I’m sitting in the Newcastle Travelodge, about to sample a vegetarian noodle dish, which I’m desperately hoping isn’t laced with coriander. I’ve been tipped off that a very good vegetarian moussaka exists in a restaurant within a stone’s throw of here, so I now have my Friday night treat sorted out. Until then, I may have to make do with evening meal which consists of pepper and tomato soup, or this noodle thing, if it’s any good, which it won't be.
The Travelodge here is crap. I arrived yesterday to discover that they’ve now brought in a system of self-check in. Sadly, none of the codes and numbers I’d been given bore any resemblance to the code the check-in computer expected me to have, and it took me 20 minutes of knocking and coughing loudly before anyone appeared to help me. Why not go the whole hog and have the entire hotel staffed by robots? They’d be considerably less surly than the silly cow who "helped" me yesterday.
My head is spinning. I went to bed rather late last night and was up too early, and since 10am, I’ve been sitting in a tiny studio at BBC Newcastle working with some of the soloists from the musical. It was considerably more exhausting than I thought it would be. Fortunately, the singers were all really good and came in looking excited and ready to enjoy the experience. I thought some of them would struggle with what I’ve written, but they all sailed through. The exhausting part was the sheer number of people we were working with. It seemed like a relentless flow of individuals were coming into the room, working with me for 20 or so minutes and then being replaced by someone else.
Still, it’s wonderful to reclaim the project, and be able to spend some proper time with the people who’ve been working so hard up here whilst I've been in London creating the backing track. Someone showed me some photographs of some of the choir sessions that have happened in my absence, and all the singers looked hugely engaged, which made me feel both relieved and proud.
One of the ladies who I saw today said the project had given her a massive sense of worth, and a huge injection of confidence. She said people had started to comment on the change in her. Jumping into the unknown has triggered something and now that she’s learnt how to sing with confidence, she’s taken herself off for swimming lessons and even wants to finally learn how to drive, which I suspect would change her life completely.
One after another came in, and said how much they’d been enjoying the experience; some even said that it had had a profound effect on them. One mother told us her daughter’s grades had gone up as a direct result of her being involved in the piece! It’s experiences and stories like these that thoroughly justify, not just the project, but my very existence!
I had a phone call this morning to tell me that the big project I’ve been rabbiting on about for what seems like weeks now, had taken another baby-step towards reality. I feel sick!
BBC Newcastle smells of hyacinths. Someone has brought a pair of them into the office and the smell is almost overpowering. I’m never altogether convinced that it’s a scent I particularly enjoy. I think it’s a bit like some kind of industrial toilet cleaner, mixed with the whiff of an old people’s home. Alistair simply described it as the “sweet smell of death.”
So, it’s the end of January, and a twelfth of my “significant year” is almost over. It doesn’t feel hugely significant just now, but I have my fingers crossed.
350 years ago, Pepys was once again visiting the theatre, this time to see Argalus and Parthenia by Henry Glapthorne, which sadly was “wronged” by Pepys’ “over-great expectations.” Expect nothing, Mr Pepys, and you’ll never be disappointed!
He called in on his parents and found his mother fresh from a visit to Huntingdon, where she reported on the comings and goings of his extended family. Pepys’ Auntie Anne was dying and his Uncle Robert was already talking about the fact that he wanted to remarry when the inevitable happened. Pepys had been chosen as his heir, and was obviously keen to avoid any complications of this nature! Brutally honest as usual!
Monday, 31 January 2011
Sunday, 30 January 2011
Sumptuous
I’m heading back to Newcastle on another ridiculously crowded train. The world and his girlfriend seem to be heading back North after a weekend in the Big Smoke. I’m surrounded by young people and feel rather decrepit.
My suitcase is perilously balanced on the top of a huge pile of luggage in one of the vestibules. I’m too scared to check on its wellbeing, in case it’s caused a health and safety incident. I am staring at an Upper Crust sandwich, which I’ve brought for my lunch. I’m going to wait at least another half an hour before eating it, because, at the moment, it’s all the excitement I’m going to get on this journey.
