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.

Just some of the characters from songs on the album I’m currently working on. The idea (OK, I know its a gimmick) is to make the insert card and publicity material a guess who quiz. The above include: Charles Darwin. Napoleon Bonaparte, Genghis Khan, Attilla the Hun, Alexander The Great, Jesus Christ, Tom Paine and Hannibal – all from Broken Biscuits.

The song is partly a rant about the way older people are sometimes side-lined and denied respect in our increasingly youth orientated society, despite often having led remarkable lives. However it’s also a satirical comment on Western imperialism – not something I set out to write but just seemed to appear (I only realised this a while after finishing the song).

The title song, Crazy Life On The Road, is a fictionalised account of my adventures with old cars. Most of my life I’ve driven jalopies – too broke for anything else – which has often meant breaking down in some way out places. Also, I recall times when I hitch-hiked around the UK and Europe in search of adventure with a copy of Jack Kerouac’s ‘On The Road’ in my pocket.

C.  I am a very old man – what have I to offer?

Just a pile of memories, and the aches and pains I suffer.

And these broken biscuits – crumbs all over the floor.

Broken biscuits – not much more.

I conquered the world with Napoleon, Hannibal and Alexander,

Genghis Khan and Attila the Hun, and we all went tumbling after.

We travelled east and we travelled west, till ever land was taken,

And every high street looked the same, and we called it civilisation.

I fought so many battles, but the killing it never ended.

No one knew why it began, though everyone pretended.

We lived a life of luxury with all the riches we had plundered,

Champagne and caviar, and all the rest was squandered.

Tom Paine said its common sense – Darwin evolution.

Either way get off your backs and join the revolution.

And so we manned the barricades and kept the red flag flying,

But those who gave the orders were not the ones for dying.

I heard the sermon on the mount, and the followers of the prophet.

Wept awhile at the wailing wall, would you ever Adam and Eve it?

Now I walk the streets of Jerusalem, of Mecca and Varanasi,

Wondering why everybody seemed, just the same as you and me.

I found a girl or rather she found me, and love was all that mattered,

And all the ones that went before to the four winds they were scattered

We live in perfect harmony till we began back-biting.

Lucky I knew what to do – let the lawyers do the fighting.

Now my story’s at an end, God knows what comes after.

But sometimes it seems I hear the sound of distant laughter.

I’ve done my time for nearly every crime and never will deny it.

So hangman go on do your worst, at least the grave is quiet.

MB © 2013

Lewis Brian Hopkins Jones (28 February 1942 – 3 July 1969) – founder member of the Rolling Stones. This photo was taken about the time the Stones got going in the early Sixties around South London and also when I first saw them playing at The Railway Hotel opposite Richmond Station. Later I went to their gigs at the Crawdaddy in Richmond Rugby Club’s place and also at Eel Pie Island. This was before they’d released any records and still considered themselves a blues band, not then writing any original numbers.

I mentioned all this to Stew Rickard, a rockabilly muso from Newcastle, and he told me he’d been in London at the same time for work and went to Richmond  looking for the Rolling Stones. Unfortunately he ran into some local lads who had other ideas (maybe, he suggested) taking offence at the Geordie accent) and threatened violence. Stew tried to get away by slipping into a Chinese restaurant but as he came out the gang set upon him and beat him up. A plate glass window was also smashed in the process and my friend badly cut and bruised. A few days later he returned to Richmond with a big knife and the intention of seriously maiming these lads but despite hours of trailing the streets didn’t come across them again. And he never found the Rolling Stones either!

It’s not really a funny incident but something about Stew’s story telling really made me laugh and inspired a song. I’ve taken poetic licence to give my reluctant hero’s escapade a happy ending – but it’s true that he still plays rockabilly music (melodeon and washboard). In fact I invited him to accompany me on recording the song recently (CD out soon).

LOOKING FOR THE ROLLING STONES   

Geordie went down to London, back in sixty three.

