Excess Baggage

Tuesday 15th September. Rehearsals, The Warehouse, Kennington, Oxford.

With no car of my own on the road, the only way I was going get all of my equipment down to Oxfordshire was to hire one. Thankfully, the Park Records office took care of this. Right on the dot of 9 a.m. this morning the door bell rang, and their stood Mister Hire-Car Man himself. He drove me to the depot, filled in all the paperwork, and showed me the ins and outs of the new Vauxhall Astra I’d be driving.

I’d been preparing myself and my luggage for quite some time leading up to this day. As from today I won’t be home for, well to be precise - two days short of two months, and between now and then there’s America, Australia and New Zealand. The day I arrive home is Sunday November 8th; on my return I’ll maybe get one, or if Im lucky, two days at home before heading back to Oxford once again in preparation for the winter tour.

So with all this time away, and the logistics of that to consider, what I take with me today - guitars, amps, cables, clothes, etc, has to be carefully thought through. Due to baggage restrictions, what’s going to the States with me on Friday is a scaled down version of what I’d want to take. Then I have to think about whether, with my car problems, I’ll need to take whatever equipment I’m going to use in November on the UK winter tour to Oxford now.
I’m not sure if it’s just me, but I find packing before I go away stressful at the best of times.

It was about 2:30 p.m. by the time I arrived at the Warehouse. The following three hours were spent brushing up on what we played during the Spring dates. Bass player Pete Zorn is back with us for the international gigs; Rick should be back in action on the winter tour.

Thursday 17th September. The Village Hall, Nettlebed, Oxforshire.
The usual warm-up gig. Well it is, this where we always seem to play after the two or three days of rehearsals that precede our tours. It’s certainly one of the larger folk clubs, and can’t recall it being any less than totally sold out whenever the band has played here.

The most unique feature of the venue is the ceiling above the stage; if you’re looking for a good onstage sound, then forget it. It has a concave recess to it that has the effect of eliminating any kind of definition between one instrument and the next - and between one voice and the next.
There’s some law of physics going on here, maybe along the same lines of the famous Whispering Gallery at St Paul’s Cathedral; it’s something I experienced before we even started the sound-check; I was standing stage left when I heard someone speaking, and it was as though they were literally standing right behind me talking into my ear. When I turned around I saw they were in fact positioned on the far side of the stage.
But when the band starts playing, all that pronounced clarity turns into a, well lets say a ‘soup’ of sound, making it impossible much of the time to pick out its individual elements. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve listened to various band members here complaining bitterly that they couldn’t hear their instrument or / and their voice. And of course they’re right - neither could I.

As far as I’m concerned all you can do, to save oneself from any grief, is to trust that out-front in the house it probably sounds just fine; you see, I’ve never witnessed an unhappy audience at Nettlebed, which says it all really.

Friday 18th September. Travel day. London - Boston.
Last nights accommodation was close to Heathrow airport. We made an early start this morning, reaching the airport not much later than 9 a.m.. I got to witness Terminal 5 for the first time - now with all its famous teething problems evidently well and truly in the past.

The flight, British Airways flight BA 213 took off a little later than its scheduled 11:25 time, but once in the air the journey was smooth going. We landed at Boston Logan International, Terminal 3 some seven hours later.

Kari is the tour manager here in the States - she met us at the airport, and we went about loading our considerable quantity of luggage and musical equipment into what appeared from the outside to be a very sizeable Ford touring bus; in fact, to fit everything into the bus, and then to have any room left for humans, involved not an inconsiderable degree of creativity and strategic thought.
This was a job for a drummer, our drummer - Liam, a man who, luckily, just can’t help but to take control in such situations. It seems to be a double sided scenario; a compulsion to both take control, and then to complain about how difficult it is. I have to admit though, it was a heavy job, lifting those cases in and out of what was a fifteen person vehicle, but with seats positioned in such a way that there wasn’t actually any official space for luggage, so all the cases had to be lifted and placed over, onto, and in between the seats - a process to be repeated a multitude of times during the following days.

We checked into the Somerville Holiday Inn, and that evening went out for Mexican food - something I’ve missed terribly since my days in California. I can hardly describe the pleasure; nachos, quesadillas, chili relleno and margaritas - fantastic.

Pete Zorn & Liam doing the organising.

Maddy filming me, filming her.

Saturday 19th September. Somerville Theatre, Somerville, Massachusetts.
Got the train to downtown Boston this afternoon; it wasn’t easy. On arriving at the closest station - Sullivan Square - I was faced with a number of ticket machines; I had no idea where exactly I was heading, and no idea how the machines worked. Oddly, there were no instructions as to how to how the machines worked, and more oddly, no maps of the train system at the station entrance. And there was one more blindingly missing crucial feature - someone who might be able to help me.

I was stood there with a ten dollar bill in my hand; looking at the machine; looking across towards the platforms; watching others confidently inserting money, hitting buttons, taking tickets and picking up change, and moving smoothly through the automated barriers - not one of them noticing my inanimate behaviour. What I had to do, I decided, was to, more-or-less, jump in front of one of these single-minded commuters as they are in full flow, and hope they take pity.

“I’d like to go to downtown Boston”, I asked a young woman. “Could you tell me which station I should get a ticket to?”. “Well, when I lived here”, she replied, “I’d go to . . .”, then she reeled off one station name after another. Eventually, it was decided I would go to Park Street. Great. I said thank you very much, and she walked away through the barrier and towards the trains.
So then I turned to the ticket machine once again - to buy my ticket to Park Street; shit, I’d forgotten to ask about the ticket machine!

The next victim was a young black guy, and very helpful. He took the money out of my hand, and a second or two later issued me with a ticket, my change, and the instruction to get a train on the Orange Line going ‘that’–pointing to the right–‘way’.

I enjoyed walking round Boston; I like it here. First thing I did was find a T-Mobile shop, and buy a sim card.
It’s important if you bring your phone to the US that: 1. Your phone is either a Tri-band or Quad-band phone (UK phones are largely Dual-band, and won’t work here); 2. That one buys an American sim card for the phone - so as to avoid paying hideous international roaming charges; 3. In order to use a different network, your phone will need to be unlocked.

So I got the card into my mobile, and sent a text with my new number to Carol. We have this deal at home in the UK where you can register the house phone with a special website - there are a few of them - the one we use is called 18185.co.uk. Once registered, what you do is dial 18185 before the number you’re calling; this cuts the cost of your calls dramatically. For Carol to phone me here in the States, on my mobile, the cost is 1p a minute.
I remember a time when it was more like £1.00 a minute.

It was time for a coffee now. I noticed in the bookstore Borders there was a coffee shop; it’s usually Starbucks at any Borders I’ve seen in the UK, here it’s Seattle’s Best Coffee; ‘it must be good then’. Ordered a large espresso machiato, drank it and worried about the rest of Seattle’s coffee.

Tonight’s show. The audience was amazing; so vocal; so expressive. They just don’t hold back here.

