Lately a few social media contacts (now on snooze) have been shoving a crowdfunder for someone to produce an album under my nose. It’s completely got under my skin and the following rant is the result of watching people on social media beg for money time and time again to pay for the recording and production their album. It’s not the first one I’ve seen but this one has pushed me over the edge.
Will someone please explain to me why I should pay for an you to record an album? Is it so that I can get a copy when you’re done? It’s like a forward bet isn’t it? What if I pledge £20 for a coloured vinyl and a t-shirt and the resulting music is a total pile of narcissistic, badly written shite? Why should I give you money in advance of you doing something that you love? Especially as it’s my hard earned money that I received working somewhere I despise. At any other job you work a month on hand and get paid after the work is done. But not you it would seem.
Whatever happened to making an album by hook or crook, on a shoe-string, taking the gamble yourself as an artist? Maybe you could embed the tension that your gamble might not pay off into the music of your shoe-string album. It might even give it an ‘edge’. Instead I give you my hard earned money so that you can be comfortable in the knowledge that you aren’t taking a gamble and won’t make a loss, is that right? What the actual fuck is that about?
To me it smacks of entitlement; “why should I (the artist) struggle, why should I go without, why should I save up, why should I do any of these things if you will just give me the money in advance?” I mean, I get it; a record company advance is a loan, a gamble and it has to be paid back out of future sales of said album. As an artist you are liable for it and you owe it to the record company, it’s their gamble/investment. For a crowdfunded project you’ve already sold all the stuff before you’ve even made it so win-win… But what if it’s a fucking terrible record that your ‘fans’ listen to once and then promptly throw into the bag of stuff to take to the charity shop. I’m not buying your next one, nor am I giving you any money in advance to make it. Maybe I’m just old and out of touch and I just don’t understand.
Is it just tin-rattling on a digital scale? I mean, I give to charity and I have done charitable work and I understand that certain things in life need help to exist and the work that they do is great. Do you ‘need’ to produce an album so badly that you need everyone’s money to do it? Why don’t you get bank loan or re-mortgage your house? Nerina Pallot re-mortgaged her house to pay for her second album and it is an incredible piece of art. There are endless stories of artists going for broke and then producing the best art of their life. But why should you do that if you can just beg online?
Modern technology being what it is these days, it’s pretty straight forward to make a decent sounding recording. In the 1990’s a hissy fostex 4 track borrowed from a mate was what I used to make demos with. Why should you make a full album and have it mastered in Abbey fucking Road? I’ll tell you why; because someone else is paying for it, that’s why. Necessity is the mother of invention, they say. Just how creative are you gonna get if I’m paying for you to relax and play whatever you want? Surely if I’m paying up front you’ll play what I want? Doesn’t ‘he who pays the piper call the tune’? I’ll tell you what, why don’t you make what you want; art for arts sake, edgy, troubled, desperate and rough around the edges and if I like it I’ll buy it and if I don’t I won’t.
I love a bit of band politics and a recent experience has got me to reminiscing about a certain situation that has arisen in bands I have been in:
“I think you two should take it in turns to solo during more numbers,” Came the input at band rehearsal last night. “I think it makes a great extension to the songs and gives you (points at me) a chance to show off your harmonica skills.” Five minutes later during the soloing section of the song in hand, our guitarist was happily noodling away. As soon as he started I backed off the mic, took the harp out of my mouth and waited out the allotted ‘one time around the verse and chorus’ that he had his turn to solo in. I did my usual introductory riffs to take the lead from him at the end of the turnaround, but to my surprise he wasn’t budging. He just kept on soloing. I tried the eye contact, but his eyes were closed, lost in his solo. It was actually a truly epic solo so I took the chance to listen to what he was playing and felt awed at how good his chops where. ‘I’ll get it on the next one’, I thought to myself. The turnaround came again and… you guest it, he carried on soloing! This time around the verse when the turnaround came the singer had decided that it was time to bring the last verse in so he wilfully started singing, my chance of a solo in this song passed by. I automatically dropped back in to backing mode and the band played on.
At the end of the song our singer wasted no time and addressed the issue straight away.
“When it’s Paul’s turn to solo you have to stop playing so that we can hear him.”
“I did!” protested our guitarist.
“No you didn’t I was here and I heard it!” Our singer shoots back. The singer and guitarist have been in bands with each other for many years now so how they speak to each other looks like crap when written down but is actually always spoken with complete affection.
“Alright, maybe I did carry on soloing, but I did play a bit quieter during his solo.”
“That’s still soloing even if it is quiet, maybe you should just play chords while Paul solos?”
