Category Archives: Writing

OneFest / Damon Albarn’s Doctor Dee

Very late on Friday night I was lucky enough to come into a pair of tickets to Wiltshire’s OneFest. I leapt at the chance to go, partly because of the festival’s billing as ‘the first of the season’ (I like to get to at least some things early), largely because it featured a headline set from DAMON ALBARN and at least a little bit because I bloody well needed to.

After getting stung for an eye-watering £42 train ticket (65minutes’ transportation?!? really? That’s nearly a pound a minute – worse than a phone box call to an 0870 number… Thanks First Transport) to glorious Swindon we couldn’t face a £20 taxi bill so decided to take the local bus to the festival site*. Although they tried to help, the bus company (First again..) hadn’t been briefed very well about the festival and we got off at the ‘wrong’ Oggenden –  so we had a refreshing 1 1/2 hour walk to the site itself.

The atmosphere at the festival (which was fairly small with a medium-sized main stage and smallish BBC Introducing tent) cosy and intimate, as promised. Let’s get the feedback bit out of the way: although the ambiance was great and toilets and other H&S seemed very well cared for, there was a shortage of food sellers throughout the day and the box office and production staff seemed a bit vague when it came to things like taxi numbers and running times. The bar was brilliantly well stocked with some really affordable and tasty local ales and cider though, and the PA (on a very windy day) had good balance and projection (though a bit light at the bottom, the bill was mainly guitar-based to the loss wasn’t noticeable.)

Two highlights (aside from Damon – more of him in a sec) were Raghu Dixit (above, appearing live on Later…) and Crash And The Bandicoots (below.) Raghu (as Wikipedia told me, and will repeat to you in a few brief seconds) heads up a folk / fusion collective of Western-influenced musicians from Mysore in India that have played the UK several tmes to critical acclaim, blah blah blah. Whatever. The point is they somehow managed to whip a crowd of slightly disgruntled scenesters from London and slighly tiddled Countryfile-ers from Marlborough into something that looked very like A Good Time Festival Crowd. In 14-degree drizzle! Wearing saris! Great musicianship and stage presence + interesting takes on Western rock staples (take it up! Take it dowwwwn.. Take it up! Bring it dowwwn.. etc) and not least, boundless, sincere, infectious enthusiasm had a lot to do with it. Though how they manage at home breaking that many strings is anyone’s guess..

Crash And The Bandicoots are a young gang from Bath in that uniquely all-powerful, heady, and optimistic first flush of success. There are four of them (one’s a girl, yesssss! Sorry, but I think we all picked up on that) and they do a great line in danceable indie à la Talking Heads / Darwin Deez / Fight Like Apes. They’ve got bags of energy live (of course) but also a genuine sense of fun, excitement, and I think I got a taste of a restless musical inventiveness that should hopefully see them progress a lot further, if they can balance the hours of slog on the road against the music making they obviously enjoy so much. Good luck to em.

Damon Albarn is one of my main inspirations precisely because that irreverent musical flame – some would say compulsive silliness, but they can have a tenner – has burnt so brightly througout his whole career, from Leisure on (the sped-up organ outro on ‘Sunday Sunday’ a fave of mine since my C60 days in Joe Allen’s parents’ practice / living room.. hard to replicate on a Boss guitar multi-FX but worth trying.)

His newest project (an ENO co-production for the London 2012 Cultural Olympiad) is a ‘folk opera’ with Rufus Noris based on the life of Elizabethan mathematician / occultist / astronomer / astrologist / general polymath John Dee (1527–1608.) Dee’s story is compelling enough – in and out of favour with the despotic, capricious Good Queen Bess, sporadically broke, possibly borderline insane – but since most of the libretto is written in the first person, and it’s on record that Albarn’s approach to the subject was personal rather than historiographical I found myself musing on the parallels between Dee’s life and Damon’s own. Given the recent revelations surrounding previous heroin use in Blur Heights during his least productive years, a fall-from-grace narrative certainly fits. Thinking that lot over during ‘The Virgin Queen’ (one of the most poignant songs in the work, an sonorous royal anthem / lament) brought a bit of a lump to my throat. Okay, I was thinking about my ex at the same time.

