Mary woke up and we took Sonny downstairs for his breakfast.
As the morning slipped by I felt progressively, worse still Mary had taken the van to be serviced and it had taken far longer than expected. I was home with Sonny so by the time the prearranged meeting time spun around I hadn’t packed or even showered.
Finally we left around midday. Steaming up the M4 in our beloved Mazda Bongo. The band is me, Bernie on drums, Mark on Bass and Stuart on keys. Bernie played on ‘Advertisements for Myself’, ‘Ye Gods (and little fishes)’ and has played live with me in the past. I’ve known Mark since I moved to Cardiff, he owns the studio where I record and rehearse. He is also one of the sweetest men I know. Stuart plays with Mark and Bernie in the band Vito.
Soon after joining the M4 I had to concede that I was too ill to drive and Mark took over. I napped, bent almost double in the front passenger seat that had been pushed forward with the weight of our gear and bags. We arrived at the Royal Northern College of Music, a hushed, velvety space on the Oxford Road. We dumped the gear on the enormous stage, found the dressing rooms and plugged all our machines in. We used to get into dressing rooms and start demolishing the rider, we wouldn’t have had anything to plug in but now everybody is armed with laptops, phones, sat nav, bluetooth speakers, electric mangle etc
The Webb brothers turn up. I haven’t spoken to them for four or five years and it’s great to see them. There’s James, Justin and Christian plus Cornelius who I’ve not met before. Glen Campbell’s son, Cal, is drumming for them and Englishman Tim is pedal steeling. Romeo Stodart from the Magic Numbers is also part of the line up. No sign of Jimmy, apparently he doesn’t show up for soundchecks. Fine by me, I’m scared of him.
I don’t feel well at all at this point, my guts are performing acrobatics within their rib ringed arena and I can’t stray too far from the gents. I just want to do the gig and go to bed. The sound onstage disappears, only to reappear elsewhere, the floor monitors are important now, to pin down this elusive noise and make some sense of what’s going on. All this will change once the audience take their seats, the sound will settle. I no longer fret about such things. I don’t fret about anything anymore; I know the songs, I trust my band so other than unforeseen technical dramas there isn’t much that can go wrong. I don’t have to worry about my voice because i don’t smoke anymore and haven’t had a hangover for over a year.
We go on early, just after half seven. I can see that my mum and my sister and her partner are here just as the lights go down. It’s very quiet out there. The soft seats rise up in front of me, occupied mostly by middle aged couples and I find that I actually prefer this to the squall and chat of a normal gig crowd. I find it easier to collect and pace myself. I feel relaxd and rwlly enjoy the concert. We’ve started playing ‘Good Life’ as well which is one of my favourite songs to sing (odd that I got Sice to sing it on record). The audience listen and are appreciative, the boys think it was the best we’ve played and I manage to sing in tune and not break anything. Win.
I get back to the dressing room just as Jimmy Webb arrives. I’m introduced to him by Justin and he fixes me with a steely glare and says he is pleased to meet me. I am scared of him. He is a formidable presence.
I head down to the bar to have a drink with my family, Bobby Boo has turned up with his lady, Claire (they missed the gig) and I decide to try and drink my way through my illness. Never the best idea but one that my limited imagination often pushes forward when decision times comes around. I spot my old friend Andy Jones who used to run a great record shop in Liverpool called Pink Moon. I bought many records there that I still cherish today. It’s great to see him albeit briefly as he has a train to catch. The rest of us chat in the bar, Mark, Stu and bernie join us and we decide to head off the Big Hands and get smashed.
The whole crew gig bar Jimmy ends up in Big Hands, Bobby Boo manages to steal, smash or knock over everybody’s drink in the club and gets thrown out, nothing changes. We stay until they close and then pile into the kebab place next door. By this time I feel alright and demolish an enormous kebab back at the apartments.
Apartments? Oh yes, Mary booked the hotels and discovered that it was cheaper for us to stay in an apartment for three nights (we now have two days off) than in a Travel Lodge so we’re swanning about in a swish Deansgate Apartment block, getting kebab everywhere and lowering it’s market value every minute we’re here.
Then, bed.
I’m really made up to be involved with this. Starts in Manchester tomorrow. Tour diary to follow…
Playing this Wednesday night in London, predominately an acoustic affair I will nonetheless be playing with bass and percussion and two backing singers. Unfortunately, Stuart, the organ player can’t make it so you’ll have to hum those bits to fill out the sound. The live thing is sounding great at the moment, I played at the Swn festival in Cardiff last Thursday and it was one of the best we’ve done. I’ve got the balance just about right for once and the sound is rich and full.
After Wednesday I’ll write about upcoming dates including the Jimmy Webb tour during which I’ll write a tour diary. I don’t know what I’m going to do with all that free time but my guess is that sleep and songwriting will be involved, the two things which I’m desperately missing out on at the moment. Not that I’m out of ideas, no suh. I have about forty unfinished songs of varying degrees of quality on the go and I’m very excited about the next record.
Ok, see you Wednesday ..