“Yeah man, no probs!”
An amicable solution had been found and the issue addressed.
The whole situation took me back nearly 30 years to the first band I was ever in. I then realised that this ‘solo stealing’ had been happening all my musical life. Thankfully, these days it was dealt with in an adult and (semi) professional manner. Back when I was in a band with 4 other teenage boys, all playing harmonicas it was a completely different story…
We had a tune called ‘Random’s Boogie‘ and we played that tune everywhere. And when I say everywhere I mean EVERYWHERE. It was a mostly improvised 12 bar blues boogie where we started off with a slow section and then after a couple of times round the 12 we kicked off into a fast paced boogie chug. The structure after that was to take turns in having a solo and show off our skills. There being 3 lead players in the band there was plenty of room to extend or shorten the tune depending on the time slot we needed to fill. This made the tune perfect for radio and TV so we wheeled this tune out time and time again. You can probably see where I’m going with this…
The solo stealing started by accident, we just weren’t listening to each other and couldn’t tell who’s turn it was. Everyone wanted to play at once and it just sounded like a dog’s breakfast. Needless to say that the tact of a 13 year old boy is far removed from that of a 30something, so the suggestion that we take turns was not given or taken as lightly or amicably as it was at my recent band rehearsal. To be blunt, we just swore and shouted at each other over it. Far from resolving the situation (quelle surprise), drawing attention to the issue only made things worse. Knowing that stealing each others solos wound each other up we started to do it on purpose. When the solo stealing started out in rehearsals it was quickly jumped on by our managers and musical directors, especially when we were rehearsing for TV slots. We would start just soloing over each other and it sounded proper awful. After being reprimanded we would all play nice and take turns during the next rehearsal. The very second the red light turned on on the TV cameras it was a free-for-all again. We all played over each other, stole solos and made each other really angry. Being the goody-two-shoes that I was at the time I stopped participating and just back and didn’t take my turn to solo, I just carried on playing the backing. I started to feel like a side man in my own group. I began to resent the situation and came to hate playing the tune at all. I was 14, moody and if I couldn’t play I was gonna take my ball home.
What I have taken away from this is that what we are playing, the tune, the song, is bigger than those of us playing it. We are party to creating a great thing and should feel privileged to be part of the song, no matter how small a part we play. It’s a cliche for a reason but the whole is bigger than the sum of its parts. The solo is no good without decent backing to play it over. But it’s tough, because if we’re doing it properly we commit ourselves emotionally to the song and give a piece of ourselves away. The trick is not to be too precious about it and give that piece of yourself willingly and accept deference to your higher power: music.
My advice: keep your ears and eyes open, remember what you rehearsed and most important of all leave your ego at the rehearsal room door!
Has any of this happened to you? How are the politics in your band?
It’s a can of worms, searching for your tone. It’s not like you ever had it only to lose it and had to look for it again. It’s not even like you can describe it to someone properly without gesticulating madly, making incoherent noises and using large amounts of onomatopoeia. Your tone is your sound, it can define you. So you think. As a young man I listened to a LOT of harmonica players on records, or CD’s as they were called back then. I wanted to play like they did and I wanted what they had. It was strange though, because my focus was always on their techniques, abilities and song choice and hardly ever on their ‘tone’. I say ‘hardly ever’ as I did have a dabble at one time, around the age of 17, with an astatic mic and a tube amp but it was short lived and lasted as long as someone else was buying the equipment. So it was that I spent (wasted?) hours learning the bends, overblows, overdraws, trills, scales, arpeggios, breathing patterns etc etc etc that came out of my stereo, placed there by my harmonica heroes. It will be 30 years next year since I picked up the Harmonica and I’m still acquiring new techniques this way.
But what about my ‘sound’?
For decades I have tried to find my own style, my own sound. These last two years I have invested a large amount of time into trying to find it. There has been tears, tantrums and a few angry gigs I have to tell you. I’ve bought and sold gear I bought on a whim and held on to stuff I can’t let go of as I am convinced that it will work for me at some point as it seems to work for everyone else! Take the vintage Astatic mic I bought earlier this year. I thought I had paid a fair amount of cash for it but some quick internet based research told me that I had gotten an absolute BARGAIN. Very pleased I was to have an actual Astatic as I’ve not had one since I was 17 years old. I actually had a band to gig test it with this time around. So with giggling schoolboy excitement I tested the mic with my amp choice; a Marshall AVT. Now, I know hat the Harp-tone junkies amongst you are saying right now: “That’s a gain-y amp! You wanna get a fully valved one.” I know it is and I know I do. However, I was well happy with my Marshall, an old CAD vocal mic and a noise reduction pedal until I got that old harp-tone itch again.