Heard the joint was jumping – what a crazy little place to be.

Talk about Chuck Berry, Bo Diddly and Elmore James,

Now there was a rumour, white kids were doing the same.

Chorus: 

So he went looking, looking, looking for the Rolling Stones.

Looking, looking, for the genuine Brian Jones.

Heard the name – before the rise to fame,

Went looking for the Rolling Stones.

So Geordie took off for Richmond, wandering round the streets,

Asking loads of questions to everyone he meets.

‘Hey there mate! Who you looking at?’ Some Cockney geezers shout,

‘Go back where you came from or get your Northern teeth knocked out.’

Geordie didn’t want no trouble, ‘Howay man,’ he did say,

Dived into a restaurant – a Chinese take-away,

And just as he was a leaving, all upon his tod,

Gave them lads a pasting, with a saveloy and cod.

But Geordie did not give up now, and in a back street bar,

Found that Little Red Rooster, and a mean old slide guitar.

Jagger says, ‘Why-aye man, do that thing you do.

Can’t get no satisfaction, till I hear those washboard blues.’

So Geordie went back to Tyneside, now he understood,

How to shake his body, along with Johnny Be Good.

He could have made a million, with chicks at his command,

But he’d rather play in Byker, with a rockabilly band.

No more looking…

MB © 2013

The Ballarat Arts Centre (a converted pub), a new independent venture in North Shields, recently hosted a songwriter’s symposium which was a great success (according to all participants). Hopefully this will become a regular event – once a month maybe. The next one is on Friday 18th October (though I won’t be there, unfortunately, as we’re off to China that very day).

Ballarat, by the way, is an old Australian gold rush town about 65 miles North West of Melbourne (see pic above). The name is derived from the aborigine meaning ‘safe place’. It has an interesting history: The Eureka Rebellion began in Ballarat – the only armed rebellion in Australian history, the Battle of Eureka Stockade, which took place in 1854. In response to the event the first male suffrage in Australia was instituted – thus Eureka has been seen by some as the home of Australian democracy. The gold rush also gave rise to other cultural legacies – the rebellion’s flag has become a national symbol. Apart from an acclaimed botanical garden, large art gallery and many statues of notable prime ministers, Ballarat also has the longest running lyric theatre building, Her Majesty’s, built in 1875.

Why a pub in North Shields should be named after this place is not known (by the songwriters anyway) but maybe a former resident of Ballarat returned home and bought the place. In fact, several people have commented the pub had a pretty bad reputation years ago, being one of the nearest public houses to the ship yards. Now, however, its a really pleasant place to be – light and spacious. I wish them success.

For more information on this, please drop an email to karen@artofindustry.co.uk 

Facebook page:- https://www.facebook.com/TheBallaratStudios And on Twitter:- https://twitter.com/BallaratStudios or search @BallaratStudios

I was listening to some acts recorded at the Newport Folk Festival this year and heard one bluegrass band (forget the name) doing Alcatraz Blues – banjos, fiddles and mandolins, at breakneck speed. I Googled the lyrics and thought maybe I could try my own version of the song, slower and now with a chorus.

1. Gee but I’m blue and lonesome,

No one seems to understand.

Everybody thinks I’m guilty,

And they say I shot a man.

C.  I’m on my way to California,

But I’d rather go to Tennessee.

Got in trouble down in Dixie.

Now it’s Alcatraz for me.

2.  Well the evidence was circumstantial,

They didn’t want the world to see,

All about the so-called justice,

When you’re a poor boy like me.

3. Woman in Atlanta Georgia,

Oh how how you done me wrong.

If they knew what I knew,

I wouldn’t even be singing this song.

Original lyrics: Alton Delmore (1908 – 1964). Was a member of The Delmore Brothers group and a pioneer of the Grand Ole Opry. He wrote hundreds of songs including many country music hits.