Under-Rehearsed & Over-Heated

Solo
Sunday 30th August. The Cumbria Guitar Show.
I’ve played every year at this guitar show for a decade now, and possibly a bit longer. It was seven years ago when Rick Kemp just happened to walk in during my set, an event that resulted in that historic landmark in the world of folk-rock, the merging of Steeleye Span with myself. Well, in our house it’s an historic landmark.

Just before the band’s 35th anniversary year, the band members were asked to each write a piece that would go into the program, or the brochure to be sold at all the concerts. I chose to tell the tale of that fateful day - it was a kind of ‘Sliding Doors’ scenario; a slice of serendipity. Here are some of the words I wrote …

I’m thinking back to August 25th 2002, a Sunday morning, and a day I been booked to perform at a guitar show in a place called Penrith, a town that sits about ninety miles north of Preston, where I live. I was feeling rather under-rehearsed, having not picked the guitar up for a few days, so I figured I should get some practice in before heading up the M6 motorway.
As I was getting more and more comfortable with my Fylde guitar, I was also getting less and less comfortable with the amount of time left to get to my gig. The agreed performance time was 1 p.m., and I was supposed to arrive forty five minutes before that.

You could say I’ve never been the most successful individual when it comes to arriving places on time - punctuality always appearing to be a most desirable attribute, and a most commendable one in those who achieve it. Today, yet again, the mould would not be broken.

Thankfully though, the organiser of the show was an understanding fellow, and gracefully he swapped my performance time with another artist’s, putting me on at 2 p.m.. So, that’s the time I eventually got up on stage and started my spot, during which, I recall thinking to myself that it was all going quite well and that the practice seemed to be paying off.

Anyway, unbeknown to me, and about halfway through my set, in walked bassist, Rick Kemp, and as they say - ‘the rest is history’.

That’s more or less how I ended up as a Steeleye Span member - something that may never have happened had I been more skilled as a time keeper.

Today’s visit to what is now called The Cumbria Guitar Show, again turned out to be a very eventful occasion, with the first event taking place a mile and a half from junction 40 on the M6, the Penrith turn-off.

On the way there, I could sense that there was something slightly different in the way the car was handling, and then when I put my foot down on the throttle, we started to lose power.
Instinctively, I looked down at the temperature gauge, and I knew we were in trouble.

Carol was travelling with me, along with our mutual friend Val. Carol and I had four nights in Scotland lined up, a mini holiday before I go travelling the world for the next few months. The plan was to play the guitar show (80 miles north of Preston), go on from there to Dumfries for the one night (Sunday), and then on Monday drive up to Ayr for the remaining three. Now we were sitting in a 1994 Toyota Previa on the hard shoulder of the motorway, and I was trying to work out what our next move should be.

The engine had died the moment the car came to a standstill, but once it cooled down a little I managed to get it re-started, and with hazard lights flashing we crawled along the hard shoulder to the turn-off. I parked up at a Little Chef on the A66, about one third of a mile from the Rheged Centre where the two day Bank Holiday weekend show was being staged.

After calling the AA I left Carol and Val with the car, while I set foot to find help; I needed to somehow get my equipment and guitars to the venue. I did find help - in the shape of someone called Simon who offered to drive me back to my car; the whole stretch of road from the venue back to the motorway was a dual carriageway with a central barrier running its entire length, which offered no opportunity for a U-turn. We’d have to go past my car, round the motorway roundabout, and come back on ourselves in order to reach the stricken vehicle.

I was due on at 1:30 p.m.; it was now about 1:25. OK, so we hit the roundabout; at this point Simon went into some kind of default mode - something inside him must of thought, ‘right, we’re going home now’, and he turned, automatically, onto the M6 - southbound. He realised almost instantly what he’d done, but unless we’d have wanted to have reversed the wrong way up a slip road–and ended up as stars of Police, Camera, Action–the only choice was to keep going.

It just so happens that the distance between next turning, junction 39 - the Shap turning, and the one that just led us onto the motorway - junction 40, is possibly the longest distance between two junctions I know of. It was now time to make my grand entry onto the stage, and I was travelling south on the M6 for the next ten minutes, before we could even turn back in the right direction.

It took some work to stay calm, I tell you, but stay calm is what I did. You have to be as pragmatic as you can be, there’s not really any choice if you want to make the best of a scenario like this - or at least if you want to limit the damage as much as is possible.

By the time we’d got to the car, picked up the guitars, and I was ready to launch into my set. it was close to 2 o’clock. It was good though, even if my head wasn’t all there and I’d not had an opportunity to warm up; I had plenty to talk about though when I was up there.

Carol didn’t get to see the show. She’d travelled with the breakdown truck back to Preston, where she dropped my car off outside the mechanics, picked up her own car, and drove back to Penrith. She arrived back at something like 7:30, and we proceeded–both considerably worn out–with our holiday plans.

Monday 31st August to Thursday 3rd September. Ayr, Scotland.
The calm before the storm; a time to relax and an attempted avoidance of any thought or anticipation of what’s to follow in the next few weeks.
First stop was Dumfries on the Sunday night (a late arrival after the car debacle), then on to Ayr the following day.

In Ayr we’d booked three nights in a hotel that in the pictures looked grand, elegant and stately - the pictures didn’t lie. The Name: The Belleisle Hotel. It sits in some spectacular grounds, much of which is the Belleisle golf course. The down side was that much of the hotel was not operational, as we had been led to believe from the advertising; due to the low number of guests the restaurant wasn’t open, and neither was the bar, although they would open it especially for you if you required it.
But it was quiet. And the staff were nothing less than brilliant.

I have to say, I can’t think of many other places I’ve been in the world where people are as downright pleasant and friendly as here in Ayr. I love this town.

On Tuesday we played golf on the Belleisle course, and on Wednesday played at one of the three Troon public courses. These public courses are quite pricey when compared to the equivalent in England, but I’d say they are maintained to a standard that justifies the price - in my opinion the greens are as good as the greens at Royal Lytham and St Annes, where I played just a couple of weeks earlier.

The Devil You Know

Solo
Thursday 6th August. Macclesfield Tennis Club.
I’m not certain how what began as a casual invite to play in a charity golf event morphed its way into a solo concert; although, I’m not sure why I said that - I do know how it happened. In fact no morphing took place, it was something that just got added on.

And I still got to play golf, which took place at a particularly good course in Cheshire called Tytherington; it’s a fairly long course; and it was a very long day.

My friend, James, was the organiser of this event; he’s a member of Macclesfield tennis club, and the object of the day was to raise few quid, - one, for the club, and two, for the East Cheshire Hospice.
James originall asked me to play two sets, but I knew a whole evening of performing was going to be asking too much - not just of the performer (me), but of an audience that would be looking for a ‘certain kind’ of entertainment at such an occasion, so I suggested one short set of around 40 minutes, and James agreed to that.

I’ll describe the golf first: pretty steady - as is quite usual these days, but with a couple of complete disasters - as is quite usual these days. If I could only stop the disasters from happening! If it wasn’t for those errant two or three holes in just about every round I play I could be hitting in the 70s - albeit the high 70s. But they do say it’s all about staying in your ‘comfort zone’, and never have I found a comfort zone to be so uncomfortable - still, it is a familiar discomfort, which I guess is what it’s all about; I think it’s called the Devil you know.