For the 8 years preceding my recent harp-tone odyssey I used a clean, cheap radio vocal mic that went straight into the PA. It was a clean ass sound and I could always be heard, never got any feedback/recirculation and didn’t have to lug a massive amp around.
My tone was sooo clean though… Squeaky clean, country clean!
Did I ever have any sound problems? No, I did not.
It was clean though.
I blame the boys in the band. I’m so easily led. They happened to mention that they had seen some old blues players with ‘those bullet mic things’. I explained what they were, how I’d had a bad experience twenty-something years ago and never gone back. Was it worth another go with an older head on my shoulders? Like I said, I’m easily led. So I looked around for an amp and a friend had one for sale for 20 quid. Worth a punt, I thought so I bought it, plugged my radio mic in and experienced what I had done all those years before when the volume pot would creep past the number 2: howls of feedback. I know, I thought, I have an old vocal mic in a drawer that is even DEAFER than the cheap radio mic I had been using. I plugged it in and gave it a blast. The squeals and howls came again but this time not as prominently. The tone was thin though, very thin and everything I read said I NEEDED reverb and/or delay. Never having been a fan of either of those effects, even on vocals, I shunned that idea and carried on regardless. I’d heard of a noise gate before and thought that might be an idea. A mate had one for sale for 20 quid (it’s the magic price round my way) so having plugged that it, turned the bass up, the treble down, the mid up a gnat’s cock and boom! It sounded great! So I thought…
I had a distorted harp-tone. At last. It was kinda raucous and kinda rough and ready but I now sounded like those skinny rockers who played guitar on my Dad’s records. I did not, however, sound like the harmonica players of old that my band mates wanted to hear from me. SO far my tone journey had led me to Rocksville circa 1979 when what they wanted was Bluesville circa 1959.
So I bought the bargain Astatic (this time costing a bit more than 20 quid) and played a full two numbers of a gig with it, unplugged it, plugged in my ancient vocal miv (not the radio mic I had ebayed that already) and haven’t looked back. That was until my wife spotted a vintage looking amp in a junk shop that her friend owns. ‘A find’ I thought to myself. I’ve seen stories on Facebook pages of people finding vintage amps in thrift stores etc and they turn out to be stonkingly good amps. This was my turn for a bit of awesome luck! They wanted £120 for it and it was an Electar amp, another valvestate this time made in the Gibson workshop, the shop owner said I could trial it before I made a decision to buy it. I took along my old mic and noise pedal and gave it some noise. Number 2 on the volume knob, no feedback. Number 3, 4, 5 and still no feedback. Number 7 was the feedback magic number. The sound was breaking up nicely and the amp tone had a warmth that the Marshall didn’t have. I think I liked it. Then I noticed a switch for a ‘boost’ channel. Volume down first then a little tap of that then volume slowly up again…what a beauty! It’s a lump though and I started getting hacked off lugging it around this festival season but it’s been totally worth it. No feedback, reasonable warm tone and lush overdrive/honk when I want it.
I guess in conclusion I’m really glad that I learnt my techniques before my tone, although maybe I should have grown them at the same time? My old Harmonica teacher David Michelsen used to say that if you don’t work on your acoustic tone and you sound shit, if you then play through an amp all you have is loud shit. I guess he had a point. I love my little cheap set up and I will think long and hard before I spend a friggin’ fortune on an all valve amp!
When you get a call from the BBC asking you to be on one of their shows its a fair assumption that you’ve actually made it. Yes, the BBC actually called us up and asked us to be on their music artsy programme What’s That Noise. I was a massive fan of the original run of the programme which was charismatically presented by Craig Charles. Being a massive fan of Red Dwarf as well I was so excited I could have burst at the prospect of actually meeting him. Having said that, we had appeared on Jools Holland’s Happening a few years back and not actually met Jools himself at all. I placed my excitement in reserve and in retrospect it was a good job that I did. Repackaged and revamped, What’s That Noise was being presented by Tony Gregory whom we had met before when appearing on rival channel ITV’s Motormouth. Our manager, Norman, even had the balls to ask Tony why he switched sides. Tony answered awkwardly that it was for the prestige but certainly not the pay. Ryan just stuck asking Tony where Craig Charles was, a question which obviously didn’t go any way towards lifting the awkwardness at all.
