Hopeland: The Britsound Interview

I'm about to publish the book of 'Hopeland' on Kindle.
Before I do that I need to read through it again.
Seems like I shouldn't have to suffer alone, so I'll be posting it here, a chapter at a time.
Let me know if you see typos, etc.
If you'd like to hear about the thinking behind the words you can find the horse's mouth here. 
(I hope that you get the right end...)
This is me chatting (stammering and stumbling actually) about 'Hopeland' at the time of release.
Never trust a man who overuses the phrase 'to be perfectly honest'. 
I gave up counting once into double figures...
BritSound is a radio station based in New York. Along with the very best in new British music and CLASSIC British music, Britsound is the show to listen to for Anglophiles in America.
The show is presented by award-winning radio veteran Rob Quicke, a prince...

Shameless Self Promotion 2: Toronto Tim Says: Desert Island Discs: Number 5: Hopeland

It's nice to hear when your music has resonated, connected; become a part of someone's life.
Here's Toronto Tim writing about 'Hopeland'.
I've lifted this from the 'Cathedrals of Sound' Blog.
I hope that David doesn't mind.
You can buy 'Hopeland' here...


#5 - JONES - "HOPELAND" (2009)

To every prayer an answer
For every crow a dove
To every life a promise
To every child, love.
I just want to give you something to remember me by 
I just want to give you... give you love.

I've already touched on this during the MM/Jones Top 5 series. Warning: heavy stuff ahead... 'Hopeland' was released amidst a most harrowing period of my life. My wife had just been diagnosed with rapidly spreading stage 4 incurable cancer & was suffering through ravaging surgery/chemo treatments. Doctors were brutally honest about chances of survival... very low. Devastated, overwhelmed, I was barely hanging on. Previous anchors of religion & philosophy offered cold comfort.

'Hopeland'... a little history. March 2010 - Looking for distraction from turmoil and painful reality, I decided to surf the Net and check out the Miracle Mile site. To my surprise Max had completely revamped the whole thing. Trev's mug welcoming the home page accompanied by absolutely enchanting new music - "Bluer Skies Than This". Wow! Proceeding to the main site, greeted by the heavenly strains of "Hopeland"... The comfort of song, healing for the hopeless and broken soul. The timing couldn't have been better...

So there's a lot of emotional baggage that accompanies my #5 pick. The words & music connect very deeply. I'm certain my take on the lyrics do not reflect the original inspiration or intention, but that's the magic of music, isn't it? We can adopt our own interpretations, and make them our own. Regardless, it's simply a stunning piece of art. The union of music and poetry makes for a perfect late night listen, but I must confess that I created an edited version (lacking verse) for the car. It's a truly beautiful collection on it's own. Every song has special meaning for me, and my wife loves Hopeland and MM/Jones music as much as I do. I won't dissect the album, as I'm sure all here know it by heart.

Footnote: 3 years on and my wife Myrna continues to thrive, defying all odds. We're still kinda living in limbo, but we're squeezing every moment out of life. I still have the lyrics of 'Hopeland' posted on my bulletin board, a potent reminder... to hope.

Thanks Trev...

Hopeland (Notes from Corsica) 24: A Cima

OK, this is the last post from the Corsican notes.
We're off back there in a couple of weeks but... things have changed. I won't elaborate here; more maybe later; suffice to say that our ten years in Montemaggiore have been the richest and sweetest of times. We grabbed it and made it ours; hardly surprising that others would want a piece of the paradise; sadly there's never quite enough to go around. 
Reading back I recognise the giddy joy in the unevenness of the writing; the ups and downs have been well chronicled here and in both 'Hopeland' and 'Keepers'. 
Those were done for me and Di. I think that we've both learnt a lot; enriched and open to adventure; yet gifted the perfect platform for recollection and self-regard; I think that we've both emerged... better.
Looking at photos from the past decade on the island I'm always fearful that we'll seem 'smug', but I only ever see 'happy'.
And yet, as Tom says, "the obsession's in the chasing and not the apprehending."
Onwards...


"There are in our existence spots of time,
Which with distinct pre-eminence retain
A renovating Virtue, whence,… our minds
Are nourished and invisibly repaired"

William Wordsworth
From The Prelude

I’ve lived the life, now I have the tools.
Where once I was misguided by wiseacre wisdom and boozy false dawns, I now understand that, in darker times, I had needed to see a light, even if it was a shadowy bliss.
I’m told that there is a point at which the pursuit of a dream can turn on itself and hope takes flight, when the youthful adventurer becomes the seasoned traveller and innocence is soured by bitter experience.
Wisdom warns of undercurrents, so we tread water.
All waters lead to the sea, but somehow this island has returned me to the waterfall and there I found the water fresh and sweet.
Refreshed, I began to write.
I wrote about my living day, the ‘dear ordinary’.
But, why the inherent need to write?
I write to join the dots and make sense of the past.
I write to protect myself from emotional inertia, to help myself ‘move on’.
I write to connect with myself.
But ultimately I write to remember and to be remembered.
From heart to head, from head to hand, I write to make marks on a page, to give myself shape and form, that form declaring ‘I am here’, and, like any cave painter, my hand is poised to leave a mark that declares: ‘I was here’.

And here, as I scribble in my small yellow note pad, I recognise safe harbour and liberty. I am ‘of the moment’ and at this moment there’s no place on earth I’d rather be. I’m learning to inhabit my world without resenting the past or fearing the future. Refreshed and heavy with hope I work hard at being remembered. Perhaps being childless is what continued to lead me so vividly back to my own childhood, a past that’s been altered and now fits me well. Whether half remembered or best forgotten, memories are filtered, the haze of a childhood that can never be reclaimed is where we all start and end. William Wordsworth wrote about ‘spots of time’, vivid memories that can be recalled at will and help trace a life’s journey, moments that resonate long after they came to be, giving clarity and new meaning to present circumstances. Visions that taste and smell of one's very fabric.