If you’ve ever played a little golf you may have discovered that there’s so much about it that tells you about ‘you’, it’s an illustration of how you deal with - life’s challenges and hazards; your ability to think on your feet; to plan, and to stay focused when all doesn’t go according to plan. It’s a conduit, as in - a channel through which your hopes, frustrations, and whatever else you might be harbouring in the deepest recesses of ‘the self’ will be externalised; it’s a mirror that will bring you face to face with your fear - when ‘in truth’ there’s absolutely nothing whatsoever to be all that fearful of.

We may, of course, go through our lives with some level of realisation that certain fears, certain obstacles, are within us; the difference, when it comes to the game of golf, is the way in which one has to continue the desired and considered physical actions–the timing, the tempo, the composure–at the very same time as those often negative psychological influences have a greater or lesser bearing on that process.

Sure, there are a multitude of other areas in life that the same can be said for - performing music is one that instantly springs to mind. But the paradox with golf is so strong, so apparent - possibly because of its outwardly benign persona.

Certainly, if you don’t want to show the world your true colours, it’s best to stay away from the game.

Nicol & Cool
Thursday 13th August. The Cropredy Festival.
Very different from the average festival, this one, certainly when it comes to the age factor. It’s a club, a big one, a large collection of people who–separately–shared an experience once-upon-a-time, one that can now be re-lived, re-captured, reminisced over, and commemorated ‘collectively’ in this regular anniversary of folk music; that’s folk music in its broadest sense. I say broadest despite a personal feeling that although the festival attempts to, and does a good job of, presenting a very broad spectrum of music, one that extends toward genres that ‘typically’ speaking, would have a thread–tenuous to say the least–connecting them to the ‘common’ perception of ‘folk’, my suspicion is that a great many of the attenders would be more than happy with having nothing other than their small handful of favourite way-back-when artists performing here. Much of it is about what’s comfortable.
That’s not intended as an overly negative comment; it’s natural I think that we should reach for those familiar heroes. But in recent years I have reflected so much on the subject of what music actually is, and how it’s possible, or indeed not possible, to evaluate it on the basis of impartial merit.
There is indeed good argument to state that there’s no such thing as ‘impartial merit’ - that ‘skill’, musically speaking, in many peoples eyes certainly does not necessarily constitute ‘good’. This is why so much that’s seen as just ‘brilliant’ out there in the mainstream, would undoubtedly be described by the musically literate as nothing less than remedial.
What is seen as ‘good’ is what ‘connects’, and what ‘connects’ is what has emotional relevance to its listener.

Also, there is the always ‘jazz clap’ scenario - that which is collectively agreed upon as good, whether it sends a shiver down your back or not. It’s a self-induced shiver - induced because the listener has a preconception and expectation that gives cause to a manufactured euphoria, one which corresponds with an abstract, magical notion of how good a particular artist is purported to be.

My own desire to play music came at a time when I was inspired by something I saw within it as ‘absolute’. It was my way, at the time, of finding and expressing truth. Rather simplistic, maybe, but enough to motivate me in a very single-minded way.

Since that time my considerations and observations have become far from single-minded; the result being that the ‘absolute’ has been largely displaced by the ‘subjective’. If I were to put this into more simple language, it’s that I have appreciated more and more the ‘individual take’ that everyone seems to have on all things, music being just one of them.
At some point (or various points) in that observational journey one is bound to experience some disappointment and cynicism, a consequence of when such a majestic view has a little reality beaten into it. But ultimately it is the only way you can go; as a creative musician, or indeed as anyone who feels they have something to say, there is nothing more important than saying it - this is how to stay sane; and whenever ‘what you say’ strikes a chord in the heart of another, it is a ‘by-product’, and one from which you can take great satisfaction.

Just a few thoughts there to pass the time of day; but enough of that for the time being, we’re at a festival. And going back to the point made earlier, the subject of age, it was hard to ignore the significant number of younger faces here. I imagine these are the people who grew up with music echoing through their respective households that fell outside of the mainstream - the music, that is, not the households - although I expect some would see the two as inseparable.

The festival seems to be more popular than ever, and for a first day, a Thursday, the speed at which the field became more and more congested was striking; all this despite these difficult economic times - or maybe because of it?

Phil and I were officially due on stage at 6:30 p.m. It was tight before hand getting things set up - it very often is, and usually because of other acts exceeding their allotted time. But 6:30 it was when we launched into our opener - Sunny Afternoon, the Ray Davies song; and that’s exactly what it was - a sunny afternoon.

After the show, and the forty five minute signing session–they’re quite exhausting these signing sessions–Phil went straight back home to Lancashire to get himself ready for his week to come at the Edinburgh Festival, while Carol and I just hung out for while, with friend Laura Grace - probably until around 10 p.m., then we headed back to the hotel in Banbury. We made an early start the following morning back to Preston.

A great feature for me every time I’m here is the vegetarian Indian food. There’s something about post-show time, and something about the little things you look forward to - it might be the glass of wine or beer; arriving back at the hotel, and turning the television on maybe. One of my favourites has always been the twelve o’clock news on Radio Four as I drive back home. Here at Cropredy it’s about getting a pint of beer, and a mountain of that Indian food on a paper plate.

Sliding Floors

Steeleye Span

Thursday 23rd July. Recording, Preston.

Late in the day; this would accurately describe the way today’s recording session was arranged; arranged, more than anything else, on the back of the band’s performance, due this coming Saturday in Doncaster.

Doncaster is probably a good hundred miles from here (Preston), but to many southerners, what’s most relevant is that it lies beyond a town in Hertfordshire, UK; a town that’s situated 19 miles north-west of central London - yes, Watford.
Everything beyond is, of course, the north of England, which just so happens to mean that in this region there is no distance, to speak of, between any two locations.

For some reason I can hear my Mother saying to me, "sarcasm is the lowest form of wit", - a phrase that used to be delivered with profound regularity (well, certainly during my teen years). 

I’d often hear these words, and wonder as to the criteria, or the research used to determine such a conclusion. Not necessarily convinced, I’d often think to myself, ‘Surely there must be a lower form of wit somewhere out there?’. I had learnt though that it was best at these times to not over-complicate things.

OK, I admit it is unreasonable to tar all southerners with the same brush; not completely
 unreasonable, but unreasonable nevertheless. 

Speaking of which, I just recalled a golfing partner the other day who told me, ‘I hate Pakistanis’! My reaction was to enquire as to how he’d ever found the time to get to know them all?

Then I half-jokingly suggested that the only Pakistani that worried me was one who belonged to the Taliban or maybe Al-Qaeda. His reply was, ‘yes, but these days there’s no way you can tell the difference’!

I personally have never felt qualified to make such generalised assessments of race, colour or nationality, although I do admit to often having a strong feeling of incredulity and dismay by the apparent human propensity towards the holding of certain beliefs - and certainly towards the words or practices of 'some' of those that hold them.
However, many of these ‘some’ are as likely to live next door or round the corner from me than in an Islamic state thousands of miles from here.