Fair enough, you might say, but does this work represent a genuinely interesting and innovative step forward for English music, or just an expensively-assembled canvas (featuring several niche instrumentalists including kora virtuoso Madou Diabate as well as an incredible male mezzo-soprano / countertenor who I sadly can’t credit) for Albarn’s impish whims?

Well. Although the recordings are officially unreleased (7th May through EMI/Parlophone), for me the live experience at least broke new ground. Although it took a while to adjust to the arrangements – some aping period styles, more contemporary, even urban – there are some really strong melodies in there (‘Apple Carts’ another favourite of mine) but some really avant-garde stuff too that Cage might have taken a second look at. There was also a great energy and vitality about the whole ensemble that really brought the music to light, Damon’s dilettantism here harnessed to bring a sense of unbounded adventure to what could easily have been a po-faced musical Olde Tymes-style re-enactment, but is in fact a very fresh and relevant major new work.

Essentially my only complaint stems from jealousy at the great position Damon Albarn finds himself in. And the fucking anarchy at Paddington on the way back when our train slouched in an hour late after the last Tube!

Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

*Edit – Shuttle busses had been laid on for free by the festival. Having only heard about the tickets the night before (and having then celebrated our luck liquidly and liberally) we were a bit late in a) discovering the shuttlebusses’ existence, and b) in booking them. Hence our local bus / taxi dilemma.

On Jet Lag

When I first started working on the building sites with Nick, my stepdad,
I couldn’t understand
How a 50 year-old-man could get up before the birds,
Drive hundreds of miles,
Grapple with concrete all day,
Turn around at dusk,
And do it all again (with a smile on his face).

One morning,
At coffee,
I asked him how he did it.

He smiled his smile at me, and said
‘You only ever need to get to the next break’
And dozed off.

Nick looks even more like an old fox when he’s asleep.

The 2011 Twitter 1-Take Challenge

I was having a bit of an argy on Twitter with @jimmyhatherley (Moneytree) and @punchdrunkpaper (Thomas Tantrum) below. Cue songwriting frenzy. One go at every part, none of it written first.

Yes it is A MASSIVE LAME GRUNGE RIPOFF with particular apologies to Evan Dando ‘(The) Door’ and Sleeper ‘Alice In Vain’. OK, Sleeper aren’t even grunge. But then neither are Japanese Voyeurs (none of them are even a bit ugly).. And I beat Dave, which was the aim.

Since the whole point of the exercise was to insult them in the most throwaway demonstration of instant songwriting possible, here’s the lyrics (also jammed out as they went down):

Jimmy’s got a job and he likes it

So he’s keeping dumb about / The bankers, the cantankerous ones

He serves, he smiles and they don’t care

About his politics, positions and / His ethics and his current affairs

Jackie’s got a girl and he likes her

Four fingers and a thumb / Playing on his bum all day long

He might just sit there and lay there

His hair is getting greasier / His thighs are getting stickier / Papers piling up all around

So what about me, Lonely?

.. Urm.

Coda: The Argument:

@lonelyjoeparker: squier tele + holy stain + roost head + 4x12 + chords from 'a lover sings' = many happy wasted hours @punchdrunkpaper #GEmCAm

@PunchdrunkPaper @LonelyJoeParker glad to see you're still setting challenges for yourself on the guitar there joe #imacunt

@lonelyjoeparker: @PunchdrunkPaper woteva bra. if you could only half 'play' with the 'feel' the way i 'vibe' dat 'ting' you'd give up die happy

@lonelyjoeparker: @PunchdrunkPaper #notthesizeofurtalentbutwhatudowivit #pwn

@PunchdrunkPaper: @LonelyJoeParker get "stuffed"

@jimmyhatherley: @lonelyjoeparker @punchdrunkpaper stop squabbling and write some songs!