Early this spring morning we walked out of Montemaggiore towards the village cemetery; the Romanesque church of San Rinieru, and then up through a field of grazing cows under the protective gaze of a lacklustre bull, up as far as an ancient walled path lined with lavender, still used by shepherds to channel their flocks back down the valley. Following this route we traced the villages of the commune of Monte Grosso from above: Lunghignano, Cassano and eventually Zilia. In Zilia we refilled our plastic bottles with icy water at the roadside fountain and bought apricots at L’Epicerie from the toothless lady who always rants at us in Corsican, cackling hysterically at the end of each impenetrable yarn, her tired lips glad at the relief of not having to keep those ill fitting dentures in place. Understanding little, we couldn’t help but join in her laughter. As usual, the only part of this oft-repeated monologue that we comprehend is her age (now eighty two, she’s getting younger) and how much she loves the Irish. On our return we descended into Cassano as the heavens opened, taking relief in the tiny bar just off the star shaped village square, dunking small almond biscuits into our milky coffee until the storm passed. After the rain we retraced our steps back up the hill, homeward. Now, as we approach the cemetery we pause for rest, sitting on the grass roof of a shepherd’s hut, looking down at our village. In the heady midday heat, memories come fast to me, as if all previous experience is being funnelled from the eye of that stormy past, down into this vivid singular moment. Like the proverbial drowning man, images flicker and flash before me; here in the beating sun my heart races at the recognition:

I’m sitting on a swing. Over my sandaled feet I see Gareth, entranced by a pet chameleon, “his name is Peter” he lisps. Kate squints up at me from the dust, toothless and happy, while Mum twirls in a turquoise ball gown that seems made of paper.
“How do I look? Will I be the prettiest there?” she asks. On her wrist is the gaudy bangle I brought with Dad’s dollar from Changi market, her birthday present. My father stops singing and smiles down at me, his front teeth intact. Kerry shouts at me to be bolder so I stand tall on the swing “bend your knees, it’s easy”, she whispers, from behind me now. Soon I’m swinging my red knees high, well past the horizon, giddy with excitement.
The rusty squeal of that bright arc.
Two shadows that linger and then depart.
Blue sea, white dog, a red sand filled bucket, the tang of metal in my mouth, finally the vague but definite outline of a blue tractor, before the visions blend and blur and I blink to stop the dizziness.
When I open my eyes I’m back on the lustrous roof of this bergerie, clutching my yellow notepad.
I lean into the gentle breeze and open my mouth.
I can taste the sea.

Hopeland (Notes from Corsica) 23: Saudade

Every day I sit down with my guitar.
I take the time to reflect.
Time and a guitar; a comfort blanket and a dream catcher.
Songs are coming easily, but is the first thought necessarily the best, or is that lazy thinking?
I'd like to think of myself as an original thinker, but have come to know that I'm not, something that each new song confirms.
So I cut my cloth accordingly and work within myself, attempting to illuminate the mundane stuff that colours my everyday life, and hopefully present it in such a way that it connects and resonates with others, perhaps as a 'penny drop' moment.

Sometimes we don't notice the obvious.

The artist’s hope of presenting a singular vision has distorted many a creative talent, affectation parading as individuality. Sometimes individuality can get compromised in order to acquiesce to some third party’s sense of genre; others can too easily define our lives for us.
I do what I do because I’m inspired to write and am able to do so in my own sweet time; it makes me happy that I can produce something from nothing and on my own terms. This ‘gladness’ is a bi product of my labour and a rare pleasure.
It makes me mindful.

Genuine delight seems an uncommon commodity these days. Somewhere along the line ‘happiness’ has become seen as a human right rather than an unexpected serendipitous gift. It’s become an expectation, as materialistic a demand as soap or shoes. TV shows us life’s possibilities, easy credit offers untold opportunity, but there is no labour involved in the acquisition, no pride in achievement or respect for the achievement of others, no real aspiration and ambition, just envy and frustration. Somewhere along the line it seems that we have diminished the ‘delight’ of flighty folly and have forgotten the pleasures to be gained from passing things on, handing them down.
Possessions were once cherished, and then bequeathed.
These objects connected us to the past.
They told stories.
Their inheritance invested them with unspoken worth, a silent reminder of those who went before.
The potency of these objects cannot be underestimated; solid markers in an ephemeral landscape, they mapped out our journey and reminded us where we had come from.
We kept these treasures in a biscuit tin under our beds; the pleasure of treasure…
Now, fashions come and go. Labels change. Things break, we don't fix them, we replace them; it’s no surprise then that we’ve forgotten how to value things. As children, with uniforms and chants of prayer, we were educated to conform. Now as self-defined ‘free spirits’ we find that we have painted ourselves into a corner, isolated and yearning for a past where we once ‘belonged’. We look under our beds and find nothing but dust, so we compromise our past imperfections by conjuring substance from the shadows.

And so the rosy glow of nostalgia colours and becomes us; our personalities are redefined.
Without the currency of 'developed' character, true individuality is fabricated not fostered.
You can have too many options, too much choice. Choice begets change. Change begets loss, but change and development are vital for survival, moving forward. Maybe we lament the things that we miss because we did indeed miss them, or worse, we didn't notice them at all.
And so we become wistful about the past, and fearful of the future; we don't live in the moment, we wrestle with the possibilities of what's beyond the moment.
There is a Portuguese word 'saudade' which is defined as 'a terrible yearning for a past that never existed.' Nostalgia is really a yearning to reclaim lost lives or missed opportunity, hence our sentimental connection to the things that have shaped us; our parents, our childhood, lost friends, music, books, TV and films of a particular era.