Technology had marched on during the time that we had been frequenting television studios. Instead of the usual clip-on microphones or makeshift vocals mics on a stand, ‘gun-shot’ microphones placed some way in front of us. Pointing up from the floor they were unobtrusive and picked up the sound beautifully from quite a distance. It was a great relief not to be tied to a microphone whilst playing the mouth organ for a change. One could almost be forgiven for forgetting that the mics were there at all. Set in an arty mood with a studio reminiscent of the minimalistic set for The Old Grey Whistle Test, the new format for the show was strikingly different to what I was used to watching on the original Craig Charles version. Long fading camera shots, multiple takes and extremely talented musicians took up the whole day and went on well into the evening as all acts performed their numbers.
As we were about to trudge back to our dressing room a dandy looking, very petite chap in a red velvet suit stood in the middle of the studio floor and asked us all to gather round. I recognised the musical director straight away. We had been introduced to him earlier in the day but up until that point had not actually had any interaction with him. He explained that he wanted everyone to perform a piece intro music for the show. The piece would then be used as a backdrop for Tony to present the acts and do a talk-over. The idea was for us each to play a different note in harmony with the other groups, artists and musicians appearing that day as one big band altogether. Musical director that he was he knew exactly what he wanted us to play. He walked past the line of us five lads and called a note out pointing to each of us as he passed. I was told to play a D flat, John was told to play an F. Bearing in mind the amount of collaboration that needed to happen between the various sorts of musicians for this to come off correctly, it became obvious to me that this velvet clad dandy knew what he was doing.
At the end of quite a long day of ‘work’ five teenage boys can get a bit restless. Things had got a bit pushy and shovey down the line up as the day had gone on and John was in a particularly odd teenage mood by the time we came to the big band slot. Our managers had retreated hours ago into the control room with the director and editing crew. We were unsupervised, tired and not the most receptive we could have been.
After the first run-through things were sounding a little odd. The musical director moved between the acts and stuck his ear out in front of each of them in turn listening for the culprit with the bum note. He circled past us and stopped in front of John. The chap leaned forward and very politely told John in a whisper that he was playing the wrong note. John seemed to take this piece of criticism very well to begin with. Having a reputation for being more than a little unreasonable at band rehearsals when it came to correction, I was surprised when there came no reaction. When John was right, he was right and no amount of proof or logic or evidence would sway him. I knew it had all gone a little too well. As the musical director turned his back to walk away John pulled a face. Waiting until the chap was half way across the room John started:
“Fucking c***, who does he think he is?” John said under his breath. All the time staring daggers at the musical director’s back across the room from us. The musical director stopped suddenly. Still with his back to us he lifted the index finger on his left hand to his earpiece. His head turned in our direction, just for a second. After a moment he carried on walking, almost as if he meant to go and do something and then thought better of it. Ryan gave an affirming snigger in John’s direction, so John carried on.
“Fucking twat, fucking telling me I played the wrong note. Fuck him.” John grinned across the room aggressively in the musical director’s direction. By this time Peter had joined in the sniggering.
“How much of a twat is he then John?” Ryan smirked, egging him on.
“He can’t fucking tell me what note I’m playing. I know what fucking note I’m playing. I’m doing it fucking right, must be some other c***.” vented John.
As usual at this point in this sort of situation, we all joined in. Swearing, giggling and calling the musical director all the names under the sun then ensued from all of us. Bravely done behind his back and far across the studio floor from him.
Segment finished and in the can, we were presented by a runner to our red-faced managers Norman and David. They ushered us out of the studio, barely giving us time to wash the make up off our faces. Being herded into the back of a white transit van and careering off in a screech of tires was becoming a bit of a habit. We sat in silence on the way to the hotel that night. Silence was also the main theme for the van drive home down the A12 in the morning. Just outside the M25 I ventured to dare to ask Norman what the matter was.
“I’m still too angry too angry to say anything at the moment.” Norman commented sternly.
I hung my head in shame, we had been bad again and again I had no idea what had happened. I reassured myself that I sat on the side of the righteous had nothing to worry about. At this point I had a very clear conscience.
