Gullible Travels – for Russell

There’s nothing like the death of a dear one to make you ask all the big questions.

Why do we do what we do?
How do we know who we know?
Why do things die when they die?
How does friendship survive?
How does love thrive?
What’s the point of doing anything?

The older I get, the longer I live, the more I think that the point of living is simply to make life that bit more bearable for other people.

Colin and Russell, Worcester MAYou don’t know it, my friend, but you kind of showed me that. Not just for me but for countless others who knew you and loved you. You had an amazing talent for looking after people. You even made a living out of caring.

You took people in to your heart, your home. You gave them your time, your space, your energy, even when it cost you, even when it irked you, even when it pained you. Whoever it was, you always had your eye on their angle of vulnerability, and you did what you could to make it better.

Now we’re all taking in the news that you’ve gone. Suddenly and without fuss or fanfare you just slipped away quietly one night, hoped we wouldn’t notice. But we noticed. We’re going to be noticing for a long time that you’re no longer with us.

You were always such a plotter, a planner, a schemer. There was always a project to be getting on with, always a new destination to be setting off for. When we met that time back in East Kilbride at the end of 2015, some twenty years since the last time, it was the day before my birthday and everything was up in the air with both of us. I remember saying to you how much I had always admired this aspect of you, that you were always so firmly future focussed.

And suddenly we were the best of friends again, swapping music crushes, sudden pashes, flash-in-the-pan fads, new raves, old faves. Like twenty years were nothing. I assumed from that point on we’d stay friends into our old age, checking in, hanging out.

It was music that made friends of us back then, at that draughty old rehearsal studio out in the country lanes by Auldhouse. It was music that brought us close, that started conversations, that led to deep discussions long into the night.

IMG_2735You had my name listed as “Sax” in your phone (was that the joke? “Sax in ma phone”?) which made me laugh, even though I haven’t played the thing in earnest in years. For me, Russ, you were all about the bass.

There’s so much music in my life because of you. Things I’d never have listened to in a lifetime have become lifelong companions because of you. There are bands who are indelibly stamped in my mind with your passion and enthusiasm, like a rock n’ roll tattoo. There are songs that conjure places, people, gigs, jams, days spent wandering, nights spent smoking menthol cigs in cars and bars in East Kilbride, Glasgow, London, New York, Boston, Worcester MA.

It’s impossible to list every single piece of music that magically sings of you, but here’s a few things kicking about my shelves at home that conjure you as I best remember you.

Supertramp - SupertrampSupertramp
Supertramp (1970)

You liked proper proggy muso music. Long songs, extended solos, big looping bass lines. I only really knew Supertramp from their hippy-haired Top of the Pops hits; you were all about their early stuff, which I grew to love. Try Again was your favourite, you said, and my first entry point into your musical universe. Weird, trippy, slightly gothic, melodic, mellifluous and emotional.

But it was there in the air that we share in the twilight
Humming a sad song, where was our day gone
But in the dark was a spark, a remark I remember

Traffic - Eagle

Where The Eagle Flies
Traffic (1974)

It’s really all about that one song, Dream Gerrard, and that incredible wah-wah tenor sax. I remember buying a wah-wah pedal for £25, using it a couple of times on my own horn in the rehearsal studio then eventually passing it on to you (who made much better use of it). The song appeared on one of the mix tapes you made that I played a lot, which also contained another Traffic track that’s quintessentially you – The Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys – as well as a song you wrote and recorded yourself, called Gullible Travels, which I liked a lot.

Gullible travels
Baby’s gone and papa’s dead
Gonna leave this place now
It’s cold and sick
And I’m feeling blue
cos I’m leaving you

You were amazed I even remembered the song, never mind quote the chorus to you…

Edie BrickellShooting Rubber Bands at the Stars
Edie Brickell & The New Bohemians (1988)

I’m not usually big on lyrics, as you know. I’m paying more attention to them now though, especially the first song of this album, What I Am, and I wonder if the reason you loved it so much was because it seems to sum you up so well.

I’m not aware of too many things
I know what I know if you know what I mean

What I am is what I am
you what you are or what

Or maybe it was just the wah-wah solo. I remember you describing me once as a “Bohemian”, which I thought was preposterous. But by East Kilbride standards, though, I suppose both of us probably were.