There is nothing quite as sweet as the grey warbling of a bird near extinction. We push things towards extinction, and only when we're fearful of their loss, do we cherish them. Why do we need to make things rare, when we should celebrate the common place?
Meanwhile as we respond to ever increasing stimuli we don’t necessarily relate to it. We see the shape of things, but not their texture. We know everything, but is there a genuine understanding? With so much data in the files we seem to have difficulty apportioning genuine value to things.
We are in danger of becoming sensually deprived; we don't know nature, our own nature, ourselves.
The common ‘buzz’ of the 24/7 communications age has rendered us over-stimulated, our touchstones have become mobile phones and laptops; we have to keep checking for messages to see if we are valued.
It’s a bit like looking in a mirror to see if we are still there.
Maybe we’ve become too distracted to be happy as ‘happiness’ depends on us being present, in and of the moment. I think that we need to simply disconnect and learn to be alone again, to reconnect with our imaginations, to re-engage with our sense of wonder.

Someone once wrote "Wear your life loosely, it fits better that way."
The past is the authentic fabric from which we are made; we define ourselves by how we cut that cloth. The filtering of memories enables us to come to terms with what we have become, how we have tailored ourselves.
I feel an increasing sense of emotional isolation. I internalize and only really release through song.
I sense that we’re all increasingly looking inwards, taking pride in ourselves but lacking any sense of ‘place’, essentially denying ourselves the benefits of community.
The currency that keeps us vital is life itself, and our vital perception not just of life as it happens, but of our processing of that experience. Our value is not just what we could be, but what we are, what we have become. The further we grow away from our histories, the more obvious their influence becomes, and the more we idealise and cherish that influence.
Reviewed and rewritten, our past becomes us.
With this benefit of hindsight, how can we be disappointed?
These fleeting cherry blossom moments in Corsica have taught me to cherish the past, accept and recognise its vitality, but not to live there.
When it comes to ranting about the transient joys of all things bright and beautiful, Keats got there long before me, but I believe that William Blake nailed it best when he wrote:


He who binds himself to joy
Doth the Winged life destroy
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity’s sunrise

Corsica has gifted me a perfect day in the sun, now I need to live beyond that day without corrupting or resenting the memory of it.

Hopeland (Notes from Corsica) 22: Excavations

Rolling up his sleeves, he approached us with the fixed stare and intent of one about to join a pub fight. As he brushed past, kicking sand onto our towels, I noticed that his belt was already undone. A woman in a red coat, with the countenance of a long-suffering wife, followed closely behind. Fingering his flies the man stopped with purpose fifty feet beyond us and completed his dishevelment. Naked but for briefs and a St Christopher, he clawed at the sand and within minutes had created an elaborate maze of sunken tunnels and ditches which fast became irrigated by the sea. So intent on this toil was he that he disregarded a chuckling child, armed with water wings and a bright yellow bucket and spade, joining the game with relish, until he caught the man’s eye. The sad red lady had stationed herself at a dispassionate distance and sat smoking, in mute acceptance of her lot. Maybe she was a sister or even a care worker. Cursing unseen demons her charge shivered and threw his arms to the heavens, perhaps demanding divine guidance, then continued his ecstatic excavation, like an aguish archeologist digging into the past, tunneling himself back towards happier times. He was joined in his work again, this time by a young Alsatian that fuelled the feverish frenzy, the two working in unwitting unison until the pup backed up, covering the sandscape and its architect, who kicked out at the dog in a rabid rage before returning to his work. After a good hour of unbroken endevour the digger suddenly stopped, as if to the sound of a factory siren, his shift complete. Picking up his clothes in a rough bundle he set off at a pace, retracing his steps, again covering us with sand, his wild eyes indifferent to our sympathetic glances. We had however caught his companion’s attention. As she passed us she rolled her eyes and, in perfect broken English muttered, “Lost forever. And it was a fucking Rolex!”

Hopeland (Notes from Corsica) 21. So Far, So Good

These are hardly original ideas.
The grass is always greener.
The human condition is invariably in a state of disappointment.
Is ‘different’ better? When habit and convention demoralizes and casts us adrift, how do we reset our course?
Change?
The thought of real change is intimidating; it could save me, yet I fear it and remain content with cold compromise. Dissatisfied, I crave happiness and, when it fails to materialise, look elsewhere for a quick fix.

As ‘consumers’, maybe we have become so used to instant gratification that we can only be disappointed.
I want to be ‘of substance’, yet deny the process that makes the fabric hardy: life. I focus on the horizon, rather than on the small dramas in front of me. I desire to be “anywhere but here” with the vague possibilities of that ‘other life’ making me resent my real life even more. Traditionally these ‘other lives’ were just vague unobtainable pipedreams, seen in fuzzy black and white. Now, digital clarity promises a focused and immediate reality in ‘High Definition’ that is demanded without investment or preparation. Thus, even if I do make the dream reality, I’m unable to appreciate or recognise the gravity of its arrival; I just use it and move on to something else.

Many of my songs focus on the tricks that we use, the games that we play and the skills we develop, to stop ourselves from becoming unglued. For me, silence stands as failure and threatens everything, so I fill it with music and search for the perfect song. I’m surely doomed to be disappointed, but the ambition keeps me moving forward.
I believe that we all rest where compromise leaves us, in a kind of limbo.

Limbo? 

It's sorrow's way; like the unravelling of a lost kite, a gentle rise or fall towards oblivion. We’re all connected by our unravellings, we don’t always feel the tug, but as the line tightens, leaves a mark, then relaxes, we realise that things can never come to rest and learn to trust the rhythm of chance. 

I say, don't be afraid to forget. You will not. What is vital will remain. Regrets will become your palest thoughts, and one day, when your gaze has drifted, the sadness will buck and buckle and be gone.
How do you live the perfect life? 

How do you write the perfect joke? 