I’m listening to some music that someone sent me through the post. It seems to be one of the things that people do when they see me on television. I’m really not sure what any of them expect me to say. I guess it’s financial backing they’re after, and not words of encouragement or criticism from a fellow composer. Sadly, the work I’m listening to at the moment defies comment. Its lyrics are amongst the worst I’ve encountered, and it sounds like lift music. I regularly find myself hearing the work of musical theatre writers and being astounded by the sheer amount of delusion that seems to be present in what they've done. It upsets me, partially I suppose, because I imagine people hearing my music and thinking exactly the same thing!
The guard on this train speaks with a light Brummie accent. Every time he makes an announcement on the tannoy system, he mentions that there are still plenty of seats in first class. Apparently I can upgrade for just £25, but, aside from £25 being rather a lot of money, I’ve been put off by his describing it as “sumptuous first class accommodation.” Sumptuous is such a ridiculous word to use in this context. I wonder if anyone pays their £25 and then asks for a refund based on the accommodation not being sumptuous enough. What does sumptuous even mean? Dictionary.com informs me that it means “revealing great expense; luxurious.” Hmm. This is an East Coast train, and first class or not, people still put their feet on the seats and grind chewing gum into the carpets.
My legs are aching in a rather pleasant way; a way that suggests they’ve been working hard... which they have. I woke up early today so that I could take myself for a jog. I’ve been jogging every day now, for the past week and a half. I weighed myself last Friday and then again yesterday, and discovered that I’ve lost a pleasing 3kg, which is half a stone in old currency. It’s astonishing how quickly a body returns to its natural weight, which in my case is still about half a stone lighter than I am now, but I’m well on the way.
I just have to make sure that these nine days in Newcastle don’t destroy all the good work. It’s almost impossible to eat healthily at a Travelodge, and there doesn’t seem to be anywhere in the Newcastle quayside area that sells anything as simple – or low fat - as a salad, or a bowl of soup... It’s all chips, burgers and steak bakes...
On that note, I’m part horrified and part excited to report that our night shoot on the Metro project is being sponsored by Greggs. Greggs cheese and onion pasties are my big weakness. They taste so good, but they’re sent by the devil to make me look like Captain Caveman! In the middle of a night shoot, however, I’d happily have them shovelled into my body intravenously or by some kind of process of osmosis. My new food regime makes me dream of Greggs... and pizzas... and Cadbury’s Cream Eggs. I have to keep reminding myself that there’s also a lot to be said for the re-emergence of cheek and hip bones! Time to eat that lovely sandwich from Upper Crust...
January 30th 1660, was a fast day, observed as a penance for the death of Charles I, lately referred to as his murder. Pepys went to church, and Mr Mills made a sermon about God punishing men for the sins of their ancestors. Nothing like wallowing in the past. I've always thought it would be a great idea for a clergyman to horsewhip me for the terrible treatment of homosexuals in the early 20th Century. Obviously this would make a great deal more sense than him horsewhipping himself for systematically abusing choir boys.
I’m pleased to report that Pepys himself was far too sensible to fast. He went home from church and immediately tucked in to a lovely dinner.
He then took himself for a walk with Sir William Penn. They went to Moorfields, which was the place that the fashionable went, merely to be seen to be walking, just as Hyde Park in those days was the place where the even more fashionable went to incessantly ride about in expensive coaches. It was still unseasonably glorious weather and Pepys and Penn were pleased to observe two of their clerks, young Davis and young Whitton “going by us in the field, who we observed to take much pleasure together, and I did most often see them at play together.” Maybe they were gay? Just a thought...
Later on, Pepys called in on the other Sir William (Batten), and found Elizabeth there with Batton’s wife - the other Elizabeth. The two of them had been away, watching Cromwell and co. being hanged and buried at Tyburn. Rugge’s Diurnal gives us even more information about the event: “This morning the carcases of Cromwell, Ireton and Bradshaw (which the day before had been brought from the Red Lion Inn, Holborn,) were drawn upon a sledge to Tyburn, and then taken out of their coffins, and in their shrouds hanged by the neck, until the going down of the sun. They were then cut down, their heads taken off, and their bodies buried in a grave made under the gallows. The coffin in which was the body of Cromwell was a very rich thing, very full of gilded hinges and nails.”