QueenQueen
Queen (1973)

I’m thinking, obviously, of the first track, Keep Yourself Alive. It’s a rather cruel and ironic title given the circumstances, but I bet you’d allow yourself a chuckle. Or even a LOL. I never got on with Queen, though God knows you tried to win me to the cause. I eventually bought this album at your insistence and listening again now I think I hear something of what you heard. Adrenaline pumping hard-rockin bombast, a bunch of guys acting as if they were already superstars, doing wildly inventive things with guitars, and a massive flouncing fatally flawed show off in the middle of it all. It’s basically your anthem.

rush

Moving Pictures
Rush (1980)

Another key piece of genetic material in your musical DNA. Not hard to see what appealed to you about this triumverate of turbocharged neo-prog hyper-rockers. And the 1991 Roll The Bones gig was a big one for us.

Again, the lyrics in the first track, Tom Sawyer,  seem to say meaningful things about you.  I don’t know. Pick a lyric.

Don’t put him down as arrogant
He reserves the quiet defense
Riding out the day’s events

Always hopeful yet discontent
He knows changes aren’t permanent
But change is

The world is, the world is
Love and life are deep
Maybe as his eyes are wide

Janes Addiction RitualRitual de lo habitual
Jane’s Addiction (1990)

We played the bejesus out of this. Manicmetal. Mischief music. The song about shoplifting caught your ear by accident late one night on MTV, you passed it on like a flu bug. Every few days another track became a fevered favourite. Like we’d invited a pyromaniac worm into our ears. You’ll find this weird, but I always think of the song Of Course… as being about you and me. I have no idea what the song is actually about, but these lines spoke to me of our relationship: simultaneously close and aloof, affectionate and brusque, concerned and indifferent. Like brothers in music.

When I was a boy,
My big brother held on to my hands,
Then he made me slap my own face.
I looked up to him then, and still do.
He was trying to teach me something.
Now I know what it was!
Now I know what he meant!
Now I know how it is!

VarmintsVarmints
Anna Meredith (2016)

You used to send me things in the post. Ruth Gordon’s autobiography appeared one day – the Harold and Maude actor you had a massive thing for. You were so delighted to have found it from an ebay seller halfway across America. There was the card you made from a photo you’d taken congratulating me on a new job. Mostly it was music, of course – Future Islands, Tame Impala, couple of other things, chief among which was this album by the Scottish artist Anna Meredith which I grew to love enormously. I bought tickets for her band show in March at the CCA that I wanted you to come to but by then you were doing the First Bus thing and you couldn’t commit the time. Things moved so very quickly after that. The year passed in a blur and I saw you only a couple more times.

Empire State and Twin Towers 1993The Anna Meredith thing was so typical of you in so many ways. You were so open to new and interesting stuff. For every Rush or Bryan May gig we went to, there was an equivalent Ornette Coleman & Prime Time or John Zorn. And as much as you loved big bombastic cockrock, you could be just as passionate about female artists – Joni Mitchell, Ricky Lee Jones, Tracy Chapman, Oleta Adams, Aimee Mann.

Only latterly I found out we had a shared love of St Vincent. Now, since you’ve gone, I keep returning to her song about love and loss and New York. It always transports me to our week there in 1993 when you were heading to Worcester, MA, to begin a career in care and I was off on a transcontinental train trip.

All the things we did. That first sunset taxi ride into Manhattan from JFK, taking in that breathtaking skyline – a waterside city the height of the clouds, the colour of rust and diamonds. Staying at the Chelsea Y. Endless wanderings. Walking downtown to Battery Park from 110th St. Dinner in the Dojo. Tasting tahini. Camp Kiwago. Nights with Carolyn. Seymour’s house full of whales in Jersey. Then returning the next year when you were settled in Worcester and the madness of all that.

I was in New York recently and the wide city streets still ring with those memories.

She sings,

I have lost a hero
I have lost a friend

and boy do I know it.

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Real Gone

Tom Waits
Anti (2004)

realgoneThe first time I saw Tom Waits in concert was on the 2004 Real Gone European tour.

I belong to a now semi-defunct group called the Zornlist, which back then was a pretty lively discussion and information sharing forum which allowed people from all over the place – mostly Europe and the US – to post stuff about John Zorn and the various genres of music his output crossed. Which is a lot. From free-improv to cartoon scores, hard bop to hardcore, modern classical to radical Jewish music. His roster of regular collaborators is a tower of talent that would make you giddy and includes the guitarist Marc Ribot, a regular collaborator with Tom Waits since Rain Dogs.

One of the guys on the list posted about a ticket that he was selling for the upcoming Tom Waits tour. I was lucky and got in first. I could have high-fived the sky. I was going to see Tom Waits. If I could get to Antwerp for Saturday 13th November, the ticket was mine. The seller was honest with me, said he he was going to ask twice the ticket price, which meant the gig was going to cost me €200 before I had even booked a flight or thought about a hotel room.