Start with the punch line and work backwards. 

And the perfect joke? 

A man falling from a great height whispering “so far, so good.”

My Top 5: Marcus Cliffe: The Scientist Speaks (but briefly)

I’ve been beavering away in the studio, working on 
'Cassidy’s Care'. 
All is going well... I think.
It’s been interesting, locking myself away and thrashing ideas around.
If I didn’t have a girlfriend I might become a reclusive artist, if I let it take hold...

And so, to my favourite 5 MM songs:


Weatherwise
All the Way to London
Lost and Found
Wilful
The Dust Will Shape Your Sins

Hopeland (Notes from Corsica) 20. An Unsteady Hand

Mike’s funeral was unforgettable.
The Catholic church of St Felix was full; people stood in the aisles and outside in the car park. The wake that followed at the Felixstowe Ferry Sailing Club was a lively celebration of a quiet life. The club house sat at the ‘entrance’ of the river Debnen and offered stunning views both of the sea and upriver. It had been a haven to Mike and was the perfect setting for his send off: a place of function and easy laughter, with ‘Adnams’ on tap, heaven indeed.
Mike’s qualities were modest and intangible but I think that ultimately he reflected what most of us would want to call the best of ourselves.
His serenity was a constant and, because of that, he was the perfect touchstone. For me, as a kid, Mike was the one I’d look to when things got a bit wobbly, or when I just couldn’t get trigonometry. He was the funnel, the conduit that brought everyone together at St Felix’s that day. I think that all of his friends present were all a little stunned at the turn out; each of us thinking that we were singularly blessed in recognizing his quiet decency, yet all of us happy to sublimate ourselves as one of many; Mike’s family of friends.

After Mike’s passing an odd thing happened; I started writing about myself in the 3rd person. It seemed that I was outside myself, watching me waiting for something to happen, a dispassionate outsider viewing my fumblings from a distance.
There was a strange and quiet calm, a light, heady feeling, as if a storm was coming. I was about to become dispossessed of something.
This disinterested self-regard was unsettling.
I was full of myself, and yet I found myself an empty vessel.
It’s inevitable that mundanities and small dramas set the ripples forming and there they were again. And again, it was through writing that I got to temper that turbulence. Once more I withdrew, simplified and learnt to be alone.
I started writing the words and songs for ‘Keepers’ on the shores of a lake in northern Portugal, and stumbled towards a moment of grace on the roof of a shepherd’s hut back in Corsica. Always close to water, always with a small yellow notepad in hand. Inside the cover of that notepad I had written the words of American poet Galway Kinnell: ‘Maybe the best we can do is do what we love as best we can’.
It was the ‘maybe’ that got to me.
Guided by an unsteady hand, ‘Keepers’ proved to be a collection provoked by loss and a recognition of the importance of touchstones; objects, places and people that inspire us to keep eyeing the horizon, yet offer shelter and safe harbour should things go awry.

We bottle their benevolence and call it ‘home’.
Often unwilling or unwitting bellwethers, their kindred spirit can haunt inanimate objects; a toy plane, a letter, a button, a bible, a key…
These are not pious custodians, just ordinary folk with the same vulnerabilities as the rest of us. And yet something sets them apart, moving us to burden them with our wellbeing. They become the keepers of our faith in other people.
We are comforted in their presence.
We are diminished by their loss.
Their absence is company enough.

Hopeland (Notes from Corsica) 18. Friends Applaud, the Comedy is Over

The island life had stirred my creative pot, culminating in a productive year that had seen a potent change in the way I thought and wrote. The resultant album ‘Hopeland’ had been bathed in optimism’s glow after the retreat to Corsica had gifted me clarity of thought and a sense of well being that was startling. I had previously written about the journey, but offered no answers, just questions. With ‘Hopeland’ I had actually arrived somewhere; destination achieved. I unpacked. I was home.

The plan was to stay, but my furrowed brow kept moving me forward, beyond the bliss. What followed was no drastic regression, just an unsettling feeling that those peaceful waters were about to be disturbed. At the end of a perfect day there is still darkness and the inevitable notion that the following dawn would bring disappointment. I was in full song yet full of clumsy contradiction, each thought subverted the previous one. Where I had previously danced serenely through my days I was now walking on hot coals; I wanted to draw lyrical breath but was invariably rendered breathless, dizzy and dumb by the savage, intoxicating beauty of the island.

Closer to home, anything that was fleetingly familiar was reduced to homily, which I paraded in songs and poems as freshly minted wisdom.

Did these words even qualify as poems?

I continued to put pen to paper, hoping that the chaos might be revealed as a series of telling moments; my aim was true, but my hands were shaking, grasping at shadows. I found myself reaching for things that were no longer there, or whose influence had become diminished.

There was a constant humming in my head.

Maybe I’d had one drink too many.

I actually sat and wrote these two ranting emails to my friends:

Rant 1

I seem to be disappearing by the day, weaker by the week.

The new year didn’t start well; I couldn’t shake off the bug that seems to have afflicted us all; couldn’t shake off the effects of the Xmas lubrications; something I’ve never had a problem with before, and my feet hurt so much that getting from bed to bog was becoming a major issue.

Di complaining about me waking up smelling like a ‘shitty brewery’ was a sure sign that something needed to change.

Having been off the booze for 3 days now I can confidently say that I feel absolutely no difference other than an ever present thirst and a newfound ability to say ‘Unique New York’ 3 times really fast, particularly after that third cup of (now sugarless) coffee.

In further steps towards betterment I’ve stopped taking sugar in my tea and started watching documentaries about animals and trees.

That should help me sleep.

I think I’m missing Corsica.

We haven’t been for a while.

It reminds me of quote from W. H. Murray:

“In short withdrawals from the world there is to be had unfailing refreshment. When his spirit is burdened or lightened, the natural movement of a man’s heart is to lift upward, and this is more readily done in the wild, for there it is easy to be still.”