@lonelyjoeparker: @jimmyhatherley @punchdrunkpaper i'll write you

@PunchdrunkPaper: @jimmyhatherley @lonelyjoeparker good plan. i'll try and post a demo up later today ;)

@lonelyjoeparker: @PunchdrunkPaper @jimmyhatherley BEAT YOU http://www.lonelyjoeparker.com/?p=773 http://bit.ly/qO9S1y

Did I mention I’m available to write for hire? Seriously now. Yes.

Guest Art Curators: Lonely Joe Parker – Bike Art

(Originally posted on The405.com)

October 15, 2010 – Edited by Will Slater

Yes, we said yesterday’s piece was the last of the guest art contributions for this month, but it turns out that Lonely Joe Parker sent us one that got lost! So here is the actual final article from A Badge of Friendship:

I wanted to write about Weimar-era George Grosz, the scabrous illustrator and cartoonist whose utterly irreverent attitude and DIY aesthetic predated punk rock by a good decade or five. Unfortunately some staffer in a Sunday supplement went and dedicated a centerfold to him the other week, so instead I’ll have to ramble uninformedly about bikes instead.

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I’ve loved bikes since I was small – I don’t know when I got my first one, but a yellowing picture my gran has shows her pushing me and smiling while I try to reach the magical speed of eighty-eight miles per hour on a sky-blue minimountain bike with stabilizers. In wellies. As it’s got a basket and streamers I think it’s probably a girl’s bike, and secondhand, but it had me hooked. Now whenever I see a toddler tottering along, legs flailing, I think of that sunny afternoon in the eighties on a small bike with a big golden flower in the background.

Bikes have a direct, visual appeal – from quaint sit-up-and-beg bikes that suggest their penny farthing ancestors; to purebred 70s racers sinewy like their riders, gleaming like an Arabian stallion in the sun; to sleek, space-age recliners, more like rocketships than pedal-powered commuter bikes. Then there’s the workbikes (gutterpunk couriers on their squat bastardized MTB / fixie hybrids; delivery trikes; and the ambulance riders on their cute mini lifesaver-mobiles with their dinky lights and sirens).

And the art inspired by bikes – notably a slew of Art Deco Tour de France posters and their imitators, but also cinematic depictions – fascinates me, as well as art made *by* bikes, such as city-painting, where teams of riders fan out dribbling paint (sometimes unwittingly) to create citywide tracery of wobbling lines that only the pigeons (and a few heliborne execs) can fully appreciate.

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For me bikes’ real beauty lies in movement, and it’s in zipping around the city that they come to life in a balletic dance that is half human, half mechanised. I think you can read some of riders’ characters and lives in their style, and so watching other bikes is a bit like a soap opera, or a succession of interpretive performances – and my own riding tells my story, too.

There are the couriers, the new ones flying along panting on piecework as they bash through the traffic, the older, crustier ones seemingly seeping effortlessly through, plotting their path miles ahead down the road. The long-distance commuters and triathletes, hurtling along red-faced and steaming in their own personal Tour. The hipsters, gliding along obliviously like swans on a lake, and of course the beginners, easily picked out on their Boris Bikes these days, wobbling along nervously like ice-skaters.

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‘Old Faithful’ was built at home by Graeme O’Bree using parts from a washing machine – he broke the world Hour Record on it in 1993

As a kid in a shit suburb in England I loved riding out round the houses looking for enemies to gun down, whether that was Maggie Thatcher, the Soviets, Messerschmidts or maybe Kevin from the other class at school.

The bikes in style at the time were mountain bikes with about 65 gears and for a while I only had a shitty old BMX frame. Then just as I got a normal mountain frame, everyone started getting spinner disc wheels like Gold Medalist Chris Boardman. Only they weren’t carbon-fibre aero-discs; just bits of heavy plastic that covered the spokes – what a gyp. You could put cool patterns and stuff on them though; WWF was pretty popular I think. I tried to make one from a bin lid and it nearly killed me when it stuck through the forks.

But, the freedom… I wore through a succession of shitty old mountain / really old town bikes until but I learned to fix bikes pretty well though.