Norman stopped the van just outside of Chelmsford to fill up with petrol. Peter, John and Ryan all piled out of the back of the van and into the shop. For some strange reason, John decided that what would make the ultimate snack, the king of comestibles would not be a pack of crisps or a chocolate bar like any other normal person. Oh no, in his tiny pea-sized brain John thought it would be totally awesome (it was the nineties after all) to buy a sliced white loaf of bread. We set off again and the five of us rattled around in the back of the van getting more and more boisterous. Norman and David on the other hand sitting in the front seats of the van, got more and more stern. Things got out of hand. With no seats in the back of the van the five of us were free to kick the living shit out of each other if we so desired. Something we did quite regularly on tours. With no seats or harnesses in the way we took full advantage of the space and started throwing stuff at each other. A toilet roll, a rolled up towel, a cushion, a wash bag with toiletries still in it etc. This all went flying around the inside of the back of the van, much to our own amusement. In a stroke of pure genius(!) John decided that he would ball up slices of dry bread and hurl them at the rest of us. Pretty soon the back of the van looked like a bad snow scene. Crumbled and smeared white sliced loaf was in our hair, our clothes and stuck to pretty much every surface it could. It was when someone, I forget who, started chewing up the bread and making spit-laden dough balls that Norman stepped in. The van came to a screeching halt in a lay-by. Norman leaned over the back of his seat and started grabbing bits of bread manically. Ryan got the arse that he had been thrown around in the stopping of the vehicle and was making ‘I’m going to sue you’ noises at Norman. Norman was not interested.
“You are never going on TV ever again. This is the last trip I ever do for you lot.” shouted Norman amidst his bread grabbing fury.
“It’s only a bit of fun Norman.” countered John, “we’ll clear it up, don’t cry about it.”
“Yeah don’t howl Norm.” seconded Peter.
“Its not the bread that’s pissed me off, although it would have been nice to have been offered some. I’m starving!” said Norman, “It’s what happened at the BBC that’s really got me mad.”
The five of us exchanged quizzical looks for a moment. Then it dawned on me.
Norman delivered the coupe de grace: “We could hear you breathing in the control room.”
The entire floor staff had heard every breath we took and every word we said. The feed from the gun-shot microphones that we had mistakenly forgotten about had taken our foul-mouthed tirade against the musical director and plumbed it round the entire studio. Most importantly it fed right into the earpiece of the red-suited dandy of a musical director.
“We didn’t know where to look after the first 5 minutes of you boys swearing.” David put in.
“Once you piss off the BBC you have pretty much dug your own grave as far as TV goes.” finished Norman.
He was being melodramatic, but he was understandably very angry and embarrassed. I am sure at the time we all thought it was a great big laugh, but really… you never know who’s listening.
A cabaret act made up of 5 teenage boys from Great Yarmouth playing mouth organs? Sounds exactly like the sort of thing that would win a talent contest run by Radio Norfolk, doesn’t it? As a band we had attended many of these sorts of local talent show events. Our older manager, Norman, thought it was a great way for us to get local exposure and keep us in the public eye. Our younger manager David on the other hand, was always looking at the bigger picture of national coverage for the band. Well, when I say that the exposure and brand awareness was for the band, what I actually mean is that it was for the organisation that bore us: Harp Start. The children’s harmonica school aimed to put a mouth organ in the hands of every child in the UK, free of charge. Running an organisation like that required sponsorship, earnings and donations from wherever possible (as long as they were legal!). It was therefore important that we took every opportunity to get into the public eye that we could. Which included humiliating ourselves at a local talent show.
We were put onto the event by Radio Norfolk impresario and children’s entertainer, Olly Day. Not his real name I was led to understand, but he lived up to the name by being one of the most nauseatingly happy people I have ever met. You know, one of those people who almost makes you want to rise to the challenge of pissing him off. Even at the tender age of 12 I was sure I wanted to make it my mission to wipe the eternal smile from his face. Something I am almost ashamed to say that we achieved collectively as a band. Norman and David had been trolling the local radio stations to try to get a bite for local coverage for the band and came across a friendly ear in Olly. He invited us onto his evening radio show so that we could play a few tunes and Norman and David could beg for cash. Sorry, I mean ‘put out a well-mannered plea for sponsorship to be forthcoming’. My bad, but in the years following the events depicted here the constant pleas for sponsorship became blatant and to be honest, plain embarrassing. At its lowest point David basically used to get us to play at bars so that he could get free drinks all night. The man was an alcoholic, amongst other things, so I guess he had needs. Having been one myself as an adult, I understand.
Upon our arrival at the Radio Norfolk station HQ the 5 of us lads were ushered into an empty studio to wait for Olly to be ready for us to go out live on the air. Norman and David were off pressing the flesh, meeting and greeting etc., whatever managers do, I really can’t remember. The point is that we were unattended in what was basically a studio room with a sound desk, microphones and sound proofed walls. We foolishly assumed that the equipment was switched off and that the massive mirror along one side of the studio was for us to see ourselves in. What is it they say? Never assume anything as it makes an ass out of you and me.