Usually when I’m in a funk I can sit down with my guitar and create something, or simply play. I was now getting nothing from this; the canvas was blank with no lead in the pencil.

Step two of any revival is normally the taking of a bath.

Sitting in the suds I have the choice of reaching for Flaubert’s ‘A Sentimental Education’ or last month’s Esquire magazine.

I opt for an article on how to throw a tomahawk, throw a perfect 180 at darts and throw flaming Sambuca from my mouth. There’s a piece offering a five-day detox (“what can you achieve in 5 days? Even God only got as far as the birds and fish.”) I learn how to do a ‘McTwist’ on a surfboard, mix a perfect martini, dismantle an AK-47 and how to avoid capture behind enemy lines: “Lie on a north facing slope and keep still. This is very difficult. You will develop sores. You will nearly go crazy. And remember, you have to demoralize the dog-handler, not the dog.”

I’m instructed on how to start a football chant (apparently if you are a Borussia Monchengladbach fan this involves not saying “Give us a ‘B’…”) and then move on to the eco-friendly wisdom that “recycled toilet paper’s like taking a cheese grater to a bullet hole”, before drifting off into a dumb, numb slumber.

I wake up in cold water; everything is shriveled and my magazine lies at the bottom of the tub. I can just about make out a piece on ‘Famous Last Words’. There’s Bogart’s “I should never have switched from Scotch to Martinis” and Beethoven’s “Friends applaud, the comedy is over.”

This gets me thinking about the possible benefits of ‘getting serious’ and the diminishing returns of ageing.

Is this really the best I’m ever going to feel again?

With this question in mind I resolve to enrich what remains of my life with genuine intent; there’ll be no more parading and postulating about court sprints and investment in World Music.

I need to do some real gardening; plant a thought and watch it grow, rather than just moving on to another lofty deliberation.

So, here goes: In endeavouring to prevent myself from weakening by the week I’m making some changes in an attempt to embroider that rich tapestry.

This week my attention is on:

-    a daily regime of (yes) press ups; 50 in the morning, 50 before bedtime. I’m wobbling at 25…

-    Continuing in the refining of my drinking career. Fridays and Saturdays only.

-    The serious study of the later music of Scott Walker, which has previously been as appealing to me as spinach, oysters and anal sex. I’m referring to ‘Climate of the Hunter’ ‘Tilt’ and ‘Drift’, in which Scott famously got his percussionist to punch a dead pig for rhythm and sang about the underworld and afterlife in a voice akin to Donald Duck.

I’ll keep you posted on my progress.

Any advice will, of course, be considered and ignored.

You could always try…

You might not recognize me at the bar, but if you do, be kind and don’t offer me a drink.

Baby steps, as they say.

Rant 2 (two days later I start regarding myself as some twisted Agony Aunt. A Sunday Times column surely beckoned…)

Somewhere south the weather’s warmer. I know that because the birds are leaving, flying towards greener grass, warmer climes, towards something better.

As obligation, duty and responsibility fracture our modern lives, it’s easy to overlook the core values of a happy life: spontaneity, joy and love. In trying to mend or heal this damage our senses get so bombarded and overloaded that we risk living in a cycle of hope, fear and regret, inevitably reaching for the comfort blanket of crap food and credit cards. This can keep the wheel of false hope spinning; we are always one new pair of shoes away from happiness.

Often we focus on work for fulfillment. ‘Career’ is a greedy monster that can feed on itself, a bigger job means a bigger car; ambition can be a stick that we beat ourselves with. Of course I’m not suggesting that work is bad, I’m saying; make it better, because, yes, you do deserve it. But how do we make things better? The answer is unique to all of us. I guess we could stop relying on others to fix things and trust ourselves to do it.

There are many comforts in modern life, but not too many freedoms. For me, life is about reclaiming the lost freedoms of childhood, where the possibilities were endless. Every civilization looks back to the ‘golden olden days’ where things were better because they were… simpler. There is investment to such nostalgia because the past is tried and tested. We can cherry pick the bits that worked and use them to improve our future.

Why not strive towards self-perfection, beauty, truth, and goodness. It may sound blithe but why not aim high? You’re a long time dead and, as we’re oft reminded, it’s a dangerous world; terrorists and muggers are everywhere. Do we really need protecting from our anxieties by invasive CCTV cameras and suffocating regulations? Has ‘Health and Safety’ stopped us from climbing trees?

Don’t be a passive receiver, don’t stare at screens. Stay off the underground, sit upstairs on the double-decker, look, and enjoy the ride. Better still cycle, it’s almost as dangerous as climbing a tree.

Act for yourself, accept that life is absurd and have a bit of a laugh:

-    Try dancing with a dog.

-    Put on ‘Goodbye to Love’ by the Carpenters really loud and play ‘air guitar’ to that solo. It’s one of the best ever. Seriously!

-    Stop consuming and start producing.

-    Play the office Ukulele.

-    Smell a horse then gently blow up its nose.

-    Try saying “Unique New York” 3 times fast!

Good cheer and good company is the stuff of life. Don’t be “too busy” to make things better. Address your creative spirit. Get practical. I know of a tuba player who learnt how to plaster. He now makes a happy living from both. Make stuff. Make things happen. Make some mistakes. Make some jam, bake bread, play the piano badly. Plant some bulbs. I did last year and forgot about them. The pleasure I got when the tulips came out this spring out was immeasurable. I fell to my knees and literally smelt the flowers, my flowers. Fight boredom, not with ‘leisure time’ but with life, vital life. Don’t reach out for comfort food, go for quality. Have a drink but make sure it’s a good vintage. Decide what your favorite whiskey is. Paul Newman famously said “why fool around with hamburger when you can have steak at home?” I know it’s out of context but, buy some steak.

