It’s been a long and frustrating journey getting this album realised. Thank goodness, I’m nearly there – just need to get the CD copied and printing  done. But will it all be worth it? Will anyone care? As someone in the music/publishing business told me many years ago – the creative side is the fun bit.  There must be thousands of great musicians (writers, artists, etc) who fall by the wayside, not because they’re less talented than those who make it but simply for reasons of logistics, bad luck or cock-ups, and so on. The number of renowned authors, for example, who get rejected – sometimes hundreds of times – before achieving success is depressingly huge. Why? Who knows? Maybe, partly anyway, because there’s  very limited  space at the top.

This photo, by the way, was taken by one of my students (a fifteen year old excluded lad with a long rap sheet but really a nice kid but from a shit home) in Birtley, Gateshead. It’s a genuine café and shop called Mr Baker’s.

I was lucky to be introduced to Bob Dylan’s first album by a friend back in 1962. Since then I’ve bought most of his work in one form or another, including several bootlegs. I’ve also seen him play live a few times (not always a great experience). I’ve always recognised that, like anyone, he has his faults but, in my humble opinion, is still the best singer-songwriter of the past fifty years.

So I got Suze Rotolo’s memoir of her early life in New York, focusing especially on her time as Bob Dylan’s girlfriend (the one on ‘The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan’), hoping for some insights into the great man. I suppose I didn’t learn anything new but had suspicions confirmed. He wasn’t, it turns out, very honest or trustworthy as a person (though Suze was as much in awe of his talent as anyone else). Dylan was, she says, “funny, engaging, intense, and he was persistent. These words completely describe who he was throughout the time we were together; only the order of the words would shift depending on mood or circumstance.” As his fame grew he also became paranoid and critical of others she says, and; ‘People close to me felt I was defending his bad behaviour, but I saw things in another light, even though I was more than grateful for their loyalty to me. Yeah, he was a lying shit of a guy with women, an adept juggler, really; and when he was on his ‘’telling it like it is’’ truth mission, he could be cruel.’

Despite this, Rotolo is, on the whole, more than generous to Dylan. They were very much in love but, after all, were also young and under great pressure from fans, friends, family, the media and public expectations generally. It was a doomed relationship, but nevertheless each acknowledged its inspirational importance for both of them. Many of Dylan’s early songs came directly out of this affair (he was, in effect, dumped although was probably also having flings with other people, e.g. Joan Baez).

As Suze says several times in her book, Bob Dylan is (was) a remarkable person with many gifts, but not a reliable friend or lover. No surprise. Of course, none of that makes him a bad songwriter. Indeed, considering what a genius he is (or, as many people have said), it’s surprising he wasn’t more of a shit.

I may be an amazing and talented singer-songwriter but until my genius is recognised still need to earn a living. I do this by working as a home tutor, teaching teenagers who’re out of school, usually for medical or behavioural reasons. Despite the reports of past misdemeanours including violence towards staff and fellow students, possession of weapons and drugs, insolence, indolence and truancy, etc, most excluded kids (usually teenage boys) are no trouble to teach on a one-to-one basis. The incidents causing exclusion are usually months past and, even if not remorseful, the lads are often bored and reasonably receptive to a little educational diversion so long as no real effort is required.

Compared with full-time class teaching the job is a doddle, though it has its frustrations (mostly when students are late or don’t turn up at all). The majority have learning problems – some quite severe – low self esteem and difficulty concentrating or making an effort. They have learnt from experience and poor parenting that success through conventional channels is unlikely and therefore see academic attempts as pointless. They also know that one can live reasonably well on benefits plus odd jobs on the black economy or a little thieving, so why try for anything else?