One night after scouts my mate Chris Baker let me have a go on his racer. It looked like a heap of geek-junk from the Seventies – everything was all spindly and rusty – but, even on the shingly beach outside the hut in Hythe, it went like a train. I *needed* one of these speed machines. off I went. But racers were *definitely* the least cool kids on the block at the time, as no-one had invented fixies or skinny jeans.

Then – all at the same time – I outgrew all my MTB bikes (puberty hit) and BMX came back into vogue. So I got a shonky old Raleigh from some relative of my step dad, and I discovered that I could ride all the way into Southampton in only about an hour. So I decided fashion was just a way to sell you crap you didn’t need, discovered The Clash and started ignoring people who talked rubbish.

hay. ku?

I don’t normally write haikus or anything, and this one is lame as fuck, and i’m not pretending it’s not. but it just popped into my head, fully formed, and all metred right and stuff, so i think i’m not gonna risk incurring the wrath of ignoring my inner Master Yoshi by not splurging it out here, sorry.

plus i just had some real cheap nasty chilli sauce and the world is starting to pulse and twinkle a little bit like mushrooms. huh.

The Past
——

I’m not a monster
Because you loved me once, and
You’re not a monster

see? warned you. off now to be sick…

Silence in the Streets

SOCPA Record attempt
12 Letters in... a Record-breaking protest.

Originally published in The Oxford Student, Feb 2008.
Read the original article here (.pdf format): OS6.20.OST OS6.21.OST

It’s 8.30 on a wet Monday morning in January. I’m standing beside the Thames outside 11 Millbank – better known as ‘MI5’ – holding a small cork noticeboard taped to a broom handle. I’m trying hard to look reasoned, righteous and above all, lawful, as I have an excellent view of both the river and two black, efficient-looking submachine-guns gripped by a pair of the Met’s finest. For the last five minutes we’ve been having a heated debate spanning police operating procedures, Government green papers and ancient civil liberties that concerns my right to stand here at the corner of the road by the rush-hour traffic.

Eventually the policemen, their guns and a curious piece of legislation officially on the statute books as ‘SOCPA (2005) s132-138’ all prove as powerful as the mighty ebb tide of the Thames itself and so I walk away with my board. I have not been arrested but, in some sense, I don’t feel free, either.

The copper has offered to arrest (or, as he ominously puts it, ‘process’ me) because pinned to my board is an A3 piece of paper with the hand-written words ‘B-is-for-Margaret-Beckett – Get Out Of Your Caravan And Get A Clue’ and her mugshot in all its grainy laserjet glory.

It’s a modest enough statement of political opinion and I and my companions Todd and Chris are doing little more than standing benignly in the rain, taking turns to lean sleepily on the broom handle and half-heartedly offer our opinion in a Michael-Palin-cum-market-trader patter to anyone who’ll listen.

We have undertaken to carry out 26 separate demonstrations in one day, with a different target politician for each letter of the alphabet. We will become record breakers, stealing an official Guinness World Record held by comedian-activist Mark Thomas (21 protests) but though the tone of our demonstration (from ‘A-is-for-Dianne-Abbot: Stop Laughing At Portillo’s Rubbish Gags!’ to ‘Z-is-for-Zac-Goldsmith: Pick A Party And Stick To It!’) is flippant, our purpose is deadly serious.


This is because for every single one of our miniscule, peaceful, Goons-esque protests we have had to give the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police advance notice in writing detailing our proposed actions. Eye colour and favourite toothpaste aren’t quite included; exact timings to the minute, meeting details and press briefings are. It’s a lot of information to fill in 26 times over just to stand around with a silly banner and as well as being laborious, intimidating and Byzantine it turns out our rights can still be suspended, as our armed friends’ behaviour demonstrates.

Others have discovered this the hard way: Maya Evans was the first person convicted under the law, for reading out the names of the British an Iraqi war dead by the Cenotaph in Whitehall. Speaking to Tim Barton she pointed out that the weight of bureaucracy involved and range of police powers granted to the police on the day ‘…makes it so draconian and anti-freedom… that’s not really a free demonstration, once you go through the requirements.’