But fuck it. This was Tom. Fucking. Waits. The only other musician I would travel to a different timezone to see was John Zorn. It was totally worth it. A bargain, even…

There was just the tiny detail of the transaction to take care of.

At the time of the gig, back in 2004, Paypal and the whole business of paying for things online was a bit unclear to me and still considered to be plenty risky. Before the ticket seller and I had worked out how to handle the transaction, I asked around – a few friends, a couple of business savvy pals, some guys I knew who worked on web stuff – about how to go about securing a concert ticket from a guy who lived in Belgium whom I’d never met. Everyone basically sucked their teeth and narrowed their eyes. They were all like, “So, how exactly did you meet him? An email list? Right. And how much is he asking?  Wow, really. And what’s his name?”

They all thought I was winding them up.

“Rob Alert”.

Guy with a comedy rip-off merchant name (tho spelled in a Flemish way with many more letters than syllables) whom I didn’t know, couldn’t vouch for, who could’ve been a bullshitter, could’ve been a scammer, lived in Belgium wanted to sell me something online that I could only redeem by travelling about 800 miles.

Basically, you can probably guess, I was on my own.

Happily, however, we came to a pretty straightforward agreement. No Paypal, no Western Union, no bank transfers. If I was willing to make my way to Antwerp, he was willing to sell me the ticket. We just agreed to trust each other.

Call me sentimental but I wish there was more of that in the world.

I remember depressingly little about the gig. I think he maybe started with Make it Rain? I couldn’t tell you much more than that. I don’t even think reading the setlist on the Eyeball Kid blog could help shake loose a few memories. No wonder people make bootlegs.

I remember quite a lot of detail either side of the gig, though. The early morning flight to Amsterdam, reading the Saturday Guardian from cover to cover on the train to Antwerp. I had to buy razors from a Turkish man in a Spar because I’d forgot to bring one and he only sold packs of cheap shit Bics. There was the market. The place was scented with vanilla from the waffle sellers. I had a pretzel. I scouted the venue. I walked around Antwerp and found it familiar/strange. The accents sounded like home, full of hard consonants. I had a really quiet room in the hotel I checked into, then fell asleep watching Monk on BBC2 in my room with the volume on low.

Then I met Rob and there was the whole rigmarole of getting the ticket. Tom Waits and his management made an admirable effort to beat the re-sale market. You could only get the ticket itself on the day of the gig. The buyer had to have ID that matched the details supplied at the time of purchase. You could only buy a maximum of four tickets for the gig and your guests had to be in attendance at the time of collection in order to have a wrist band strapped to you. It meant that everyone in the audience was a True Fan, not just a bunch of schmos on a corporate jolly.

So I met Rob at the theatre, gave him his €200, got my wristband. We went in like a couple of kids on a blind date.

toneelhuisI remember how beautiful the venue was. I was amazed it was in a theatre. Waits could have sold out any stadium, any mega venue. I couldn’t believe how tiny it was. This is what they mean in the music press when they talk about an intimate venue. We were sat in the 6th row from the front, a few seats in from the left hand aisle. I was a bit overcome by the whole experience, safe to say.

The gig passed in a blur. I knew I was having a “bucket list” kind of night. I wanted to hang on to every note, to be able to quote every ad lib quip, to mime every contortion, to recall every single signal from Waits and his band that meant I wasn’t listening to a recording but watching and listening at close range.

But I couldn’t. This stuff slips away like liquid soap. I do remember the incredible bar we went to afterwards, next to the cathedral, that was full of religious statues from old churches and that sold beer in these weird test tube looking glasses. I remember enjoying myself a lot and enjoying Rob’s company.

But I don’t really remember much about the show. Nor do I remember the busker singing Tom Waits songs outside the venue, but two friends of mine knew for a fact that there was one. These friends didn’t know each other but they both knew Raymy. I had met him, briefly, years before at a jam session, through the first of these friends, a fellow sax player and improviser. He was a bit mad, carried a box of musical toys with him, had albums worth of songs on cassette that he tried to sell to people. I met him again, years later, through the second of these friends, a girl I was seeing at the time, when I got to hear about his adventures on the Real Gone tour.

Basically, the story goes that Raymy couldn’t get a ticket for any of Waits’s European shows, so he decided he was going to follow the tour schedule and busk outside each venue before the gig in the hope of attracting the band’s attention and a) gaining admission. b) acquiring memoir material, and c) actually meeting the Man himself.