But yes, back to the recording; a session that was sprung on me, as I said - ‘late in the day’ 
The one thing we hadn’t spent much time on down in Cornwall was backing vocals. Without exception it seems to be one of the very last touches in the recording process. I’m sure there are others who approach things differently, but this has always been my experience. My studio is well equipped for these finishing touches; it’s equipped for much more really, but it’s a little compromised when it comes to space. I have recorded bands in there, even two albums with the Albion Band, but it’s not exactly ideal for that kind of thing.

It just so happens that I had spent the first three days of this week putting a new laminate (floating) floor into the vocal room of the studio; this was more through necessity than anything else, having discovered a damp problem the previous week. Although the resulting acoustic properties of the room were not a major concern of mine, I was curious as to how the hard laminate surface and its reflective quality would effect the sound of anything recorded in there.

So, early afternoon, and Pete, Maddy and Rick arrived; we set about getting these BVs done. As the day progressed it became obvious we’d need more time to complete things, more time than was available today, and anyway, we were all tired. So at 7:30 / 8 p.m. we called it a day agreeing to continue tomorrow morning before the trip to Doncaster. After I’d recommended a first class Indian take-away (The Shapla, Watery Lane, Preston) to the two of them, Rick and Pete went to their hotel; Maddy stayed here with Carol and I, and the three of us had dinner.


Steeleye Span

Friday 24th July. Recording, Preston / rehearsals, Doncaster.
One thing leads to another - a timeless truth, and one that’s particularly noticeable given the virtual impromptu character of recent events.
As illustrated in yesterday’s writing, it certainly seems to be the nature of how so much has taken place of late.

Certainly, one set of circumstances has to develop in order to present the next set; every single thing is an offshoot of something else. In this regard, I see ‘us’, mortal spirits, call us what you will, as the designers of our own destiny; the utilisers and the creators of possibility and probability, yet–other than in our own minds–not ultimately the masters as we might like to believe. This could be where ‘destiny’ and ‘freewill’ are seen to coexist.

There is that which we can do absolutely nothing about, and that which we can. 
Although it was Daniel Defoe who originally made the inference (The Political History of the Devil, 1726); the ‘immortal’ phrase: ‘In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes’, is generally attributed to Benjamin Franklin.
Death is, of course, inevitable, but it appears that we can exercise ‘some’ influence over how and when it occurs. This leads me to consider the possibility of less visible inevitabilities - whether they be laid down, as some think, by an invisible governing force, or are an inevitable outcome of past action - the culmination of a sequence of events.

I loved the film Sliding Doors (and not just because Gwyneth Paltrow was in it, as has been implied by some). The story illustrates perfectly how events, although seen as profoundly important by the mortal eye, can also be regarded as transient and circumstantial in that they twist and turn depending on fleeting decisions, or timing - as in the film.
A difference of a few seconds between whether a train is boarded or not can potentially result in one’s life dramatically changing course.
However, as with the inevitability of death, the story also implies that there are specific people one is bound or destined to meet, maybe children to be had - and perhaps other life changing scenarios that have to take place at some time, in some way - whether you like it or not!. 
These might constitute the core reasons for your life - your purpose here. And these core reasons take place regardless of things like one’s career or financial standing, etc.

It’s always possible that in our quest to find meaning in life we dream up such ‘divine’ ideas as these, but then to write them off is also possibly part of a quest, a quest to find meaninglessness in life; and if we are the creators of possibility, then I can’t think of a better reason than to choose the divine. 

Whatever the specific details are, whether the subject be matters of purposefulness or pointlessness, mortality or immortality, the sheer fact that we can conceive, let alone debate such issues is an indication of our unique position on this planet. And by this, I am not inferring that it’s a position of superiority; all living things have their uniqueness, but ours is set apart by our ability to create, build, discuss; and the coup de grâce - the ability to be aware of one’s consciousness and existence.

As humans we are very adept in the art of self-delusion; contrary to popular belief, I would state that this is an indication of an evolved state; if fact, I’d go as far as to say that to label the art of self-delusion as anything other than creative brilliance is self-delusionary.
Still, familiarity does breed contempt, and unless one makes a real point of reminding oneself of ‘the miracle of it all’, the miracle falls easily and comfortably back into the ordinariness of day to day life.

Apart from all these ‘developed’ attributes (or some might say ‘hindrances’) that are characteristic of humanness, we are still, of course, animals; speaking of which, I do sympathise with the–not insubstantial–numbers of people (and I know some of them) who see other members of the animal kingdom in two distinct ways: 1. That they, the other animals, know something ‘we’ don’t - as though they actually have a higher level of intelligence; and 2. That they understand the English language - oh, and can mind read.

The reason for my sympathy is that I too, effortlessly, am inclined to see them in the very same way (especially my cat), until, that is, I catch myself doing it. 
Of course, there’s a lot of what I’d call ‘projection’ going on here; maybe those with a background in psychology might be familiar with this, and would use the term - transference. 
If ‘transference’ is a term you’re unfamiliar with, it is when someone unconsciously turns the person or object they are relating to into someone or something other than who or what they actually are. 

Another good description I’ve found might be: "the redirection of feelings and desires, and especially of those unconsciously retained from childhood toward a new object.”
Now tell me, what more evidence would better illustrate the brilliant complexity of the human condition?

And so back to another phenomenon of the human condition - Steeleye Span; we finished our recording at midday. The rehearsal room in Doncaster was booked from 5 p.m. onwards. 
It took me something like three hours to travel from Preston to my destination in South Yorkshire, and on arrival was told that Liam’s plane from Italy was delayed coming into Stansted, so the rest of us went through the set as a four piece.

Steeleye Span

Saturday 25th July. The Dome, Doncaster.

Called ‘Doncaster Rocks’ this is a day long ‘folk’, ‘folk-rock’ spectacular.
Fortunately the rehearsal studio, the one that Liam couldn’t get to yesterday was available again this morning, so we ran the set once more, this time as a five piece.


After rehearsal, there was probably a good four or five hours to kill before our scheduled spot at 6:30 p.m. - enough time for me to buy two pairs of shoes, locate the stage door at The Dome, unload the guitars and amp, then to hang out and relax a while before the show.
I have to say these are the gigs I like - the bigger ones, where you just get on stage, crank the amp up, and away you go.
Today’s line-up, in order of appearance was:

Julie Felix

The Popes

The (Acoustic) Strawbs

Steeleye Span

Jethro Tull

The Lancashire Hotpots

What impressed me? 

I didn’t get to see a lot, but the Strawbs–a name I do know well, yet a band who’s music I’ve never been familiar with–sounded mighty, and that was with just three acoustic guitars.
Their main singer, Dave Cousins - most likely ‘the name’ people associate with the group, sang with real power. We all know the art of singing can become increasingly difficult as age catches up with us, yet Dave told of how he feels that his voice has become stronger with time.



What else impressed? 

The standard of musicianship in Jethro Tull.

And what was the down side of the event? 