On the plus side, many of these kids are resilient and resourceful. They often have some amusing, if sometimes pathetic, tales to tell. One lad recently told me he wanted to be a ‘scrapper’ when he left school – in other words, nicking copper and lead for scrap. Another boy told me how his favourite occupation was breaking into sheds to steal tools, etc. On one occasion he took a motorbike and was only apprehended after trying to sell it round the corner to another lad who recognised the vehicle and had an attack of conscience. A further boy, who could barely read and write, told me quite seriously he wanted to be a gambler – not such an unattainable ambition but unlikely to produce a profit (though he was unconvinced)

Billy The Kid, (the song’s first verse below) , incorporates some of these anecdotes plus a few exaggerations.

Billy The Kid was a bad lad, everybody knows,

All except his mother who called him ‘Twinkle Toes’.

She spoiled him something rotten, with sweeties and milk shake,

But he just called for whisky and cannabis chocolate cake.

Went to see the Coen brothers’ film, ‘Inside Llewyn Davies’ a couple of weeks back and was very disappointed. However, on the good side, I was introduced to Dave Van Ronk – the folk singer the film is supposedly based on. Unlike the movie’s miserable loser the original was an articulate, brilliant, amusing and very influential musician. His autobiography, The Mayor of MacDougall Street’, is the best book I’ve read about the folk scene (American anyway) packed full of anecdotes based mostly in Greenwich Village during the Sixties. He knew just about everybody – Dylan, Ochs, Paxton, Baez, Mitchell, Seeger, etc – and has many insights on their exploits during those formative years. He’s also very down-to-earth and informative – the book being completed by Elijah Wald (a brilliant writer on the history of the blues) after Dave’s sudden death in 2002.

Going back to the film – the main character is not only a pale shadow of the real man (who spends half the film being screamed at by a supposed ex-girlfriend that he’s a ‘fucking loser’) but Greenwich Village is also portrayed as drab and boring in the early Sixties which was totally the opposite of the truth. DVR says many times in his book that they were well aware that the times were ‘a-changing’ socially, culturally and politically, yet none of this excitement is transmitted. A big shame Coen brothers, and boo to you. My only consolation was that the cinema was virtually empty when we went and I’ve heard others had a similar experience – so it looks like this travesty will sink without trace.

The new album is still not finished for reasons beyond my control. Since recording the original 13 tracks (a Baker’s dozen) we’ve added extra instrumentals from Mike Hirst (melodeon), Stew Rickard (also melodeon plus washboard) and fiddle player Jackie Manai. All these musicians have enhanced my additions on keyboards and percussion, etc, but its taken much longer than expected as recording has had to fit in with everyone’s schedule – not least of all Jimmy and Val’s (jiva) who are doing the technical stuff and lead busy lives.

In the meantime I’ve also got a day job to do plus various domestic chores – not least of all driving to London with Sofie and her artwork to the Mall Gallery for an exhibition with the Society of Designer Craftsmen. This was not really a fun activity – the driving in particular – but interesting to see all the work at the gallery. It was also nice to see my brother Matthew and his wife in Wandsworth (thanks for the bed and great meals by the way).

Went to ‘A Stranding on St Mary’s Lighthouse’ last week – an event organised by Dave Minikin who also runs The Bridge and The Monkey folk clubs in Newcastle. The idea is that you arrive just before the incoming tide (about 11am) washes over the causeway, thus stranding all visiting folkies who, with nothing else to do, sit around entertaining one another with their favourite shanties and other ditties till the tide goes out about five hours later. On this occasion a Polish security guard – employed to watch over some electrical equipment situated in the mainland car park – also joined us by accident having turned up looking for a loo and failed to notice the approaching waves.

I sang my lighthouse keeper’s song (what else?) which seemed to go down well. The story of this number is that I discovered the lyrics in an old notebook about 3 or 4 years ago, having completely forgotten about it and decided to compose a new melody. At the time it had just three verses but Sofie persuaded me to add a final verse to give the inconclusive story a happy ending. I was reluctant to do this as I wanted it to be a little mysterious. However, I eventually gave in and wrote a fourth verse. Now, of course, it seems incomplete without that new verse.