John was first. Pretending to be conducting an interview he donned the ‘cans’ that were floating around on the desks and started to play his harmonica as loud as he could into the assumed not-live microphone in front of him. “Yes, yes ladies and gentlemen that was John playing the mouth organ and yes he is fucking awesome so fuck you all and goodnight!” he playfully chatted in his best radio voice. Situations sometimes spiralled out of control with us as group of lads. Just the same as when you are a kid hanging around on street corners. Someone shouts at an old lady, someone kicks a milk bottle, someone else throws something and before long you have a ‘chase’ and it all gets out of control. Most of the time with us 5 it just seemed to be a small spark to light a firework. Once John had broken the seal of faux radio voices and swearing into the microphone we were all doing it. “Hi, my name’s Olly-fucking-Day it is, and that is my real fucking name because I’m a fucking twat!” was Peter’s riposte at the top of his lungs into the nearest microphone. Ryan chose an American style radio voice for some reason, “My name’s Olly Day and I like to suck a lot of cock.” I will spare you the rest of the depth of profanity that graced those fine radio station walls, but needless to say that all of it was the product of undereducated underclass teenage boys imagination and none of it was suitable for broadcasting.
After about 30 minutes of this and a whole bunch of other japes, which may or may not of included one of us pulling a mooney in front of the ‘mirror’, Norman and David came to get us to take us through for the live show.
The studio for the live broadcast was only next door to the one we had been held in. I say ‘held’ because it really did seem like being held in a cell after 30 minutes of that sort of behaviour. I thought it seemed odd that they didn’t have a mirror on their wall, just a dirty great window that looked into an empty studio. I could hear music playing through the cans that graced the desks and hung from microphones over tables that looked like the sort you play cards on. There was one guy at the sound desk with cans on and next to him with cans round his neck and a very red face indeed was Olly himself. It looked like someone had achieved my ultimate goal of wiping the supercilious smile from his face. Ever the professional Olly ushered us in, forced a smile and gestured seats for us all. He arranged us round a microphone with a stern face and more forced smiling, then positioned microphones and even patted one of us on the head when we did as we were bid. It was true to say that through all the professionalism that Olly displayed, he atmosphere absolutely stank. The free and easy Olly Day that we had all met when we first came to the station that night had gone and a stern, professional exterior remained. I could sense a change in his demeanour and Norman and David definitely sensed it. The interview was given to David from an increasingly red-faced Olly who seemed like he wanted to be anywhere but there. Was it my imagination or was he rushing the interview and getting to the bit where we were to play a tune rather quickly? It was previously arranged that he would speak to one of us lads and ask us about our personal experience with the mouth organ, but that didn’t take place. Perhaps there wasn’t time?
At the end of our segment Olly thanked us all and shook all our hands on our way out of the studio. Our new best friend in radio-land, happy to give us a plug whenever he could, helping us on our merry way of promoting our career down the very path we required. Or so we thought. Just as the last of us exited the studio door, Olly called after Norman and David, “Could I have a quick word please gents?” he asked, ever politely. “You boys can wait in reception and try to behave yourselves.” David offered after us, a tad too little too late.
Five minutes later our teacher/managers emerged into the reception area of the Radio Norfolk foyer with very sullen faces indeed and eyes that could look at anywhere but us. I was used to conflicts in adults and as a child grew up with a violent father who could turn on you at any moment, I knew when I was in trouble and Norman and David displayed all the signs. “What’s up?” I asked David. It was always easier to ask David about his feelings on a subject, he was usually less angry and less likely to dish out a punishment. Perhaps I felt like I could get away with more where David was concerned, I had known Norman longer and knew he had higher standards and ran a tougher regime. “You’ll have to wait until we get back to the van, I am sure Norman and I have a few choice things to discuss with you all.” I hated waiting for retribution. As an adult, waiting for punishment gives me have a panic attack, as a child I dealt with it in far worse ways.
Back at the van, blissfully unaware that we had done anything wrong, the other lads carried on with their usual japery and banter. Norman started the engine and as soon as we were mobile, David started his speech. Turning round in his seat the face the rest of us that were lounging around in the back of the Ford Transit van, he explained it all.
It turned out that whilst we had been left alone in the vacant studio room, all the microphones in there had been left on and the ‘mirror’, you might have guessed, was a one-way glass that was visible from the studio that Olly resided in next door. The feed from all the microphones in our room had been ringing in his ears throughout the broadcast he had been engaged in previous to our segment, ready for him to interview us from that very room. Apparently, Olly had said that we were never to darken the doors of Radio Norfolk ever again. He didn’t get his wish, we had a talent show to contend in!