My suitcase is perilously balanced on the top of a huge pile of luggage in one of the vestibules. I’m too scared to check on its wellbeing, in case it’s caused a health and safety incident. I am staring at an Upper Crust sandwich, which I’ve brought for my lunch. I’m going to wait at least another half an hour before eating it, because, at the moment, it’s all the excitement I’m going to get on this journey.
I’m listening to some music that someone sent me through the post. It seems to be one of the things that people do when they see me on television. I’m really not sure what any of them expect me to say. I guess it’s financial backing they’re after, and not words of encouragement or criticism from a fellow composer. Sadly, the work I’m listening to at the moment defies comment. Its lyrics are amongst the worst I’ve encountered, and it sounds like lift music. I regularly find myself hearing the work of musical theatre writers and being astounded by the sheer amount of delusion that seems to be present in what they've done. It upsets me, partially I suppose, because I imagine people hearing my music and thinking exactly the same thing!
The guard on this train speaks with a light Brummie accent. Every time he makes an announcement on the tannoy system, he mentions that there are still plenty of seats in first class. Apparently I can upgrade for just £25, but, aside from £25 being rather a lot of money, I’ve been put off by his describing it as “sumptuous first class accommodation.” Sumptuous is such a ridiculous word to use in this context. I wonder if anyone pays their £25 and then asks for a refund based on the accommodation not being sumptuous enough. What does sumptuous even mean? Dictionary.com informs me that it means “revealing great expense; luxurious.” Hmm. This is an East Coast train, and first class or not, people still put their feet on the seats and grind chewing gum into the carpets.
My legs are aching in a rather pleasant way; a way that suggests they’ve been working hard... which they have. I woke up early today so that I could take myself for a jog. I’ve been jogging every day now, for the past week and a half. I weighed myself last Friday and then again yesterday, and discovered that I’ve lost a pleasing 3kg, which is half a stone in old currency. It’s astonishing how quickly a body returns to its natural weight, which in my case is still about half a stone lighter than I am now, but I’m well on the way.
I just have to make sure that these nine days in Newcastle don’t destroy all the good work. It’s almost impossible to eat healthily at a Travelodge, and there doesn’t seem to be anywhere in the Newcastle quayside area that sells anything as simple – or low fat - as a salad, or a bowl of soup... It’s all chips, burgers and steak bakes...
On that note, I’m part horrified and part excited to report that our night shoot on the Metro project is being sponsored by Greggs. Greggs cheese and onion pasties are my big weakness. They taste so good, but they’re sent by the devil to make me look like Captain Caveman! In the middle of a night shoot, however, I’d happily have them shovelled into my body intravenously or by some kind of process of osmosis. My new food regime makes me dream of Greggs... and pizzas... and Cadbury’s Cream Eggs. I have to keep reminding myself that there’s also a lot to be said for the re-emergence of cheek and hip bones! Time to eat that lovely sandwich from Upper Crust...
January 30th 1660, was a fast day, observed as a penance for the death of Charles I, lately referred to as his murder. Pepys went to church, and Mr Mills made a sermon about God punishing men for the sins of their ancestors. Nothing like wallowing in the past. I've always thought it would be a great idea for a clergyman to horsewhip me for the terrible treatment of homosexuals in the early 20th Century. Obviously this would make a great deal more sense than him horsewhipping himself for systematically abusing choir boys.
I’m pleased to report that Pepys himself was far too sensible to fast. He went home from church and immediately tucked in to a lovely dinner.
He then took himself for a walk with Sir William Penn. They went to Moorfields, which was the place that the fashionable went, merely to be seen to be walking, just as Hyde Park in those days was the place where the even more fashionable went to incessantly ride about in expensive coaches. It was still unseasonably glorious weather and Pepys and Penn were pleased to observe two of their clerks, young Davis and young Whitton “going by us in the field, who we observed to take much pleasure together, and I did most often see them at play together.” Maybe they were gay? Just a thought...