Another song I did was Daisy Chain, introducing it as usual as a love song for the older generation. And why not? Love may change and become less ardent as we grow older but can still be as strong as ever. Also, what is portrayed as love in fiction, drama, films, etc, is often nothing but physical or emotional attraction and doesn’t last long. Just look at the divorce figures. I speak from bitter experience.

The next Stranding on St Mary’s is in March 2014, I believe. Contact Dave – 07967198430 for more details.

It’s great when someone says they like your music – even some half-cut audience member stumbling up after a gig. I know one should be immune to flattery, as to criticism, but who can honestly say they are?

A back-handed compliment I got the other night at a club was, ‘I like your songs mate. They sound as if they’ve been written by a real musician.’ Immediately realising his gaffe he quickly continued, ‘Not that you aren’t a real musician of course.’ The man went on to say he groaned inwardly when singers announced they’d written their own material as it was often self-obsessed drivel (or words to that effect).

However, it’s true that most singer-songwriter’s material is confessional – usually lamenting lost love. Of course, some of the best songs are in this category but saved by a great melody, lyrics or performance, so I’m not saying one’s own problems and heartaches can’t be worthy subjects. Dylan’s best song (in my opinion) includes the line:

‘Now, little boy lost, he takes himself so seriously
He brags of his misery, he likes to live dangerously…

(Visions of Johanna from Blonde on Blonde – 1966)

Is he actually confessing his own problem here? Taking himself too seriously? Most of his songs seem to do just this – except they’re often still great songs because he’s able to step aside and be self-aware (and often amusing). Many songwriters can’t be so detached (or clever) and seem to think their emotional hang-ups must inevitably be of interest to others. Hence their favourite and most over-used word – ‘I’.

Seems I was aware of this problem however, even years ago when I began writing songs. Here’s an extract from a number called Turkish Delight written around 1968.

Confessions of a lonely soul – I’ve heard that song before.

I’ve heard that song so many times before.

Retribution for a broken heart – and maybe true,

But honest words can put a man to sleep,

So wake me when you wake me, if you do.

Unfortunately, though I still recall the tune, I forget the chords and key, etc. But probably just as well as it wasn’t that great a song. Looking back over my song writing output (of thousands – mostly junk) I see that confessional love was the main preoccupation when I was young but has mercifully tailed off in recent years. Apart from anything else, I now find other people’s lives far more interesting subjects than my own.

I caught Mike, also called Passenger (from the band he once fronted), on Jools Holland’s TV show, Later,  just before we went to China and was intrigued enough by his simple singer-songwriter style and unusual voice to check him out further. On the plane his latest album, All The Little Lights, was featured so I wiled away most of the long-haul flight listening to it. There aren’t many albums, even among my favourites, that I can repeat play more than a couple of times but with Passenger’s latest release I made a big exception – both ways, Newcastle to Shanghai and Beijing back home. I’m still playing the copy I purchased from Amazon (I wanted the original plastic, not just a download) in the car and keep finding new delights and really can’t name a weak or bum track.

The tunes and arrangements are quite light and poppy but the lyrics are clever yet honest (as far as I know), witty, down to earth and sometimes profound or mystical. There’s also a deeply sad edge to many songs: the title track for example says we are born with thousands of little lights inside us that shine in the dark to show us the way but that in the end they, ‘…all burn out one day.’ The hit song, Let Her Go (topping the charts in many countries) is also pessimistic saying, ‘dreams come slow but go so fast’ and in the end you…’only know love when you let her go – and you let her go.’ Like so many singer-songwriter’s lyrics it could sound maudlin and self-pitying but is strangely uplifting. A great song on a great album.