I opened a bottle of sparkling mineral water in the dressing room, and in the process a small amount of water fizzed out onto the table. Just before going on stage I placed my mobile phone onto the same table; by the time I got back when the show was finished, I could see there was a small channel of water that had worked its way along the table towards my phone, and it had collected underneath it. That was it - no phone; it wouldn’t work (it took a week to dry out before working again).

Have you ever interviewed yourself before?

I’ve always been unavailable in the past, so no, have never interviewed myself before; I quite like it though, and might well do it again soon.

Big Nights In Smallhythe

Nicol & Cool

Tuesday 14th July. The Railway Folk Club, Dartford, Kent.

When Jim told me that Phil and I had the opportunity to play at a folk club in Kent called the Railway, I was really taken aback, or maybe I should say - transported back, back - I thought - something like twenty years; it had to be about that because it wasn’t long after I’d come back from the US. 
On my return, I’d been spending a little time at John Hade’s house, a friend who lived in south London; he too had moved back to the UK from LA at around the same time.

I first met John on a golf course; he was in the music biz - managing the Thomson Twins; they were big, very big actually at the time, having already had at least two major hit records on both sides of the Atlantic. I had a band too, they weren’t at all big, in fact we were struggling, and we were called Versailles.

The golf course was on Griffith Park, not far from Hollywood; I would just turn up there, pay my green fee, and the woman at the counter would normally say something like, “there’s a threesome up on the tee, if you’d like to join them?”. 

On this one particular occasion John just happened to be part of the threesome, or twosome, I can’t recall just how many, but by the time we reached the back nine I was working out how to get this new found golf partner interested in managing a second band.

And that is what eventually transpired; I do wish I could say that on that fateful day a story of success and riches was born, but it wasn’t to be.

As is the nature of the business for a great many of us, there were a very good number of ‘nearly’ moments; numerous deals that were ‘as good as done’ but didn’t actually get done. Very often it was all about that specific person in some publishing company or another who talked about contracts, percentages and advances, before he either got moved to a different department, or lost his job completely.
However, John and I did remain friends through and beyond all of this, and continued to play a little golf together in Richmond Park for a time.

I recall rehearsing at John’s flat on the day of my Dartford gig. As stated earlier, I was thinking it was probably twenty years ago, but tonight when club organiser Pam arrived at the Dartford Working Men’s Club, where the folk club is held each Tuesday, she placed
 a small piece of paper in my hand; written on it was: KEN NICOL 23 AUG - 88.
She told me that along with her husband Allan, they have been running this club for thirty six years; in my books, that’s what’s called dedication and commitment.

It was a good night, the only questionable area being the house lights being left on whilst Phil and I were on stage.
These issues often aren’t regarded with any great importance in the rustic world of folk music, but it’s surprising what a difference it can make to the general atmosphere or ambience in a room. 
So when I kicked off the second half with ‘2 Frets From the Blues’ I asked for, and got the lights turned off in the house; it did make a difference.

Nicol & Cool

Wednesday 15th July. The Ellen Terry Barn Theatre, Smallhythe Place, Tenterden, Kent. 

This place, this Smallhythe Place is so Goddamn cool. It sits on National Trust land just outside the bustling metropolis they call Tenterden here in the Home County (I can now state with authority) of Kent .

It was almost two years ago when I last visited this backwater; they had just launched their maiden - full scale - music festival. There were two, maybe three stages–all fairly modest in size; the one I performed on that night was the same we perform on today.
And it is, as the title suggests, a barn that has been converted into a theatre.

You’d think maybe it was a venue for music by the shear fact that we are here tonight, but in fact it was founded by Dame Ellen Terry the famous nineteenth and early twentieth century Shakespearian actress - and originally she created it as a theatre for drama.
In fact, this is what it’s still used for the great majority of the time.

This coming Sunday there’s a poetry and reading evening presented by non less than Nicola McAuliffe, Jenny Seagrove and Martin Shaw, accompanied by Simon James, called: Horses and other Beasties.

To put this into perspective, the theatre has a little over sixty seats, each of which carry the name of its distinguished sponsor; this is an indication of how highly regarded an institution it is.
Many, many legendary names from the world of theatre have walked these boards.

Sunday’s production is a fund raising event for a horse refuge, and with names like Jenny Seagrove and Martin Shaw, it sounds like quite a coup to me.

OK, about our show; the audience, the setting, the atmosphere - all were fantastic. Now when was the last time you heard me say that?
To learn more about Ellen Terry, and the theatre: Smallhythe Place

Nicol & Cool

Thursday 16th July. The Met, Bury. 

“We were made welcome from the moment we arrived”, - this is what I wrote on the ‘artist feedback form’ in the dressing room; and it was true. 

I know I’m always harking back to the last time I played wherever it is we’re currently playing, but it seems like the natural thing to do, and it’s always interesting from my perspective to compare the ‘then’ to the ‘now’.

Here at the Met, quite a bit has changed since my last visit with, it must be - the Albions; yes, that was at least nine years ago. It sounds like a long time ago, but it feels more recent than I can easily describe; in fact I’ve got a kind of Google search of my own going on in my brain - trying to locate what it was I’ve done here since, but it keeps telling me: your research did not match any documents. Guess it must’ve been the Albions then!

Like a lot of these small to medium size theatres, they’ve installed an automated tiered seating system. It’s very impressive to watch as the entirety of the theatre’s seats - either slowly retract into what looks like nothing more than a perfect symmetrical wall of compacted furniture; or - in perfect reversal - it expands into the only form the audience ever gets to see and sit on.

Officially called: telescopic bleachers, or retractable platforms, each of these inward and outward movements are accompanied by an unsettling noise, a loud siren that tells you in an indirect but unmistakable tone as it retracts, that if you were to remain seated, you would become ‘one’ with this telescopic process.

And I’d probably have to recommend the café / restaurant - if the cappuccinos are anything to go by.

I often take the opportunity to write when Phil does his second half comedy spot; he’s presently doing his Rolf Harris impersonation. The audience is reacting in pretty much the same fashion as last night, only there’s a lot more of them. These last two evening have been tremendous.

I get to go home tonight; the next show I have to look forward to is with Steeleye in Doncaster a week tomorrow (25th) when we share the bill with Jethro Tull.



The weather’s pretty awful considering it’s supposed to be summer, so it doesn’t look like I’ll get much golf in over the next few days. It’ll be a good opportunity though to finish up the Hutchings/Nicol album that’s been on the go for the last eighteen months or so.
To launch it we’ve put something like ten dates in place through February 2010.

Also, the one project that’s been well and truly pushed to the back burner is my Ypres video.
Last December Carol and I went to Belgium for three days.

The First World War, and the history of the Western Front in the area of Ypres has a particular poignance to me. 
My interest was sparked by a visit to the Dranouter folk festival with the Ashley Hutchings Dance Band in the late 1990s.
The band had the best part of a day off; I think it might have been a Sunday, and drummer Paul Burgess drove the band into Ypres, a town I knew absolutely nothing about at that time. 