Later on, Pepys called in on the other Sir William (Batten), and found Elizabeth there with Batton’s wife - the other Elizabeth. The two of them had been away, watching Cromwell and co. being hanged and buried at Tyburn. Rugge’s Diurnal gives us even more information about the event: “This morning the carcases of Cromwell, Ireton and Bradshaw (which the day before had been brought from the Red Lion Inn, Holborn,) were drawn upon a sledge to Tyburn, and then taken out of their coffins, and in their shrouds hanged by the neck, until the going down of the sun. They were then cut down, their heads taken off, and their bodies buried in a grave made under the gallows. The coffin in which was the body of Cromwell was a very rich thing, very full of gilded hinges and nails.”
Saturday, 29 January 2011
Birthday tea in porcelain cups
It's icy cold outside and we're driving through the country roads on the border of Cambridgeshire and Essex. We've been to a quiz in Thaxted, which we won comprehensively. I'm with Philippa, Helen and Nathan and the quiz has been a sort of unofficial birthday party for Helen. My Mum provided a lovely cake, which we ate in front of an open fire with tea in porcelain cups. The perfect setting for a high tea.
The highlight of the evening was probably the moment that Philippa and I both realised that we'd a) lost the ability to write and b) the ability to count and add up. Tears were rolling down our faces as our deep ineptitude began to reveal itself. It's frightening to think how little I write these days. My handwriting has completely gone to pot, and it starts to hurt if I write for too long! Ah, the curses of 21st Century life!
January 30th, 1660, and Pepys went to Southwark and walked over the fields to Deptford. It was a gloriously sunny and warm day, which Pepys found astonishing. He then went to Blackfriars, and watched three acts of a play, which he enjoyed thoroughly, but it got late, so he left before the end. He went home by boat, through London Bridge.
The highlight of the evening was probably the moment that Philippa and I both realised that we'd a) lost the ability to write and b) the ability to count and add up. Tears were rolling down our faces as our deep ineptitude began to reveal itself. It's frightening to think how little I write these days. My handwriting has completely gone to pot, and it starts to hurt if I write for too long! Ah, the curses of 21st Century life!
January 30th, 1660, and Pepys went to Southwark and walked over the fields to Deptford. It was a gloriously sunny and warm day, which Pepys found astonishing. He then went to Blackfriars, and watched three acts of a play, which he enjoyed thoroughly, but it got late, so he left before the end. He went home by boat, through London Bridge.
Friday, 28 January 2011
Vocoder
It is utterly freezing outside, but I've made a lasagne, which is now cooking in the oven. I’ve been for a jog, had a nice hot bath, QI is on the television and I’ve done an excellent day’s work in the studio. Things are good. Better still, I found out this afternoon that our wonderful project has been given a small reprieve by the BBC. We’re not out of the woods yet, but the will is most definitely there... We just don’t have enough money to make it work right now. Apparently more discussions are planned for Monday, so I guess I just have to sit with my fingers and toes firmly crossed until then.
Today’s studio session revolved around guitars and thanks to the combined magical fingers of Ivor Talbot and our producer, Julian, the song has suddenly burst into three dimensions. It’s still a bit of a wall of sound, and this will continue to be the case until we get the vocals in, and start the process of mixing, but we’re heading in a very exciting direction. We even did some experimentation with vocoders for that added 80s sheen. It’s been a proper, well-paced studio process, which I’ve enjoyed enormously. Compared with the mayhem and high stress levels of Pepys, this one’s been an absolute breeze, bordering on slightly dull, because my adrenaline levels have been so low. I’m drinking huge quantities of tea, just to get that weird caffeine buzz!
As I returned from my jog earlier on, I found a man weeing in the alleyway that leads to our house. A long trickle of pee was slowly making its way towards our garden. I suppose we all get caught short from time to time, and he was at least apologetic; "sorry mate, there was nowhere decent to go..." I shouted as I stormed past; "how about the pub opposite?" then hastened my step in case he decided to stab me or something. That's the London way.
Nathan came home late last night, and I immediately sat him down and played him his quartet. I think he was lost for words, but as the last notes rang out, he said, "I think that's the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me." We listened to it twice, and as I drifted off to sleep, I was aware that he was listening to it on headphones next to me. I was thrilled to have been able to give him something he enjoyed so much.