Find something you’ve always wanted to do and do it. 
What’s stopping you? 
Fire those arrows of freedom, surf the waves of indifference, strum away the stress, run with the hounds of hubris and capture the moment in perfect digital clarity. 
Then, do it all again. 
It will become you.

My Top 5: Earnie Seiler

Earnie has been a MM friend since way back; I remember our initial contact well.

Here are his top 5 MM songs:

Earnie Seiler's Top Five:
I recall reading a note in Uncut comparing Miracle Mile to The Blue Nile so I hopped online and hunted down MM... eventually stumbled into an email exchange with the nicest guy on the planet, Trev and have picked up everything they have put out.  
I find my favorites shift from mood to mood but I keep going back to some songs again and again:

Wilful... Perfect vocals over a great guitar and the most true message of all "you don't know what I do", summarizes all the issues.
Also from Alaska: Weatherwise... hope in a song.

God Knows... on the way home from work this chorus always makes me smile, ambivalent personal struggle with the gods... plus cool subtle backing vocals.

An Average Sadness... catchy clap as percussion and presence in person of our protagonist... protection with real expectations

Scars... the slide is perfect, the story real.

I'll stop at 5... only because without a limit the mind will just keep running.

I'll also throw a THANK YOU to MM; TJ and MC, you have enhanced life and added to growth

peace.

Earnie Seiler

Melbourne  FL USA

Hopeland (Notes from Corsica) 17. Ennui on the Mountain

Life in England was now in stark contrast to Corsica. The everyday realities of commuting into London to an uninspiring job had started to chip away at Di’s newfound joie de vivre. Working as a ‘size model’ for various high profile high street designers seemed a glamorous career to folk looking in. The humdrum reality was different. A cross between a mannequin and a fashion technician, she laboured long hours in cramped conditions with designers, buyers and technicians who stuck pins into her, bitched and moaned and invariably forget that she was there; she was but a living breathing template. Di withdrew and could feel nothing but diminished by her windowless working day; the pay was excellent, the payoff was an increasingly derelict soul.

Life was pretty good for me; I was working for a large international school in central London, as Director of the extra curricular activities. In the summer I ran the school’s summer camp. The school, a successful independent, provided a privileged environment for wealthy families, mainly Americans. As such it was an easy place to be; the problems of most inner city schools did not raise their ugly heads there. I was surrounded by an intelligent, urbane faculty whose sole motivation was the well-being of a happy, healthy student population.

I loved the company of the lower school kids, aged between four and ten; it was a constant reminder of the wisdom of children and the joy that their lack of cynicism can bring. If you’re ever feeling jaded just sit with a group of five year olds and ask them about the colours inside their heads. I learnt to trust children. I wish I could invest my writing with their sense of wonder and clarity of thought; they encouraged me to keep gazing at the stars whilst staying focused on ‘the bleeding obvious’.

Gradually this side of my life was deviating me from my expected route, that of a recording songwriter. I needed to work to fuel the fire but, where once I could happily wear the two hats, it now felt a misfit. I was marking time instead of fully committing to the muse; still creatively inspired but feeling vocationally impotent; I lacked luster; perhaps work at the school offered too much of a comfort zone. Contentment kicked in alongside a vague ennui; if this was my lot I wasn’t too unhappy in my underachievement.

I started to drink; not to excess, just more regularly and more eagerly, eventually turning to single malts to give some culture to my craving; just to loosen things up and blur the edges a little. This of course dulled any edge that I had. Di wasn’t happy and let me know it, wincing at the sound of the ice machine; she’d be spending another evening in my compromised company.

“Whiskey makes you sour.”                                    

Increasingly it seemed that we were at our most relaxed in Montemaggiore and for a while we thought seriously about selling up and moving to Corsica. The short lived plan was to invest any meager savings that we could realize, alongside profit made from selling our cottage, into a property near Calvi. Initially this would be as a holiday let, but possibly as an alternative to Chez Diane, should we find that life in the valley beckoned us down from the mountain. Di would develop her passion for photography into something more lucrative, and I would sit atop the mountain and write my songs. We had Lisa Cottage valued and were set for a life change This, in turn, set us towards some serious soul searching. We eventually recognised that our happiness was founded on having the two bases; one ‘ideal’ enhanced the other. Only then did we truly count our blessings; in England we had good friends and a lovely home on a village green, where we woke to birdsong and the footfall of horses in the meadow behind us. Buckinghamshire offered up what pleasures remained of ‘Olde England’, with easy access to the excitements of London. 

The pleasures of Corsica were obvious. 

We had two good lives; why not make the best of both worlds?

My Top 5: Isobelle Gladstone

As stated already, this is difficult as I have found so many songs appeal to different moods in varying situations. So, taking those that I tend to listen to most, I would place them thus:-

1. Five Points of Light - I love the lyrics to this song. It is the kind of song I would long to write if I had that talent.
2. Alaska - Terrific introduction and all round beautiful song.
3. Sunburst Finish - Another stunning introduction with clever use of language. Love it!
4. Yuri's Dream - That guitar just makes my toes curl! Enough said!
5. Milk Moustache - this is such a beautiful portrayal of a familiar home scene that I feel I was there. Couldn't help smudging my own top lip!