When I met Raymy I learned that he had written a book about it and was totally outraged that no-one wanted to publish it – so he published it himself. You can read about it here.

I had a day in Amsterdam the next day which I spent walking in circles for about eight hours. It was my favourite time of year. November. Cold, clear, crisp evenings. Blue skies. I walked until the sun went down and everyone’s windows were lit up like mini tableaux, scenes from a thousand lives.

I bought a book in a beautiful big busy bookshop called What Should I Do With My Life? which, as much as I enjoyed it, failed to give me the momentous epiphany I realised I’d been seeking when I bought it. It was the same when I answered the Zornlist post from Rob. I felt then, as I kind of still do from time to time, that my life had gone wrong somewhere, taken a wrong turn, and I was looking for the way back.

I had booked an early flight home which I managed to miss. It wasn’t to be for the first time, either. I literally arrived at the check-in desk as the flight was leaving. The airline sales woman couldn’t believe I had been so stupid and contemptuously took €100 off me for the next flight back to Glasgow. I had an awkward conversation with my boss too, as I was going to miss my two classes that afternoon that I was timetabled to teach at the college I worked at.

I saw Tom Waits again when he played in Edinburgh in 2008. I had a new job by that time, and a new girlfriend. I hadn’t answered Po Bronson’s question, but it felt like I was making a reasonable attempt.

The Edinburgh gig was in a theatre again, albeit a much, much bigger one. The same security measures applied, and then some. Tom was exceptional, as he always is, but don’t ask me to remember anything from the gig.

I wonder if he’ll ever tour again.

Swagger

The Blue Aeroplanes
(1990)

swagger1. Jacket Hangs

Pick a card. Any card.
Wrong.

If you could condense The Blue Aeroplanes’ sound, make a thumbnail of it, as it were, you could boil it all down to the opener of this album. It’s all there. Jangly guitars. Fab riff. Deadpan delivery of clever lyrics. No wonder they called the album Swagger. The whole thing just shimmers  and shivers with it, brazenly, brilliantly.

I’m listening to the deluxe CD version reissued in 2005 . . .

2. World View Blue

. . . my original cassette copy is kicking about somewhere. I picked it up on a whim, back when I had whims I could act on, from Our Price in East Kilbride soon after its release. I don’t think I’d heard of them, or had even heard a note of their music when I parted with the cash. Though they do say inspiration is just unconscious reminiscence, so maybe I’d read about them and forgotten. Maybe I just liked the cover.

But that line, that opening riff, had me hooked from the off; the rest of it, the more I listened, made me a life long fan.

There’s something about the way the vocalist/ lyricist Gerard Langley delivers his lines

I love the way you shake yourself to continent and time.
I love it all, I really do.

I love it more than you.

like an actor, more than a singer. You still believe in him, even though you have no idea what he’s on about. He’s got the emotional range, the intensity, all shot through with something I’m struggling to call anything other than cool. Beat cool.

3. Weightless

Many lines stick in the memory

Like diagrams with consequence.
How much falls to anyone else?

but evade precise understanding. Which I love. It’s an album I come back to occasionally, so listening back to it this time doesn’t bring back any great surprises.

4. …And Stones

I’m trying to document my thoughts, memories and associations in real time as I listen back right now.

This track I also have as a 12″ extended dancefloor remix.

Hey you in that dress.
Yeah, we’ve all been long-ex.

I went to a place that played dance music maybe three times through the whole of the 90s.Dance music, night clubs, those things were for other people. But I loved the idea of my beloved Aeroplanes having a remix. All those guitar lines looping around, Gerard’s crazy words. In my eyes, it made them very of the moment, made me feel cool too.

Smaller than thought, but wayward in intention.

These days – does it feel dated? The 12″ remix certainly only gets to about 3″ before I have to take it off. And jangly guitars were very 80s. The lead guitarist, Angelo Bruschini is clearly a superstar, but he owes a debt to Johnny Marr, the Edge. But honestly,

4. Love Come Round

you really wouldn’t bat an eardrum if you heard this as album of the day on Radio 6 Music tomorrow. It’s as fresh as the day it was minted.

They say you hurt the ones you love, but I don’t think it’s true.
The ones you love are just prepared to be hurt by the things you do.

There’s a very strong association I have for a girl I went out with during the height of my infatuation with this album. I was briefly infatuated with her too, but we were hopelessly mismatched – she, a computer science student who self-described as “ambitious to a fault”; me, not. I had just come back from my epic European rail adventure and had found a momentary peace with myself which gave me the confidence to ask her out.

Love come round and let me know
That a love unbound won’t let me go

But it was a confidence that was short-lived.