January 28th, 1660, and Pepys went to Fleet Street to have his sword “refreshed”. I find it not only bizarre that people carried swords in those days, but that they were obviously kept in fully working order. I suppose with religious fanatics regularly running riot in the City, no one could be too careful. This was the date that Cromwell and various luminary figures from the Interregnum period were dug up and hanged at Tyburn before being buried under the gallows there. The event was watched by huge crowds.
Pepys steered clear of the Cromwell circus and went instead to the King’s theatre to watch a production of The Lost Lady. He sat in the shadows, no doubt trying to remain incognito, and was shocked when the woman in front of him spat over her shoulder and the nasty gloop landed on his lap. Fortunately, Pepys noticed that the spitter was actually a very attractive lady, so decided not to be troubled by the event. I think I'd have vomitted down her back and told her to be grateful I wasn't calling the police.
Later in the day, Pepys went shopping, and bought a hat which cost him a rather whopping 35s. I hope it was a good hat!
Today’s studio session revolved around guitars and thanks to the combined magical fingers of Ivor Talbot and our producer, Julian, the song has suddenly burst into three dimensions. It’s still a bit of a wall of sound, and this will continue to be the case until we get the vocals in, and start the process of mixing, but we’re heading in a very exciting direction. We even did some experimentation with vocoders for that added 80s sheen. It’s been a proper, well-paced studio process, which I’ve enjoyed enormously. Compared with the mayhem and high stress levels of Pepys, this one’s been an absolute breeze, bordering on slightly dull, because my adrenaline levels have been so low. I’m drinking huge quantities of tea, just to get that weird caffeine buzz!
As I returned from my jog earlier on, I found a man weeing in the alleyway that leads to our house. A long trickle of pee was slowly making its way towards our garden. I suppose we all get caught short from time to time, and he was at least apologetic; "sorry mate, there was nowhere decent to go..." I shouted as I stormed past; "how about the pub opposite?" then hastened my step in case he decided to stab me or something. That's the London way.
Nathan came home late last night, and I immediately sat him down and played him his quartet. I think he was lost for words, but as the last notes rang out, he said, "I think that's the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me." We listened to it twice, and as I drifted off to sleep, I was aware that he was listening to it on headphones next to me. I was thrilled to have been able to give him something he enjoyed so much.
January 28th, 1660, and Pepys went to Fleet Street to have his sword “refreshed”. I find it not only bizarre that people carried swords in those days, but that they were obviously kept in fully working order. I suppose with religious fanatics regularly running riot in the City, no one could be too careful. This was the date that Cromwell and various luminary figures from the Interregnum period were dug up and hanged at Tyburn before being buried under the gallows there. The event was watched by huge crowds.
Pepys steered clear of the Cromwell circus and went instead to the King’s theatre to watch a production of The Lost Lady. He sat in the shadows, no doubt trying to remain incognito, and was shocked when the woman in front of him spat over her shoulder and the nasty gloop landed on his lap. Fortunately, Pepys noticed that the spitter was actually a very attractive lady, so decided not to be troubled by the event. I think I'd have vomitted down her back and told her to be grateful I wasn't calling the police.
Later in the day, Pepys went shopping, and bought a hat which cost him a rather whopping 35s. I hope it was a good hat!
Thursday, 27 January 2011
A surprise for Nathan
Ah, the joys of an evening off! It’s not even 8 o’clock, and I’ve finished all the work I need to do for the day. I’ve been running, I’ve printed out all the scores I need for tomorrow, so all that’s left for me to do tonight is eat a bit of food, and relax.
It’s a joy to be inside the house. The weather has taken a considerable turn for the worst and it was blowing a force ten gale earlier, which froze me to the bone. I just ran myself a lovely hot bath, but when I came to get in, found it was stone cold. The hot water is obviously programmed to come on later than I had thought. I don’t know what it is with me and cold baths. I guess they’re just a by-product of looking forward to something too much!