Kimberly McCarthy, pictured, was the 500th person to be executed in the State of Texas since capital punishment was resumed there in 1982. Texas has executed more prisoners than the next six states combined. In McCarthy’s case it seems there was little doubt about her guilt, in fact the likelihood was she killed at least two other old women in a similar brutal fashion to the one she was convicted for.  Her gender, and the fact that she is black, might be issues but, as those in favour of this punishment might say, a murder is a murder whoever you are. Also a fact is that in Texas, as across America, there are proportionately far more blacks and other ethnic minority groups in prison than whites.

One could argue (and many do) about the rights and wrongs of this but none of these issues were what drew me to writing a song about her. Rather, it was some of the things she said. For example: “This is not a loss. This is a win. You know where I’m going. I’m going home to Jesus. I love you all … God is great,” (Associated Press report). In my song, ‘500 Souls’, I’ve included as many of McCarty’s own words as possible. Make of them what you will.

I know where I’m going, I know where I’m bound,

Going home to Jesus before that evening sun goes down.

I know I did a bad thing, and now Lord I must pay,

By lethal injection or so – or so the law do say.

In this good old State of Texas, don’t get no second chance,

Five hundred souls together, all in a deadly dance.

Warder he informs me of my final meal request,

Steak and mashed potatoes just the same as all the rest.

All for one cup of sugar, I took my neighbours life.

Driven on by crack cocaine, I stabbed her with my knife.

I am a poor black mother convicted for my sin,

Just don’t call me a loser, for me this is a win.

No more appeals for mercy, now it is time to go,

Sick and tired of waiting – sixteen years upon death row.

Ain’t asking for your sympathy, as they turn out the light,

Only thing I wonder – is do two wrongs make a right?

PS  Incidentally, I thought it amusing why last meal requests were no longer granted. According to the Houston Chronicle the tradition of the last meal was ended after the 2011 execution of Lawrence Brewer, one of the men who participated in the racially motivated dragging murder of James Byrd Jr. in Jasper, Texas. Brewer didn’t hold back when placing his order for “two chicken fried steaks, a triple-meat bacon cheeseburger, a cheese omelette, a large bowl of fried okra, three orders of fajitas, a pint of Blue Bell ice cream, and a pound of barbecue with a half loaf of white bread.” But Brewer didn’t actually eat the meal, calling for Senate Criminal Justice Committee Chairman John Whitmire (D-Houston) to demand an end to the practice of feeding convicts a special last meal before a Texas execution.

Poor bugger. When ordering the meal, presumably some days ahead of the execution, he thought it’d be some compensation to stuff his face with every kind of junk food he could think of since the consequences of unhealthy food no longer mattered. But, when it came to it, he obviously lost his appetite.

I’ve been working on producing resources – audio CD and booklet – for this children’s music workshop over the past few weeks. It actually originated over 30 years ago as an excuse for kids to bang drums, dress up in colourful costumes and wave shields and spears about. At that time it consisted of just one rather repetitive song but which had the virtue of easy adaptation. Over the years, in a variety of mostly school situations, it has been developed and a number of songs added. However, for some unknown reason I never got around to recording it, until now. The reason why is I’ve been asked to run a children’s music workshop in August and suggested this.  I decided to drop the environmental storyline that has the villagers chopping down trees and going to war with their neighbours, even though it’s probably closer to reality – though I may well discuss this angle with the kids (they can include it if they like).

In fact, I saw the recent BBC Panorama programme about illegal logging – not only in Africa of course – and was appalled. The systematic destruction of the natural environment, often aligned with bribery and corruption, is destroying so much of our world and it seems to be getting worse despite the best efforts of many campaigners. Even without climate change this remorseless plundering of the world’s resources on both land and sea is not only bad news for us but also many animal species which are either endangered or made extinct. It’s a huge and complex topic, of course, but one that we, young and old, should try and find out about and, where necessary, take action (avoiding certain products, for example, or lobbying politicians and companies). Will such efforts make any difference? Who knows, but better to try than just let the buggers continue to get away with it.