5. Your Ages

I was drifting, aimless. I had opinions about music, none about a career. (Still don’t). She was coming back from uni with stories about this wonderful new thing called “email” that was going to change the world, about how she was going to buy a big flat in Hyndland, set up her own company, make a fortune. I was dodging lectures to browse music shops.

Autumn into Christmas was lovely, all mix tapes and heavy petting, but by new year the shine was coming off. I was terribly rude to her at a party, got drunk, smoked a joint, whiteyed, called her boring. I had it coming to me, but even still, it didn’t stop the inevitable dumping from stinging deeply. It was years until I found another girlfriend.

6. The Applicant

First, are you our sort of a person?
Do you wear a brace or a hook?

I’ve buried a lot of memories from my first stint at university. Not a happy time. Not a great education, either, but you make your own education in these places I guess. Or you’re supposed to. I felt beyond naive. A mummy’s boy. A stay-at-home. I escaped into music and free association word nonsense. Beat lit. I liked stuff with a lack of narrative. No big picture, no story. The Blue Aeroplanes were the soundtrack to all that. Just the relation of line to following line, of word to beat, hooky riffs and attitude.

7. What it is

I bought two pairs of tickets for each of the two gigs that the Aeroplanes played at King Tut’s Wah-Wah Hut in 1991. I dreamed of asking a girl I fancied from my high school Spanish class who I still saw working in a shop in East Kilbride town centre. I never found the courage, of course, so I asked my brother along.

Let you arms rotate like helicopter blades.

Not strictly a line from that song, but I picture him every time I hear it, whirring about eyes shut in that sweaty room.

Little jump, skip the rest.

He’s a few years younger than me and at the time he was still at school, so there was a risk we’d be knocked back from the the gig, refused entry into the licensed venue. But nobody cared about those things in those days. We got in fine and had a ball. The

The morning was evening,
the train was a bus
It was dull, dull, dull.

band were anything but dull. The tine venue was crammed. The even tinier stage seemed to have about fifteen guitarists on it. Gerard was wearing shades.

8. Anti-pretty

Wojtek their dancer was throwing mad shapes all over the place, helicoptering for all he was worth.

I loved going to gigs with my brother. We saw Gong (actually, Gong Maison) at The Garage. I was wearing my “trademark” (ahem) trenchcoat, prompting some “chilly for Julember” patter from the bouncers. We saw Hue and Cry. We saw U2. We saw The Pixies – well, all four songs that they played before the show was cancelled because the crowd was mental and people got hurt. Test Dept at the church in Hyndland that became Cottiers. Others possibly.

9. Careful Boy

At King Tuts we swayed and swaggered and let our arms rotate. Or G did, at least. I was, and remain, way too inhibited & awkwardly self-aware to let myself go like that. We cheered when it was Rodney’s turn – a young Aeroplane, not much older than us, who was small with a big 90s fringe who played a Gibson semi-acoustic that looked massive on him. He had a gentle, folky voice. We liked him a lot.

You and I just sat down there
All we did was sit down there.

And writing now, I’m struck by just how folk-flavoured this album is. There are mandolins, 12-strings, rhythms and melodies that seem to borrow from an English pastoral tradition. It could easily sit alongside Fairground Attraction/ Fairport Convention.

10. Picture Framed

imageAfter I got the bug with Swagger, I acquired other Aeroplanes releases. The Loved EP, obviously, a transition to their follow up Beatsongs. That 12″ I mentioned. Bits and pieces of back catalogue & re-releases that I “sourced” from various rummages in Tower and Fopp’s vinyl bins. One of the LP covers inspired a recent gift to a pal and his new wife on the occasion of their (surprise) wedding. There’s a blue aeroplane-shaped cookie cutter cutting about my kitchen somewhere.

11. Cat-scan Hist’ry

After Beatsongs I lost interest. Perhaps they too lost their way. They never seemed like a major label act, though they carried the fame they earned from supporting REM’s Green world tour with grace and, well, swagger.

Since I decided I was going to do this, I’ve been listening back to their old vinyl. I enjoy their B-sides, their sketchy early work. I love Loved. I love their multitudinousness, their jangling, razorwalking, swaggering legions of guitarists. They are undoubtedly a force for good.

And rather perfectly, they are still going strong and coming to Glasgow in the new year, January 2017. Not to King Tut’s this time, but to Stereo. I’ve already bought two tickets but, as yet, have no-one to go with. Although, there’s a girl I know who keeps catching my eye. Maybe I’ll work up the courage to ask her out…