I’ve just finished my session with the string players. They played wonderfully; so wonderfully, in fact, that I had time at the end of the session to very quickly record a piece of music that Nathan wrote many years ago. I used to play in a string quartet with close friends Fiona, Ted and Chloe. We were all former members of the Northamptonshire Youth Chamber Orchestra and played together regularly as teenagers. In later years, we’d meet on Sunday afternoons in Kentish Town, to eat biscuits and play through highlights of the string quartet repertoire. Nathan, very kindly, wrote a piece for us to play, and we only ever managed to play it through once before life got in the way, and we stopped meeting for our nostalgic Sunday sessions. Nathan has always said how sad he was that he didn’t think to record his quartet as we played it through that one time. I've always wanted to remedy this by recording it for him with some proper musicians. I can’t bear the thought that someone would spend hours writing a piece of music that he or she would never get a chance to hear properly played.
Unfortunately, all that existed of Nathan’s music was the original score, which was covered in coffee stains. I therefore had to spend a few evenings this week creating a new score from which I could print the individual parts. Frankly, it was the least I could do. Nathan has spent so many hours of his life making websites for me, singing my vocals, conducting my music, choreographing my films and generally keeping me sane, which itself is a full time job.
I didn’t actually know what I was dealing with, in terms of music. I couldn’t remember a great deal of the piece from the time we played it before. It was therefore an incredibly pleasant surprise to discover that Nathan had written something really very good; certainly good for someone who’d previously never written classical music, but also good by the standards of any composer. There’s a section in the middle which is breathtakingly beautiful. The recording we made is by no means perfect. We didn't have very long, which meant the players were pretty much sight reading, but they really enjoyed playing it, and I hope Nathan will be thrilled and proud of the result. I can’t wait to see his face when he hears it!
50 years ago, Pepys went to church. He left Elizabeth at home suffering from her “menses.” Poor Pepys was so desperate for children, that his regular charting of his wife’s monthly cycle takes on a rather tragic significance.
In the evening, Pepys called in on Sir William Batten, where a veritable crowd of people was beginning to assemble. They ate oysters and drank strong waters and were very merry. So merry, in fact, that Elizabeth was dragged from her sick bed to join the party.
The final sentence of the entry is worth quoting in full. “This day the parson read a proclamation at church, for the keeping of Wednesday next, the 30th of January, a fast for the murther [sic] of the late King.” A day of fasting? What a perfect little royalist state England had become in the space of a year!
It’s a joy to be inside the house. The weather has taken a considerable turn for the worst and it was blowing a force ten gale earlier, which froze me to the bone. I just ran myself a lovely hot bath, but when I came to get in, found it was stone cold. The hot water is obviously programmed to come on later than I had thought. I don’t know what it is with me and cold baths. I guess they’re just a by-product of looking forward to something too much!
I’ve just finished my session with the string players. They played wonderfully; so wonderfully, in fact, that I had time at the end of the session to very quickly record a piece of music that Nathan wrote many years ago. I used to play in a string quartet with close friends Fiona, Ted and Chloe. We were all former members of the Northamptonshire Youth Chamber Orchestra and played together regularly as teenagers. In later years, we’d meet on Sunday afternoons in Kentish Town, to eat biscuits and play through highlights of the string quartet repertoire. Nathan, very kindly, wrote a piece for us to play, and we only ever managed to play it through once before life got in the way, and we stopped meeting for our nostalgic Sunday sessions. Nathan has always said how sad he was that he didn’t think to record his quartet as we played it through that one time. I've always wanted to remedy this by recording it for him with some proper musicians. I can’t bear the thought that someone would spend hours writing a piece of music that he or she would never get a chance to hear properly played.
Unfortunately, all that existed of Nathan’s music was the original score, which was covered in coffee stains. I therefore had to spend a few evenings this week creating a new score from which I could print the individual parts. Frankly, it was the least I could do. Nathan has spent so many hours of his life making websites for me, singing my vocals, conducting my music, choreographing my films and generally keeping me sane, which itself is a full time job.
I didn’t actually know what I was dealing with, in terms of music. I couldn’t remember a great deal of the piece from the time we played it before. It was therefore an incredibly pleasant surprise to discover that Nathan had written something really very good; certainly good for someone who’d previously never written classical music, but also good by the standards of any composer. There’s a section in the middle which is breathtakingly beautiful. The recording we made is by no means perfect. We didn't have very long, which meant the players were pretty much sight reading, but they really enjoyed playing it, and I hope Nathan will be thrilled and proud of the result. I can’t wait to see his face when he hears it!