I was struck by how the restaurants carried English beers, and they had food on the menus that, again, were very English. I then took a walk, alone, towards the east of the town, and ended up at this considerably large archway; on it was inscribed hundreds, thousands, tens of 
thousands of names; this, I later discovered, was the Menin Gate, and I also learnt that it contains the names of 54,896 officers and men from all the overseas British and Commonwealth forces who fell during the Great War in the area that was known as the Ypres Salient before the war’s end on 16th August 1917 (these were just the ones that were unaccounted for).

To stand there, in this memorial, even before I knew very much, well - ‘anything’ about it, was a profoundly moving experience. And so my interest in the era, and in the region began.

When we visited last year we went to just some of the many, many cemeteries and battle fields; also to the ‘In Flanders Fields’ museum. 

I took my camcorder, and whilst filming away I suddenly thought to myself, ‘why not put all the footage together into something to which I could later add a soundtrack?’.

It’s the old ‘then and now’ perspective again; I was so struck by how beautiful a town Ypres looked - especially at this time of year, adorned with all the sparkling decorations of Christmas; the trees and the lights.

After the 1914/18 war the town was completely rebuilt to be the perfect replication of its medieval origins. 
When comparing this to the complete and utter devastation of its past, all I can say is that I think I’ll manage to convey more eloquently the mixture of emotions within me through the medium of music rather than words. 

On our return I bought the editing software (Final Cut), and got to work. There’s now a thirteen minute video that’s been sitting in my Mac waiting for a soundtrack since January.
Maybe now is the time.

Ferals Of Fortune

Liam with (recording engineer) Mark.



Steeleye Span / recording
Monday 6th July. Propagation Studios, North Tamerton, Devon.
It had to happen eventually; I’m talking about the album, the new one, the 40th anniversary one. I have to admit to a growing sense of weariness; all these late nights, and all my early mornings are just beginning to take their toll.

This studio is a long way from Preston; yesterday when I put the address into my GPS I saw a milage of 221 miles, or thought that’s what I’d seen; it became quite apparent when en-route today that my selective brain had chosen to downsize the distance by slightly more than 100 miles.
The SatNav itself, of course, could’ve been giving a false reading, but if I’m honest I’d say it was most likely me who was guilty of the false reading.
I set off at 7:20 a.m. After three LPG/Coffee Nation* stops I eventually located the studio in an area more remote than any studio I’ve ever previously struggled to locate; this was at 2:30 p.m., that’s over seven hours of travelling by my calculations.

You might ask if such a long journey effects whether or not you want to get stuck into some recording on arrival, and let me tell you that - yes, it does effect whether you want to record or not, and the answer is ‘not’.

We’re here for a fortnight. Next week though I do have to leave for three days - having three shows to play with Phil; I’m truly hoping to get all my parts done and dusted by next Tuesday (the day I have to leave) so I won’t then have to return here and do a repeat of today’s journey.

In the past few days I’ve had two - producer related - moments of reconnection - or maybe synchronicity.
First was about a week ago when Carol and I were sat out in the back garden barbecuing. I looked towards the pond, and I recalled the time my Father was sat just to one side of it in one of those outside picnic style of chairs. The chair began falling into the pond - taking him with it. Someone, I don’t recall who, did manage to pull him back in the nick of time.

I often replay this event in my mind, and as on this occasion, it is always such a vivid picture, probably because I’m always in the same position looking towards the pond from the same place I was sat when it happened. My Dad was quite ill at the time, still, he, along with the rest of us could laugh about it. This event is one of a few that I associate with my Father’s illness; a marker along a process of gradual decline. Another marker is at the very beginning of that process, it was when I performed a concert at the Worden Arts Centre in Leyland, about five miles from where I now live.

It was probably 1994. I used to do these big shows once a year - well they felt big to me at the time - I used to call them ‘Across The Spectrum’ because I’d play music that covered so many years and styles of my music. It was at this show, sitting next to Carol that Dad spoke of his anxiety; he was having to visit the bathroom repeatedly, and was nervous about an impending doctors appointment.
It turned out that his fears were well founded; he had prostate cancer. He had another five to six years of life after that, most of it quite normal - apart from the odd pond he had to negotiate.

Back to the BBQ, and as these pieces of old footage were playing before my mind’s eye, I asked Carol, “and who was that producer that came to Worden to see me that night?”. “John … something, John Rav …?”, I asked. “I know who you mean”, she said, “it’ll come to me”.
It was time to clear things up and take the plates, napkins, leftover food, and those big long things you use for cooking at barbecues into the kitchen.

I walked into the house then looked over and saw my Macbook on the kitchen table; ‘might as well check the emails’, I thought to myself. Sure enough, I had one or two new ones; one was from John at Park Records; it was entitled: Producer.

This is exactly how it read … . . Hi Ken A while back there was mention within the band of finding a producer for the forthcoming recording.. Im not sure what your views are on this. I had put some feelers out .. and had some interest from a Producer called John Ravenhall.

He had been in America.. so have only just got to talk to him in depth He is interested and I feel he could do the job... for a reasonable price. I guess if we are to have a producer this is the time to think about it.

John Ravenhall has said that before we all commit it would be good to get together in a rehearsal situation.. I have spoken to Maddy and she is in theory up for it.. but could only do Wednesday and Thursday. Next week are you available and what do you think about the Idea.
I have emailed everyone else for a view.
With Best Wishes,
John

“Carol! Christ almighty! You will not believe this”. I think these, more or less, were my words. As it turned out, John Rs involvement has not come to pass; we couldn’t all make the rehearsal, and John felt that at least one such meeting would be absolutely necessary in order to move into a recording situation with the band.

The second piece of ‘producer reconnection’ occurred, or to me was apparent almost as soon as I arrived today at the studio. It was announced that the band was now considering using the production skills of a certain Joe Partridge, someone I’d worked with a good number of times when the two of us lived in London some thirty years ago.

As far as I was concerned this was great news; I always liked Joe, and I certainly always admired his guitar playing - not that he’d be playing guitar, but as a guitarist myself it’s quite reassuring to work with a producer who is particularly sensitive to how a guitar should be recorded. For the record, Joe had played with a host of top people which include names like Kiki Dee and Elton John.

Joe and I first met through mutual friends and colleagues who were associated in some way with Sarm Studios in London; it’s now called Sarm East, I think. This is where I recorded with Easy Street in 1976/77.





Maddy & Rick





From Sarm 'then' to Propagation 'now', and Mark our engineer, who has worked more recently with Joe, announced that Joe would call by at the studio at some point during the day to talk with the band. This actually happened quite late in the day, 6 or 7 p.m. perhaps. I was half expecting–after all these years–an ageing figure of a man to walk through the door (I bet he was expecting the same, also); well, my expectations were way off the mark - he didn’t really look any different, In fact I was quite taken-aback.

After the introductions, he watched as the band went back for a while to recording the song in progress; we were struggling with the arrangement somewhat, to tell the truth, and I had a strong and growing sense of collective self-consciousness in this disorganised attempt to illustrate to Joe how we go about our work. Eventually the band’s consensus was that we were heading nowhere with that particular song, and maybe it was time to sit down and talk business; to find out what Joe’s feelings are about producing Steeleye Span; and to tell him what the band’s vision is. All seemed to go well.