So there they are, but such stunners as Weatherwise, Cinnamon Chair, etc, etc, ride hot on their heels. 
One of my greatest pleasures is listening to music and some of my favourite songs are those of Miracle Mile. Thanks, Trevor and Marcus, keep those amazing songs coming.
Isobelle

Hopeland (Notes from Corsica) 16. There Was Always Laughter

We gathered at the village cemetery, standing amongst silent embraces and whispered conversations. The atmosphere was of tenderness, sadness and bitter cigarettes. One of Jan and David’s grandchildren placed wild flowers on a black granite tomb and softened the air. The boy looked up for his father’s eye and Nicholas winked, producing a rogue tear that ran the length of his gaunt unshaven features. He reached out and ruffled his son’s unkempt hair and then gently squeezed his button nose. The child smiled shyly and skipped away happy at this affirmation; he had done well. Nicholas stepped unsteadily towards the gathering and spoke into the space between us, about his parents; their love of the village was with them to the end. In a trembling voice he told us that in Jan’s final moments, family, friends and photographs of Montemaggiore had encircled her. There had already been a funeral in Paris; this ceremony was to see Janet’s ashes interred with those of David and their beloved first-born, Saskia.

“This second ceremony seems so much more difficult than the first”, sighed Nico. In Paris he had felt numb. Here above the village and beneath the mountain, with his grief exposed, he appeared raw and overawed, lost within himself. At the head of the tomb, Saskias’ name and a pale gray photo were hard to see. Below this, freshly painted words and dates had been added along side two vivid colour photos of David and Janet which seemed almost garish in comparison; pictures that we all recognized from their frames in that big blue house. Nico placed two fingers to his lips and gently touched the images of his mother and father. After a shuddering pause, he rested his fingers on the fading face of his sister, as if trying to wipe away a mark or stain. He leant there for a moment and whispered to the departed. Sebastian took his arm from around his trembling sister Natasha and stepped towards the tomb. He paused as if to speak, and then bowed his head; tears flowing freely down the front of his black crumpled shirt. He then placed the tips of his fingers on his mother’s face and touched them to his lips, repeating the gesture with his father and sister. Natasha stood unsteadily, supported now by her two daughters. One of the villagers stepped forward, placing a hand to his ear and sang a verse in Corsican; a psalm I think. One by one the villagers joined his song, producing a moving mournful moan.

After the ceremony we retreated to the family’s house where we drank strong black coffee and bottled water and ate freshly baked bread and cakes; the stuff of life. We were introduced to visiting relations of Jan and David, Australian and British.

“We’ll miss their free spirits”, I muttered awkwardly. “The air was never heavy around them.” Di looked at me and frowned; too many words. The sound of English seemed to clutter the room so we returned to our fumbling French. Later, as we left, we wrote in the visitor’s book for the final time:

“Dear Janet and David, it was a pleasure to know you, and a sadness that we couldn’t get to know you better. We’ll miss our visits to your house. There was always laughter.”

We crept down the stone staircase and stood unsure of ourselves in the village square.

“Let’s go for a drive”, said Di.

It was early evening now and the hills bristled with energy. Just outside of Calanzana we stopped by a small chapel that we’d always thought derelict. It was surrounded by cars and vans and the sound of music came from within. We stepped inside to great applause, although we soon realized that the ovation was not for us. At the alter was a grand piano in front of which stood the soloist, bowing stiffly from the waist; enjoying the acclaim. He had the wild-eyed stare of Marty Feldman, an effect that was magnified by a huge pair of pink plastic glasses, the thick lenses of which could have started a forest fire. He took his seat, adjusted those heavy frames, placed his fingers on the keyboard and, after a prolonged theatrical gaze at the ceiling, he started to play. At transcendent moments his eyes returned to the heavens as if tipping the wink in gratitude for his sublime gift. He offered Chopin, Beethoven and Bach, all for an audience of about forty folk who sat in quiet reverence. As the gentle prodding reverberated, I looked around at the faces in the audience. Next to us an elderly couple sat nursing a baby. The woman was dressed in her sober Sunday best; the old man wore a shabby dressing gown and pyjamas, on his feet a pair of pale pink slippers. His head was down, chin to chest, seemingly asleep. A tear ran down his cheek and gave him away. The child gazed up to the rafters, perhaps seeking the object of the pianist’s wild blissful stare, whilst his grandmother whispered life’s secrets into him.

After the concert we went in search of food and found ourselves at ‘Chez Michele’ in Calanzana. We watched in silence as Michele prepared us his specialty; ‘Agneau de lait au feu de bois’, baby lamb roasted over an open fire, which he would simply serve with garlicky potatoes. His partner Naderge knew our appetites well and placed two demi pichets on the table, red for me, rose for Di, while we watched her beautiful half African, half Corsican child playing with a hula hoop; Naderge smiling at us smiling at her daughter’s delighted dance.

My Top 5: Johnny Coppin

Toronto Tim issued a challenge: 

Name your top 5 Miracle Mile/Jones songs.

Why not email me here with your own top 5.


This Top 5 is from Johnny Coppin, a fine musician and also a successful DJ. 
Johnny has often played MM and Jones on his show with BBC Radio Gloucester.
He occasionally covers my songs live.
Here's Johnny:


Hey Trev, I hope you are well.
I’m still singing Homeward and looking forward to recording it!
Here’s my Top 5 list from Ghost of Song... hard to choose; all based on my personal preference and what sounds good on radio!

1. Hopeland
2. Bluer Skies Than This
3. Homeward
4. My Last and Latest Chance
5. I Deny

All the best for now,
Johnny Coppin

Hopeland (Notes from Corsica) 15. Jan and David Reese

Next to the church in Montemagiorre was a big pale blue house in glorious disrepair. It always intrigued us and I asked Robert about the owners.

“This is the house of the family Reese. David and Jan have lived in the village for over 30 years. Their children went to our school and were brought up as Corsican.” He went on to explain that David was Australian and had helped develop tourism in Corsica. He had started out as a simple rep and after much travel had turned his hand to travel writing. He and his English wife Jan (another Janet) now shared their life between winters in Paris and long idyllic summers in the village house. Late one afternoon we received a phone call from Janet Reese to invite us to their home for an aperitif. “6.30 would be fine. Just knock and come up.”