50 years ago, Pepys went to church. He left Elizabeth at home suffering from her “menses.” Poor Pepys was so desperate for children, that his regular charting of his wife’s monthly cycle takes on a rather tragic significance.
In the evening, Pepys called in on Sir William Batten, where a veritable crowd of people was beginning to assemble. They ate oysters and drank strong waters and were very merry. So merry, in fact, that Elizabeth was dragged from her sick bed to join the party.
The final sentence of the entry is worth quoting in full. “This day the parson read a proclamation at church, for the keeping of Wednesday next, the 30th of January, a fast for the murther [sic] of the late King.” A day of fasting? What a perfect little royalist state England had become in the space of a year!
Wednesday, 26 January 2011
Pulling garters
We’ve been in the studio this afternoon programming synthetic drums and adding synthesizers to the Metro track. The whole thing is beginning to take shape. When all the keyboard pads were down, the song suddenly started to sound like Frankie Goes to Hollywood. It was a fairly unexpected outcome, but I guess the output of Frankie is about as quintessentially 1980s as music gets!
It’s amazing to spend time really listening to some of the sounds those bands opted to use. Today we tried to recreate the fake brass noise that crops up regularly in ABBA songs, and then moved on to the jangly piano at the start of The Winner Takes it All. We were also listening to Atomic by Blondie, which features some pretty outrageous drumming.
It’s a lot of fun to be in the position where we’re not in a terrible rush all the time. We can finesse what’s going down and make it sound as good as possible. Remind me that I wrote this sentence when we head up to Newcastle next week to record the vocals. That’s potentially when all hell could break loose and I could end up eating my words!
I had an upsetting phone call midway through the afternoon, which seemed to suggest that the big project I’m desperate to work on this year, could be one step closer to collapse. The internal mechanisms of the BBC are incredibly complicated. The will being there is often not enough. There are all sorts of technicalities which can, and usually do scatter themselves in front of a project, often causing such a major blockage that diversion becomes impossible. It looks like we might just have hit that point. It’s very frustrating. I can’t begin to think how awful we’re going to feel if the whole thing slips through our fingers. I have to cling on to the wise words my brother uttered when the Symphony for Yorkshire hit a major stumbling block back in July last year. No deal is good unless it’s failed twice. There’s still nothing I can do to change the outcome, other than hope, I suppose, and keep my fingers crossed that some of my supporters at the BBC will try to steer the project back on track.
Saturday 26th January, 1661, and Pepys was, once again entertaining. On this occasion, both the Mr Pearce’s and their respective wives came for dinner and with any luck, didn’t leave with the wrong partners in tow. They were joined by Captain Cuttance and Lieutenant Lambert, whom they ragged mercilessly, pulling at his ribbons and garters and making him confess that he’d recently got married... One assumes this mirth was all part of some kind of drunken banter. I don’t think the Lieutenant had recently got married, but the business of pulling garters was an age-old tradition relating to marriage, and it was astonishing what 17th Century people got up to in the name of fun!
It’s amazing to spend time really listening to some of the sounds those bands opted to use. Today we tried to recreate the fake brass noise that crops up regularly in ABBA songs, and then moved on to the jangly piano at the start of The Winner Takes it All. We were also listening to Atomic by Blondie, which features some pretty outrageous drumming.
It’s a lot of fun to be in the position where we’re not in a terrible rush all the time. We can finesse what’s going down and make it sound as good as possible. Remind me that I wrote this sentence when we head up to Newcastle next week to record the vocals. That’s potentially when all hell could break loose and I could end up eating my words!
I had an upsetting phone call midway through the afternoon, which seemed to suggest that the big project I’m desperate to work on this year, could be one step closer to collapse. The internal mechanisms of the BBC are incredibly complicated. The will being there is often not enough. There are all sorts of technicalities which can, and usually do scatter themselves in front of a project, often causing such a major blockage that diversion becomes impossible. It looks like we might just have hit that point. It’s very frustrating. I can’t begin to think how awful we’re going to feel if the whole thing slips through our fingers. I have to cling on to the wise words my brother uttered when the Symphony for Yorkshire hit a major stumbling block back in July last year. No deal is good unless it’s failed twice. There’s still nothing I can do to change the outcome, other than hope, I suppose, and keep my fingers crossed that some of my supporters at the BBC will try to steer the project back on track.