Like picking up with a childhood sweetheart after a lifetime apart, I began attending folk clubs again about 3 or 4 years ago and found, much to my surprise and delight, that not much had changed. Many performers were still playing the same shanties, jigs and reels, along with a smattering of nostalgic folk trying to remember the lyrics to Tom Paxton, Ralph McTell or Ewan McColl numbers. But, everyone was very friendly and civilised and, since tobacco is banned in public places, the old dives are often now quite pleasant places to sit awhile (though some clubs must compete with rowdy football fans and karaoke from the main bar). Anyway, below is a list of places I’ve visited – in no special order:

Birtley FC – Wednesdays at The Catholic Club, Birtley Lane, DH3 ILJ.  SA. Small, friendly, select gathering of mostly unaccompanied singers. The first time I attended I was the only one with an instrument but everyone was very appreciative. Long established club.
South Shields FC – Sundays at the Customs House Arts Centre, South Shields. Quite large club with regular guests. Mostly traditional but not exclusively. Excellent venue.
The Bridge FC  –  Mondays at the Bridge Hotel in Newcastle upon Tyne. Well run club with regular guests and Folk Degree students often attending. Long established.
Cramlington FC  –  Tuesdays at the Concordia Leisure Centre, Forum Way, Cramlington. Long established and well organised club with regular guests (once or twice per month). Good PA.

Ashington FC – 1st & 3rd Thursdays every month. The Portland, Station Road, Ashington, Northumberland, NE63 8HG. Very friendly and supportive club that encourages all styles of music and even poetry (good). PA.

The Beamish Mary FC – Thursdays at The Beamish Mary Inn, No Place, Co Durham.  MC’d and organised by singer-songwriter Jack Burness. His sometimes caustic humour keeps things up-beat when performers flag (or say or do anything Jack can make a joke about). Regular guests but floor singers usually get two numbers. Good PA.

Tyne Folk  FC –  Thursdays at the Black Bull, Blaydon.  Fairly select SA – mostly traditional singers – but friendly and supportive.

Netherton FC – Saturdays, once per month, at Netherton Memorial Hall (no bar – bring own drink). Well attended events with wide range of music. A bit of a schlep to get to and find but worth it – appreciative audience of mostly not singers.

Berkeley FC – Wednesdays at The Berkeley Tavern, Whitley Bay, NE26 1LY.  Good humoured SA. Varies a lot from week to week depending on who turns up. Gerry Beldon the good humoured MC.

Stranraer FC – Wednesdays, The Swan Inn, Stranraer, Scotland.  SA. The home of Luce Women – a collective of talented musicians playing a mixture of mainly Scottish traditional and self-penned songs and tunes. Has links with The Berkeley Tavern – the two clubs occasionally visiting one another.

Durham City FC – Thursdays at The Tap & Spile, Framwellgate Moor, DH1 5EE.  SA. I’ve only been once when there were just half a dozen singers but friendly and appreciative.

Foggy Furze FC – Tuesdays at The Atheneum Club, Church Street, Hartlepool, TS24 7DH. SA. A good range of styles and abilities. Friendly and supportive. Good reception to visitors.

The Monkey FC – Sundays at The Monkseaton Arms, Monkseaton, Whitley Bay, NE25 8DP.  SA. Run by the ubiquitous Dave Minikin (also of The Bridge). Range of styles and abilities.

Topsham FC – Thursdays at The Globe Inn, Topsham, Exeter. I visited here on holiday (June 2013) and had a great night in the barn-like venue. Various styles and abilities but generally a good standard. Very appreciative.

Teignmouth FC – last Sunday of month at The Devon Arms Hotel, Teignmouth, Devon.  SA. Also visited on holiday. In a crowded bar but audience respectful to all comers. Excellent evening.

The Dolphin FC – Sundays at The Dolphin Inn, King Edward Road, North Shields.  SA. Fairly select crowd but good humoured. Wide range of styles and abilities.