I knocked and Di sang out ‘cuckoo’. No answer, I leant on the half open door. A huge stone staircase formed the backbone of the house. As we ascended we peeked into the shadowy rooms; there were no doors, every irregular space lay open, crooked, lopsided interiors beckoned. Furnishings were a sparse clutter of antiques; the peeling walls were covered in gaudy prints and a few vivid oil paintings. Dusty light crept in through the shutters, casting everything in a verdant hue. It felt as if we had been spirited into some secret silent world. This was a house for exploring. I wanted to be six again. Spellbound we whispered and crept higher.

“Cuckoo” tweeted Di again. The door at the top of the stairs flew open bathing everything in impossible sunlight. A man beamed down at us.

“Ah, welcome, welcome, yes, yes, come on in, please, yes.”

He beckoned us into the light with wide-open arms and we entered a large drawing room. This seemed to be the final resting place for the world’s most comfortable chairs. Mismatched sofas and split armchairs all faced inwards towards an unlit fire and begged for our attention. Terra cotta tiles added to an ambience of cool calm, doorways led off in acute angels upwards and downwards into intriguing shadows. There were books everywhere.

“You must be, ah, Kevin and Debby, yes, yes. David. David Reese. That’s me of course. Yes. Lovely to meet you.”

Shrugging his shoulders he giggled, squeezed our hands and gestured towards the comfy chairs.

“It’s ‘Trevor and Di’, darling, Trevor and Di” sang a warm voice from an adjacent room, the welcoming clink of glass on ice suggested it must be the kitchen. Janet entered with a beatific beam and a tray of cold drinks that she handed to David. He placed the tray on a small camphorwood chest before reaching for his wife and there they stood arm in arm, leaning towards us, smiling. Janet, a slender woman in her early sixties was elegantly swathed in beige linen; a turquoise head scarf accentuated blue eyes that twinkled playfully. David wore a tatty red ‘V’ necked jumper tucked into crumpled khakis that rested a good six inches above his bare boney ankles. He was short and stout, not a hair on his head but a luxuriant bushy white beard split into the sweetest smile. They seemed happiness personified, a perfect ‘odd couple’. As they disappeared into the kitchen Di and I sank further into our enveloping chairs and simultaneously mouthed ‘Father Christmas’.

Reemerging with bowls full of olives and crisps, our hosts beckoned us to follow them out onto a balcony that overlooked the church. Looking down onto the village square Jan talked us through the comings and goings of nightfall in La Place, relating the stories of the passing villagers who would occasionally look up and wave, always smiling. David kept our wine glasses full and grimaced as he sipped on a pallid cordial.

“I used to love my wine. Sorry to say that I have recently been forced to banish Bacchus from my life.” he drew a hand across his mouth and eyed my glass nervously.

“I must confess to missing the scoundrel’s company. Good health is such a precious gift”, he added wistfully. He caught Jan’s eye and chuckled. “Now, would you like a slice of Janet’s excellent potato pie?”

The evening was full of easy laughter and stories of travel.

Jan and David had met in Italy as travelers and left as lovers, eventually finding and falling for Corsica in the early seventies.  After living their initial years of marriage within Calvi’s Citadel they had thrown all of their savings at this wonderfully decadent pile in Montemaggiore with plans of renovation, before recognizing the peculiar rustic charms of the house and resigning themselves to its dusty magic. Here they had started a family, two boys and two girls.

“The children all grew up in the village.” Jan went into the house and came back with a photo album.

“Here’s Saskia, our first born, then Nicholas, Sebastian and our baby, Natasha. Nicco, Seb and Tasha all now live and work in Paris.”

“And Saskia, is she still on the island?” asked Di.

“Yes, I suppose she is” Jan looked across at David “We lost her, here in the house. She was fifteen. An accident. She is buried above in the village cemetery.”

“More wine I think”, whispered David.

And so we came to love David and Janet’s company; their every gesture seemed an invitation towards betterment and that generosity was infectious; we missed them when they were in Paris. In the summer months they now became the centre of the village for us, they discreetly drip-fed stories about the people of Montemaggiore, helping us to understand them better. Over the course of the ensuing years as we got to know these folk and their ways, we came to think of them as extended family. They rarely reciprocated with any great show of affection; but they did seem to like us, and that was enough. Our visits became regular and we eagerly anticipated them: early summer, late summer, Christmas and Easter. Family and friends from England visited and we took great pleasure in introducing them to the joys of the Balagne. We often encouraged a houseful, deliberately forcing ourselves out of Chez Diane and onto the road to explore other parts of the island and we learned to love it more; each day always offered up a gift, but wherever we ventured we always looked forward to our return to the house.

And so the years passed. Our plans for developing the two caves of Chez Diane into living spaces were put on the backburner as we came to love the house for what it was. We put in a new bathroom and spruced things up with the occasional lick of paint, but besides a few sticks of furniture and a dishwasher no drastic changes were made. The very thought of radio and television was vetoed by Di, when in Corsica we lived in glorious isolation and came to cherish the detachment, scowling at the phone when it rang.

The natural rhythm of life ensured the inevitable losses; Marie-Lucie’s black Labrador Diane went missing, much to everyone’s distress. She was always a welcoming presence A Cima. Then Lucie died; Titin was heartbroken, weeping openly and often, blowing his big red nose into one of her delicate lace hankies. Retreating into his house he was solemnly tended to by his family and the villagers. For weeks we saw no sign of him until early one morning we were awoken by the tap tap tapping of the artist at work; he had started on a sculpture that we now like to think of as Lucie. He still refuses to acknowledge this but his last and latest work sits sternly on the rock that overlooks Titin’s front door and bears a striking resemblance.

When Victor Savelli passed away the olive mill shut down and sat sadly vacant for a year or two before his son eventually reopened it.

David Reese’s long-term illness finally overcame him, at which point Jan revealed that she too had cancer.

She followed David within months.