Saturday 26th January, 1661, and Pepys was, once again entertaining. On this occasion, both the Mr Pearce’s and their respective wives came for dinner and with any luck, didn’t leave with the wrong partners in tow. They were joined by Captain Cuttance and Lieutenant Lambert, whom they ragged mercilessly, pulling at his ribbons and garters and making him confess that he’d recently got married... One assumes this mirth was all part of some kind of drunken banter. I don’t think the Lieutenant had recently got married, but the business of pulling garters was an age-old tradition relating to marriage, and it was astonishing what 17th Century people got up to in the name of fun!
Tuesday, 25 January 2011
Menagerie
I have very little to report. I’ve spent the day doing next to nothing. I’ve been to the gym and done various bits of admin, some composing, and a few arrangements, but it’s genuinely been one of the least interesting days of my life!
I continue to worry about my voice. All these pills from the doctor don’t seem to be making any difference at all, and earlier, when I was singing, the notes kept cutting out on me. Afterwards, my throat felt really tired, like I’d been yelling continually for hour. If all this is not a result of acid reflux, the alternatives start to get a tad worrying. It could be nodules, I suppose, which is bad enough, but my subconscious is doing cartwheels at the moment, thinking about my cousin, who is just getting over throat cancer. I am, however, a known hypochondriac. Those who know me well will be reading this with smiles on their faces. I even told a doctor once that I was a hypochondriac, and he wrote it on my notes, which is probably not the best thing to have written on your records!
I'm frantically thinking of something more interesting to write, but the truth is that Nathan has come home early from work, and I’d actually quite like to go for an evening stroll, so I’m going to be lazy and not talk about Russian terrorism, or the double-dip recession we’ve just entered into, or any of the other things that are milling around in the back of my mind as possible things to write about.
I leave you with astonishing footage of a multi-instrumentalist virtuoso, which was sent to me today. What on earth is this woman on?! And can I have some, please?
Pepys wasn’t having a particularly interesting day, 350 years ago, either. He met an artist called Mr Salisbury who specialised in painting miniature portraits, which Pepys described as “perfect.” And took delivery of a pair of cages for some canaries, which had been sent to him by one Captain Rooth. Pepys’ house, no doubt, was beginning to resemble a menagerie. Cats, monkeys, song birds, canaries, a mouse infestation, an incontinent dog... whatever next?
I continue to worry about my voice. All these pills from the doctor don’t seem to be making any difference at all, and earlier, when I was singing, the notes kept cutting out on me. Afterwards, my throat felt really tired, like I’d been yelling continually for hour. If all this is not a result of acid reflux, the alternatives start to get a tad worrying. It could be nodules, I suppose, which is bad enough, but my subconscious is doing cartwheels at the moment, thinking about my cousin, who is just getting over throat cancer. I am, however, a known hypochondriac. Those who know me well will be reading this with smiles on their faces. I even told a doctor once that I was a hypochondriac, and he wrote it on my notes, which is probably not the best thing to have written on your records!
I'm frantically thinking of something more interesting to write, but the truth is that Nathan has come home early from work, and I’d actually quite like to go for an evening stroll, so I’m going to be lazy and not talk about Russian terrorism, or the double-dip recession we’ve just entered into, or any of the other things that are milling around in the back of my mind as possible things to write about.
I leave you with astonishing footage of a multi-instrumentalist virtuoso, which was sent to me today. What on earth is this woman on?! And can I have some, please?
Pepys wasn’t having a particularly interesting day, 350 years ago, either. He met an artist called Mr Salisbury who specialised in painting miniature portraits, which Pepys described as “perfect.” And took delivery of a pair of cages for some canaries, which had been sent to him by one Captain Rooth. Pepys’ house, no doubt, was beginning to resemble a menagerie. Cats, monkeys, song birds, canaries, a mouse infestation, an incontinent dog... whatever next?
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