Map of the Protests Around Parliament area, c. 2008Similarly, comic-turned-activist Mark Thomas was incensed by the scope of SOCPA, but typically, saw the surreal nature of the special legal conditions around Parliament as a comic opportunity after a friend was threatened with arrest for picnicking with a political Victoria sponge (with ‘Peace’ iced upon its jammy face.) He has since organized a series of peculiarly British protests in favour of trolls, surrealism, bans on surrealism and the record-setting speed-protest we’re attempting to better today.

However with a straight face, and at some expense, he is currently seeking a public prosecution of Gordon Brown, who last autumn may have inadvertently committed an offence by reading aloud a speech by Nelson Mandela live on TV in Parliament Square itself. Could life get weirder?

This may have catalysed the Government into a partial retreat. This month they announce the results of a public consultation, though official nods and winks to ‘harmonization’ of police powers have led some to suggest an expansion of the rules countrywide. I put this to a Home Office spokesperson, who insists the consultation was merely to see if ‘there remains to be a case for the current legislation.” When pressed, however, they refused to comment on or rule out suggestions that powers might be expanded across the country, insisting there had to be a law governing protest since without one, ‘anyone could turn up’ – clearly a nightmare scenario for the Government.

Timing demonstrations
Even cutting-edge political aggitators sometimes need to improve their timekeeping...

Suppose, I wondered, an ordinary member of the public – with no legal training – takes issue with a topical Government policy, gets an unpaid day off work and hops on a train down to London with a placard? Wouldn’t they be guilty through ignorance of an offence? The Home Office were at a total loss, ending the interview.

Baroness Sue Miller (LD) will this week question the Home Office on the outcome of a recent Green Paper consultation, with a view to introducing a Repeal Bill. She opposes the law, to the extent that she organized a public protest against it with fellow politicians. The law was, she explained, “clearly nonsense – incredibly beaureaucratic. It’s in place for one of three reasons, and only the Government can say why; because Brian Haw’s protest was undtdy; because it was an embarrassment to Blair; or because of a perceived terrorist threat. Well, the information we get from Black Rod – security briefings – tells us that in relation to the security issue it’s the road that’s always seen as the real difficulty, not protestors. It’s a small step towards a police state. People should be able to demonstrate”. Any proposal to extend the powers nationwide would, she said, be ‘chilling.’

Chief Inspector Paul Switzer is the policeman with responsibility for enforcing the law throughout most of the Parliament area. He is helpful, polite and (for someone simultaneously policing a football match during our interview) attentive. Nonetheless, he has the strained, even Canuteian air of a man trying to enforce the laws of an Alice In Wonderland world, where crossing a road can turn a ‘peace’ T-shirt into political heavy weaponry. Our team was repeatedly asked to produce a paper copy of our authorization, he reasoned, because it was ‘common sense… it saves time,’ but he agreed it wasn’t necessary. In that case, I ask, would then be unlawful for a policeman to demand it of a demonstrator under threat of arrest? He could only concede that ‘a lot of police pass through the area… some may not be as au fait with SOCPA as the various units that work that area.’ It seems even the police are in confusion over the law.

As he rings off, I feel a bit confused, too. It all seems reasoned, reasonable, even. But I reflect: The courageous protestor bravely standing up for their beliefs is a part of freedom’s folklore, a part of the language of democracy we take for granted. In recent months we have watched protestors in Pakistan, read about police pay pickets at home and joined Facebook causes from Burmese monks to marine conservationists.

The right to assemble with others, to freely and peacefully protest is one of the most ancient and basic liberties we have enjoyed. Since medieval times – the basic right to petition those ruling us has never been called into question. Security threats are clearly a smokescreen – but should we now subordinate this right to present a friendly face to visitors, or allow the government to meet in peace?

I hope not. I have been to another place in the world where the organs of government meet peacefully while tourists happily snap away. The photos are of Lenin’s tomb, the place is Red Square, and the ‘unhindered Government’ is that of Putin’s Russia. It’s efficient, certainly. But it’s not accountable, and an insult to our history and traditions if we allowed it to happen here.