Chillingham FC – (Now closed)  Was alternate Fridays at The Chillingham Arms, Heaton, Newcastle upon Tyne. SA. Just near my home, this was the first folk club I’d visited in at least 20 years (maybe 30) and found the fairly select crowd very welcoming. The rather erratic dates seemed to confuse people however and the club’s attendance dwindled – then the organisers dropped out. Sad, but many clubs hang on by a thread – basically by the good will of a dedicated few.

Bluestone FC – (Now closed) Was Sundays at The Delaval Arms, Old Hartley. SA. Many people from the Chilly also went here. It closed when the pub could not afford a music licence (I believe) but Dave Minikin moved it to the Monkey (without such organisers working for love not money there’d be no folk scene despite many talented performers out there. Without venues and an audience there are no clubs.)

‘There are loads of songs about young love,’ complained a middle-aged lady at the Teignmouth Folk Club, ‘but hardly any about us oldies.’

‘But,’ she went on, ‘you can fall in love at any age can’t you?’ though nodding approvingly, I admitted I rarely sang about romance and, if I did, as per many folk songs, there was usually a nasty death included somewhere. ‘Why don’t you write a love song for our generation?’ she challenged, ignoring my reservations.

Over the next couple of weeks I tried to forget her request but was, I admit, intrigued by the idea. However all my attempts stumbled at the first hurdle – being too corny, old hat or just plain rubbish. However, I was watching a TV programme on wild flowers and recalled how a little girl at my first school had given me a daisy chain. As is often the case, the chorus came easily – so easily in fact I couldn’t believe another song-writer hadn’t already used it and did a Google check before proceeding.

Actually my song, which has a country feel, is still pretty corny – but I like it just the same. And, a good test, it feels comfortable to sing and is easy to learn. It isn’t just about love in old age, of course, but rather how love can continue and change throughout life – though best not to analyse it too much.

By the way – my next album project is to be called Broken Biscuits which will feature (hopefully) this song and others highlighting matters relating to the older generation. Actually, I dislike admitting my age, not because I have any problems with growing old per se but because I know many others have preconceptions. I don’t usually feel old – and that to me is all that matters.

DAISY CHAIN

I was standing alone in the playground,                                                                                                                                                                                              A poor worried kid just five years old.                                                                                                                                                                                              When this little girl in pigtails came up to me and smiled,                                                                                                                                                         And gave me her daisy chain to hold.

Chorus

Daisy chain, daisy chain,                                                                                                                                                                                                                   More precious than diamonds and gold.                                                                                                                                                                                        This little girl in pigtails came up to me and smiled,                                                                                                                                                                     And she gave me her daisy chain to hold.

Then all summer long we played together,                                                                                                                                                                                      Till my folks they up and moved so far away.                                                                                                                                                                                 And in another town, feeling so let down,                                                                                                                                                                                         Till the girl next door invited me to play.

And so the years flowed on like any river,                                                                                                                                                                                         As friendships turned into love affairs.                                                                                                                                                                                               Had my heart broken in two, and thought my life was through,                                                                                                                                                  TilI I finally found someone who really cared.

But if sometimes life troubles and other work-a-day things,                                                                                                                                                     Ever begin to get me down,                                                                                                                                                                                                                      I wish I could be – a kid again so free,                                                                                                                                                                                         Picking wild flowers all around.                                                                                                                                                                                                      Buttercups and bluebells, and sweet columbine,                                                                                                                                                                       Primrose, poppies, and wild mountain thyme.                                                                                                                                                                              And so many others there to see,                                                                                                                                                                                                        But daisies are the only ones for me.

I was standing alone in the city,                                                                                                                                                                                                            A poor worried man, growing old.                                                                                                                                                                                                 When this little grey haired lady, came up to me and smiled,                                                                                                                                                     And gave me her loving arm to hold.

P.S. As with many innocent phrases, ‘daisy chain’ may have other slang meanings but none were intended here.