Next it was down to Joe and John Dagnell to do a little negotiating; to talk money–deadlines–percentages. Alas, I can tell you now that somewhere along the line these ‘high level’ negotiations broke down.
I would’ve loved to have worked with Joe again. In truth, it’s probably too late in the game in this project for a producer to either ‘take over’ or ‘blend into’ the process; such a thing would normally involve weeks, if not months of preparation and exchanging of ideas.

Plan B looks like once the recording is completed we’ll put it in the hands of someone who will mix the tracks; someone who might be able to add a little of the proverbial and illusive ‘fairy dust’.












Our accommodation is fairly basic here in North Tamerton; Liam, Rick and I are staying in a bungalow that sits adjacent to a farm, and from what I gather belongs to the farmer. In the interior it’s kind of old looking; Liam says it’s like ‘visiting your auntie’s.
We’ve befriended three farm cats that hang out at the back of the house; see the pictures I took. We couldn’t help but take some pity on them; they’re really not in very good shape. At first they were very timid - very frightened of us, and very, very hungry. Now they eat like kings. They will never forget this fortnight.

I can’t tell you how painful it is for me to see anything live like this - and I’m fully aware that it’s only because it’s there in front of me. I’m also fully aware of how easy it is to project one’s own pain onto something or someone that lives in a manner in which most living beings have lived since time began.
We, in our ‘developed’ and ‘privileged’ existence, by default, consider ourselves to be the fortunate ones, yet we’ve largely become detached from the fullness of what we are; the process that created us - and largely that which we are in constant denial of being a part of.

And despite all the repercussions of our evolved order; the anxieties, depression, alcoholism, violence, and at least a pervading sense of unfulfillment; we then feel sympathy for those who don’t have more food than they actually need.

I’ll still go on feeding them though. I can’t help it. One thing is certain though, back home our cat Flossy doesn’t know she’s born.

*Coffee Nation is, in my view, the best coffee to look out for when you're 'on the road'. One of the problems with many of the big names, for example Costa, is how incredibly inconsistent it is on the motorways as opposed to the high street. Many times I've spent good money on a cappuccino that's either bitter, or over-milky; and once you're back in the drivers seat it's too late to do anything about it. With Coffee Nation you know what you're going to get - and it's good. I recommend the cappuccino with a double shot - but with a little extra chocolate dusting mixed in. Coffee Nation.

In God's Afterimage

Schools (with Ashley Hutchings)

Tuesday 23rd June. Springcroft School, Staffordshire.

One of the schools in which Ashley I work every year. For me it’s marked by Bernadette, the Head of the school - well, more marked by the fact she was once an Olympic cyclist; I can’t help but be impressed by such things.
There’s something about spending so much time on the road that is diametrically opposed to any level of physical fitness to speak of; I’m not sure what it does for your emotional fitness also. 

When I’m spending time at home I do reasonably well at staying active - visiting the gym three or four times a week, and in the summer months golf plays a fairly large part in my life - regularly spoiling a good walk. I’d love to be able to play golf to a very high standard, in fact if I were to have my time again–which I wouldn’t want, to tell you the truth–but if I did, I don't mind the idea of being a professional golfer; that, as well as a doctor or an airline pilot. 

Anyway, as things stand I’m presently not so bad on the guitar, so I’ll get on with that for the time being.

Nicol & Cool

Thursday 2nd June. Assembly Rooms, Derby.

If I check my records, I see it was only six weeks and three days ago I walked onto the Assembly Rooms stage with those legends of folk rock - yes, you know the ones.
On April 18th we played the main stage; tonight we, Phil and I, play on the other stage; it is, well lets say - cosier. 
As we perform our carefully selected set to our very select crowd we are being well and truly dwarfed be the event taking place in the other part of the theatre, the main part I mentioned earlier. It’s a major production based on the history of Derby County football club, with some of the clubs personalities and players of past and present in attendance. If you are not all that familiar with the support and general sway towards the game of football in this area of the East Midlands, I can reliably inform you that it is considerable. 

Derby County has a very rich history, as does my club - Preston North End; however, despite Derby’s very questionable recent fortunes, they still can expect a large turnout of fans at any given match, very unlike - Preston North End. 

Jim (who by coincidence is from Derby) and I found ourselves deep in discussion on our final descent and approach towards the Assembly Rooms, on the topic of why such a contrast should exist in this tale of two cities. 
Jim believed it was down to a gradual expansion of the city itself, not one that necessarily creates more urban areas, but rather gathers up the already outlying ones, creating a bigger populous with a more collective identity. 
It’s not easy for me to comment on these things, I haven’t spent time on the subject; Jim, however, has a considerable background in politics, and I would suppose that politics concerns itself very much with things like boundaries, and how many people live within them.
What I do know is that the show next door could have, according to the theatre staff, been sold out a number of times.
Hmm, lets see; maybe it’s time to introduce one or two football songs into the act?

Nicol & Cool

Friday 3rd June. Porkies Folk Club, Poynton, Manchester. 

A well know club that has been a venue of somewhat venerable proportions for as long as there’s been a folk scene. I played the club first in a solo capacity at the age of forty or thereabouts; it was a sensational night; I was taken completely by surprise by how well the evening went, and I was never quite able to repeat it.

Sometime later I went on to play Porkies with Chris While, and also a number of times with the Albion Band. The final Albion Band show I played here was actually on the day my Father died in 2001. Now that’s something - performing on the day you lose a parent, let me tell you. All I wanted was for everyone to stop telling me how sorry they were. That’s about all I remember of that evening; I just went into ‘coping mode’ - as is what happens at times like this.

I also recall the night I performed at the club’s old venue just down the road in Bramhall; it was 1996. I struggled a great deal with confidence, or lack of it, around that time, and the result of this often was the most incredible tension. I was constantly walking into one situation after the next - gigs, recording sessions, and the like, that I felt completely unable to pull off.
I was so terrified of fucking up that the amount of energy I used in attempting to appear as though I was in control was exhausting and debilitating.
 I remember arriving at the club feeling quite out-of-it; my psyche was in a knot; inside I was a frozen man; it was as though there was a film going on in front of me, and I was just the observer. All the time my thoughts were, ‘I have a whole show to do tonight, and have no idea of how I’ll do it, but there’s no choice’.
I forced my way through the two sets, each of fifty minutes or thereabouts in length. When I was finished, any potential sense of relief that I may have had struggled to break through the ever purveying feeling of defeat and disappointment of perceived failure.


I loaded the PA into the back of my car, and whilst doing so I noticed a trail that followed anything that was bright and had any motion to it; it was a stream, a tail of light. When I moved my hand slowly in one direction or another, there appeared to be a second hand trying to catch up with the first.
I used to call these visual occurrences, or illusions: afterimages; they were something I’d originally experienced during an absolutely wonderful and idyllic time back in 1970, when as a nineteen year old I spent the summer months fruit picking in Evesham, Worcestershire. 

Friend, Paul Daber and myself had what I can only describe as the time of our lives; living and working in the orchards, sleeping in the barns; befriending the travellers and gypsies, and me being a bit of a local guitar hero.