During the late Eighties and early Nineties I was involved with a project that taught children to learn and play music using the Harmonica. When I say I was ‘involved’ I mean that I was one of the children receiving tuition, the people the project was aimed at helping. The project offered free lessons and instruments to any and all children under the age of 16 initially. After it dawned on the founders that it was predominantly kids from a deprived background that attended, they started promoting the project with its aim being to help underprivileged children.
The band’s American tour didn’t really start off as a tour, it just grew out of the one TV appearance. The project organisers, Norman and David, had morphed into our band management and as such decided that whilst in America we should make the best use of the opportunity and try to set up some more gigs, TV appearances and meetings. The original offer of a TV show appearance came from Disney. I know it sounds flippant when I say it like that but it really was a strange and out-of-the-blue phone call that they had received. Researchers for ‘The Mickey Mouse Club TV Show’ in the US had heard of the organisation that Norman and David were running and wanted to reward such a project. Disney had decided that this would best be shown in the form of an award, a Golden Mickey, for ‘Outstanding Talent’. The disadvantaged children that Norman and David were teaching music to were to come to America to receive the award on national television. David in particular had an eye for an opportunity and selected the musically strongest band in the project to groom for the tour. He wrote tunes and arrangements for us to play, chose us matching stage outfits and even selected a spokesperson (Ryan) amoungst us that would do the talking in interviews due to his well spoken English accent. Jealousy reigned supreme within the project amoungst the other kids who wouldn’t be going to America. A lot of kids in the organisation hadn’t been out of the county, let alone out of the country. So it was for two of the band members; brothers Peter and John. Being brothers presented a problem, mostly because as brothers they usually fought like cat and dog and there was already a set of brothers doing that; my brother Dean and I.
Due mostly to not being allowed to refuse, David managed to talk two more TV shows into having us perform and do a short interview. Using the Disney name and the fact that we were getting an award, ‘Nashville Now’ and ‘Good Morning America’ were coerced into having us appear. Chuck in an appearance on the ‘Gloria Hunniford TV Show’ on the way to the airport and we had ourselves a little tour. So that’s Florida for the Disney appearance, New York for ‘Good Morning America’ and back down to Tennessee for the ‘Nashville Now’ all in one week. I was 14 years old and had lived my entire life in Great Yarmouth, as far as I was concerned, we were rock stars.
One more meeting was set-up before we left England that May morning in 1990. David had managed to get us a gift of free instruments, for an endorsement, from a major Harmonica manufacturer (who shall remain nameless, not because of giving them a bad name as they behaved admirably and were really good to us, I just personally don’t rate their instruments). Meeting, photo shoot, dinner etc were all set for the same day we were due to be filming for Disney in Florida. I’m sorry to jump to this part, but honestly, filming for TV shows sounds exciting, but I found it the most boring process in the world. Saying the same lines over and over again, wearing a fake smile until it hurts, make-up, presenters etc etc. It all sucks in an amazingly boring way. In fact, I think I prefer my current factory job. The representative from the Harmonica firm was a guy named Jack. Jack illustrated to me one of the many reasons why I love America; I have always been made to feel welcome. Enthusiastic, polite, well mannered, calm and thoughtful, Jack was a true ambassador.
Hands shaken, photos taken, instruments given and presenters left to go back to the studio, Jack offered to buy us lunch. We all piled in his SUV and he took us to a great grill place he knew that served alligator, which he thought we would love. What boys don’t want to eat alligator? Anyway, on the way to the restaurant in the car, Peter spotted a sign and read it out loud. It is worth noting at this point that Peter was not really one of the more educationally advanced of our group. He was also only 12 years old, but he had a reading age of around 8, none of this was really an excuse for what followed, but what can you do? He was in a project for disadvantaged kids, so I guess no-one should have been surprised. Peter read the sign out loud in the way that most people who are learning to read do, I think he genuinely couldn’t read very well and would take any opportunity to practice. Massively imposing, very high advertising signs seemed to be everywhere along the freeway and Peter took to reading them all out loud as we drove along.
“Jack Daniels fifteen ninety-nine”,
“T-shirts from five dollars”,
“Manure fifteen cents a bag”,
“All you can eat salad”.
The random phrases knew no bounds and got more and more insane as the journey went on.
After a while Peter decided that what was written on the signs wasn’t entertaining enough so he started entering his own words and phrases into them. Getting bored with that, he started to string some of them together into a little song type rhythm, all sung in a hillbilly style fake American accent.