The photo, incidentally, shows our man busking which he still does, apparently, despite selling out all venues on tours. He mentions this fact in an Australian TV interview (the country he had his first success in despite coming from Brighton, England

Yes we went to many lovely places in China – parks, gardens, historic buildings, majestic urban and country landscapes – but walking around town at night I couldn’t help noticing most young women were into the latest fashions of high heels and short skirts just as anywhere in the West (or elsewhere it seems). I’m not complaining but, as an old fogey, can’t help wondering about practicalities, especially after a few drinks. Memorably, for instance, I recall late one New Year’s Eve a few years ago in Newcastle where Sofie and I had attended firework celebrations and when a real Northern snow storm erupted. Within minutes the streets were thick and deep with snow causing everyone to pull coats, hats and scarves up around themselves. Then a cab stopped across the road and a girl in stacked heels, skimpy skirt and miniscule halter top emerged as if out clubbing in Tenerife or Malaga and tottered uncertainly off into the Polar night. Did she ever make base camp we wondered?

Any night, especially at weekends, the Toon is crammed with similarly clad girls, winter or summer, as indeed are most town centres across this land. For some reason I didn’t expect the same in Chinese cities – though it must be said we didn’t notice any drunkenness from men or women, though that didn’t seem to stop anyone enjoying themselves.

I did attempt to write serious lyrical verse whilst in the Orient but, I’m afraid, this was the best I could come up with:

HIGH HEELS AND SHORT SKIRTS 

C       High heels and short skirts – not much else besides,

.        Wherever you may go today – seems like its world wide

.         High heels and short skirts – not much else besides,

.         International ladies wear – not much left to hide.

.         High, high, high, high, heels – not much else besides.

From New York, London and Paris – Rio to Beijing,

Hear them footsteps clatter – watch those bodies swing.

They say it’s only fashion – just another style,

But don’t tell me those girls don’t know,

What makes the boys all smile?

Oh the weather may be chilly but that won’t keep them away,

Tottering along the pavement, whatever granny may say.

Like moths they are attracted to any neon light,

And when the music’s playing, it’s always Saturday night.

They sure ain’t built for hiking more than a muddy yard,

And falling off those platforms, you come down mighty hard.

Winding up in casualty after a drink or two.

Doctor, please! Oh doctor! Don’t take away my shoe!

Some of them are skinny, some curvy but never fat,

Some ought to be arrested, for going out like that.

But if you ask security to go and throw them out,

They’ll say you must be joking – it’s what we’re all about.

The make-up and the hair-do may take half a day,

While blokes are into serious boozing the night away.

But if you were to ask them each and every one,

No matter where you go now – girls just wanna have fun.

MB © 2013

Just returned from holiday in China. Sofie and I went all over the place to all the usual places – including the Terracotta Warriors, Panda Centre, The Great Wall, Emperor’s Summer Palace and the Li River. Being such a huge country we needed to take several internal flights as well as a bullet train ride and river cruise. Much to my surprise everything went according to plan – no late planes and all arrangements excellent (except our last hotel, the Novotel, in Beijing where our room had a damp carpet (?) and Sofie insisted we change rooms.

My main impression was how big everything was, from the wide boulevards of the cities and towering buildings, to the awe-inspiring scenery, parks and gardens, etc. Also, despite some poverty down a few alleyways, the overall impression was of much economic growth and personal wealth. For example, although there are still many scooters, bikes and mopeds in Beijing the streets are clogged day and night with expensive cars. The main shopping streets rival anywhere in the world with international brands, swanky hotels and restaurants and much amazing architecture. The people, generally speaking, are cheerful and helpful. I was expecting beggars and pickpockets (we’d been warned) but found very few of the former and none of the latter. We weren’t ripped off, as far as I’m aware, although hawkers did try flogging us stuff in tourist places like the Terracotta Warriors site. We were accompanied everywhere (mostly) by guides arranged by the travel agent and they were all polite and charming, well informed and often invaluable in smoothing arrangements for us. On the other hand we were not prevented from going anywhere alone and often went wandering in the cities.

All in all it truly was the holiday of a lifetime and both of us would love to return, sooner rather than later, as we’re acutely aware of only scratching the surface of China.