When August had arrived, and the fruit picking season was almost done, the two of us hitch-hiked our way further south, down to the legendary Isle of White Festival, the one at which Hendrix performed shortly before his death. 

It was during this period I first experienced the ‘afterimage’ phenomenon; it was most certainly drug related; on the handful of occasions when we took LSD, the spectacle of any moving object having this trailing blurred image of itself following behind was all part of the spectacle and adventure of the experience.

I recall one such day when I was fixated, mesmerised by the sight of an army of ants on the pavement; individually they moved - this way, that way, and with such purpose; each one of them followed by lines, tracers, that shot off in all directions.
The second time these afterimages became an unavoidable feature of my life was during my panic attacks and breakdown a couple of years later after I’d moved to London. This time they were terrifying - further justifying my view of impending catastrophe and the feeling of losing any grasp of the reality I thought I had.

Now they were back, shit!
Something was happening, something was going on in my head; was it physical? Was all this stress and fear just burning me out?
On the drive home I noticed a strange shape in my vision, a crystal-like shape; and my range of vision seemed to be narrowed; there was something different about the cars on the other side of the road, as if they were not really there.

Apart from tiredness, the following two days–Saturday and Sunday–were reasonably OK; I had to travel to Cumbria where a friend of a friend had hired me for the weekend to teach her husband some guitar (as a birthday gift). 
Then, on the Monday - BANG! My head hurt - big style; it was just on one side, but it was bad. I looked in the mirror; the pupil in my left eye was tiny, and not responding to darkness or light. Yes, I was worried!
I was too frightened to go to a doctor; it was probably a good fifteen years since I last saw one. But after three days in bed, as a compromise, Carol instructed me to visit the optician. And what did the optician do? He sent me to the doctor. Then I was sent to the hospital.

By this time I was convinced I was dying. They carried out all kinds of tests, x-rays, etc.
One young doctor told me I had something, it was one of those Latin names; it sounded serious, and he even said he was sorry. 
These hospital visits continued until the day I was to see a neurologist; as I waited, full of fear, I decided it was to be my last visit. I knew I’d feel better if I had a sense of being in control.

I walked into the consultancy room to be confronted by an array of people, with the consultant sat in the foreground. He asked me if I minded these people being there–I did–but I said ‘no’.
They were all scribbling things down into notepads. The chair I sat on became the slide on a giant microscope, and I was the subject.

I knew had to get out. 


He tapped me here and there; listened to what might be going on inside me through a stethoscope; shone a light into my eyes - all this while using words I didn’t understand, and discussing my symptoms with someone I assume was his junior. 

It was encouraging in a way to be told that he disagreed with the original diagnosis - even though I didn’t understand what it was. 

Then he said I should, just to be sure, have a brain scan! I said, ‘no thanks’.
I had already decided I would rather walk away and accept whatever the consequences might be. It was, in retrospect, probably quite foolish of me, but hey - here I am. 

And I’m still playing at Porkies.

Nicol & Cool

Saturday 4th June. Wildlife Trust for Lancashire, Manchester & North Merseyside, Bamber Bridge, Preston.

This is a private event - a 40th anniversary celebration, and mercifully one that involves a mere drive of fifteen minutes to reach. 
I didn’t even know this place existed; it’s in lovely surroundings. I learned that this general woodland area was nurtured and developed by finance received as part of a deal reached with the very people that built the M6 motorway that runs adjacent. 
Here a link to the web page: Cuerden_Valley_Park

The celebration was for Ken and Sara Linford; Ken was also a partner of Jim Minall’s – for other reasons I should add – and for a much briefer length of time. They were creators and partners at Friends of Folk for a while, parting company not that long ago - and on extremely amicable terms I should say.
The two of them (Ken and Jim) are the political antithesis of each other, being respectively about as ‘right’ and as ‘left’ as you can possibly get without warfare breaking out. Jim was actively involved for a good number of years in the Labour Party; raising funds, campaigning door to door, and generally promoting the principles he believed in - those of fairness and equality.
Ken, however, over the years has been actively involved in developing various business enterprises, and creating a good deal of prosperity for himself. 


The one common denominator that seemed to override all their differences–for a while, at least–was their shared liking of folk music, and in particular Steeleye Span, in fact that’s where they met - at a Steeleye concert.
So they decided to promote concerts; to give more exposure to the artists that in their eyes were, and the music that was, being sadly neglected by the outside world. For this reason alone, they get my vote.


Jim, as you will have gathered from all my previous writings, gets Phil and I almost all our work.

Two days ago I received an email from Ken and Sara’s Daughter; she lives in Japan, and works as a missionary. This I can honestly say was the very first time I’ve had any communication of any kind from one of God’s messengers!
She asked me to read out a personal message to her parents congratulating them on their anniversary - and I enjoyed doing that on the night.

I was so struck by what Sara said when I talked to her at the very end of the night just before I left; she told me that her Daughter had lived in Japan for the last five years, and that she will continue her work there for ‘as long as God wants her to’.
The look of certainty on her face, and her comfortableness with the statement she’d made was, to me - striking.
Well, it's always possible that I read more into this than was actually the case, but as with Olympic cycling, I couldn’t help but be impressed - impressed more than anything, on the basis of imagining how I would be feeling whilst those words were passing my lips - if I ever did utter such words.
Before I go on, don’t imagine for one minute that I’m working my way towards an argument that is in anyway critical of such a statement; a smug, I know better than you sort of statement–or even implication. It's just that I don’t know how someone could know such a thing.

How does God tell you what to do?
I do a lot of soul searching; I tend to believe that there is an inner voice; one that knows and tells us what we should do.
Whether one listens to it, and whether or not one acts on what the voice is telling you, is not the point just now; but is this ‘inner’ voice perhaps easily, and maybe even mistakenly, interpreted as an ‘outer’ voice?
And let’s turn that around and say that even if it is an ‘outer’ voice that’s being wrongly interpreted as an ‘inner’ voice, why would it be God that’s saying it?

If I were reading this as something that had been written by someone else, I would logically be asking who or what the writer thinks God is.
I mean, if one actually thinks there’s an invisible person - THE invisible person HIMSELF, and he’s talking personally to YOU, then I am truly, genuinely and absolutely intrigued by the criteria used to reach this conclusion and the supposed certainty that seems to come with it.

We have little alternative but to represent all of our feelings and abstract senses with symbols of familiarity - and we only know ‘form’ in a way we have had experience of with some level of tangibility attached. This, of course, changes and develops as humans change and develop; but at any given time there are only so many symbols available to us. For example, many people these days who profess a religeous belief, would not use a male symbol to represent God, just as they wouldn't use the symbol of a throne in the sky as something 'he' sat on all day; but imagine how problematic it would have been once upon a time to profess such thoughts!

So I could have said to Sara, “what exactly do you mean when you say ‘God’?” But it was late, and I was far more concerned about going home.
I’ve not said very much at all about the show or the performance; to me though, next to such existential and theological issues, I’d have to say it’s just not as interesting.