“Jack Daniels, you piss me off, you fucking turd, free shit twenty cents a bag, straight from the horses ass,” the last little ditty even included some mimed fiddle playing at the end. Once Peter noticed that the last tune amused us boys in the band it was all he sang over and over for the next 30 minutes.
“Jack Da-aniels, Jack Da-a-aniels, you piss me off, you fu-cking turd. Free shit, twenty-cents a bag, straight from the horses ass.” Every rendition being finished off with the same fiddle riff mimed with his massive cheesy grin.
What Peter failed to notice was that every time he said the name ‘Jack Daniels’, our benefactor glanced over his shoulder. Hearing your first name mentioned over and over again is going to make you look over and think you are being talked about. To then see us all laughing and swearing would just be the ultimate insult. I am sure it was to him. Dinner was spent in stoney silence from Jack, yet Peter continued his behaviour into some sort of death spiral. The swearing became more and more frequent until I am sure that one phrase that came out of Peter’s mouth had Jack Daniels fucking the horse in order to make horseshit babies that could then be bought for twenty cents.
The drive back to our villa was spent listening to Peter swear and nothing else. We were all tired and had enough, there was probably going to be a fight when we got back. The stoney silence continued from Jack and it had spread to Norman and David, who were clearly very angry but didn’t seem to want to reprimand Peter in front of Jack and make a scene. As we got of of the car all of us took turns to shake Jack’s hand and thank him for the meal and the Harmonicas. All of us except Peter. Peter refused to shake hands with anyone, citing it as ‘well gay’ and that he would ‘rather smack someone than shake their hand’. He finally relented after Norman whispered in his ear that he would be staying at the villa tomorrow instead of going to Disneyland with the rest of us. Rushing forward, Peter shook Jack’s hand and said in the most sugary fake American accent he could muster;
“Thanks Jack, you asshole,” I genuinely believe Peter just wanted to know what it was like to say ‘asshole’ in an American accent, like the actors do in the films he had seen. Jack just shook his head, got into his car and drove off.
The badly coffee stained newspaper clipping below is the only record I have of the events.
Was asked to design some logos for the company website. Decided to use the same font I have used on everything else as its edgy in its sans seriff-ness and its also monospaced so it’s really difficult to read. Will really make me stand out as a designer I feel.
Placed the font ‘white-out’ on a number of different coloured backgrounds (2 to be precise) and stared at them for 2 hours tapping my forefinger on my chin and sighing intermittently. I wanted the other guys in the office to know that I am working very hard on this, so I got up a few times as well to view the logos on my screen from different distances.
Decided that both logos are fantastic and that I am a fantastic designer so I printed them out on the finest quality, most expensive paper the office has in stock and stared at those on my desk for a good hour, just to make sure I was sure about the two colours I had chosen.
Have decided that both colours are terrible and need to start again from scratch.
Really should start the company calendar for 2014, someone might try to bring me some actual work soon and I need to do all I can to avoid that!
Tuesday April 9th 2013
Finished two new logo designs, using old font and two new colours. Printed out another two copies of each logo idea for the company website again (one for my portfolio) and decided that I would submit them. Rehearsed my presentation speech in my head as to how to explain how I came to the design and the thoughts and feelings I was trying to convey with them.
Made a really cool folder to keep the print-outs in to go on my desk. Hunted round for at least an hour to find the correct colour piece of card and spent ages cutting it to shape so that the print-outs jutted out of it just-so. Was truly vexed as it wasn’t complete without a natty little label to tell me what it was in case I forgot what the folder was that was on my desk. Spent reasonable amount of time making label look like it had been thrown on, but in a kitsch, nonchalant way.
Wednesday April 10th 2013
Searched for 2014 calendar schedule in Bing. I like Bing as it is not as mainstream as Google. Google is so passe. I can choose a photo I like to go behind my Bing page and make it more personal to me, more individual. I don’t think people get me, or understand how individual I am. I mean, I design things. I make people feel things and make them look in awe and wonder. Like my Bing search page and my new folder for my logo proofs. I am soooo individual.
Search took a good 4 hours to find a calendar site I liked the look of enough to use their information. I mean, the site can’t expect me to use their information if their site isn’t well designed and great to look at! Everyone knows that the information is always more reliable on a well designed site.
Thought I would just copy and paste the information for one month at a time to retain the accuracy of the information, but then decided to re-type the info as that would make me more edgy and individual. I mean, if I never use copy and paste then I can’t be accused of copying anyone and therefore be more individual!
Started with July, as it’s a cool month and opened last years template.
Thursday April 11th 2013
Decided using last years template is plagiarism and started new document from scratch. Went and measured every calendar in the building to try to find a size that no-one has used before.