Monday, 31 August 2020

rock family trees

Saara, my better half, was for a time a jazz vocalist in a group with someone who’d previously been (and subsequently was; they reformed!!) in mod hopefuls The Carnaby, whose insanely catchy single ‘Jump and Dance’ was released on Pye/ Piccadilly in 1965.

This is, strictly speaking, irrelevant to everything else featured in this blog; I’m just obliquely proud about it and like telling people.



But speaking of insane catchiness in music, do listen to Meg Curl’s ‘Distanced’; if there’s been a better song about what it’s like to be a teenager during lockdown, I’ve yet to hear it. The home-made video was shot in and around Windmill Hill, a council estate just adjacent to Glastonbury, ‘the oddest town in Britain.’ Windmill Hill is now the subject of its own documentary film.

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Sunday, 30 August 2020

some people, they like to go out dancing

“Dad, have you heard of a band called the Velvet Underground?”

The part of me that’s a rock-and-roll fan – and left-libertarian free-speech advocate – is minded to say, straight off: yeah, they’re great.

The part of me that’s an inevitably and appropriately protective dad is minded to say: the Velvet Underground? No, doesn’t ring a bell. Still, I believe the Carpenters were around at about the same time; they’re great, you should listen to them.

“But if you haven’t heard of them, how do you know that…?”

Ah, fourteen year old daughter, you are too wise for me.

But the left-libertarian free-speech advocate side wins as it often does, and there are reasons for this.



First, our family culture just leans this way, sometimes to a fault. Partly it’s that (as far as day jobs go) we’ve worked for, oh, half a century between us in the sorts of welfare or therapeutic roles in which plain-speaking about what would otherwise be ‘hot potato’ subjects goes with the territory.

Second, it’s that Iris is, these days, a quasi-only child (quasi- because she has a brother fifteen years older; we're close, we see each other often but, in the nature of things – kids grow up, they leave home – he hasn’t lived with us since Iris was a toddler). While we actively try to make sure she’s had the chance to spend time with other small persons – during the summer holidays as she grew up, for instance, we arranged plenty of playdates with friends including other ‘onlies’* - inevitably she also gets included in the ebb and flow of grown-up conversations; she’s not one of two or more children amongst whom we’re having to arbitrate. 

*(Saara to me – as given our work schedules, I was being the main ‘summer holiday parent’ that year: “So do you think there’s going to be enough for Iris to do?” Self: “Yes, love, don’t worry; I’ve got the phone numbers of all the other mums. Saara: “Yeah, I bet.”).

Third, I think that these are the times we live in. A much younger chap I was talking to the other day mentioned that, as a child, he’d experienced an innocent and momentary curiosity about what it would be like to be Superman. So he did what small children now do: he typed “how to be Superman” into a search engine… then he typed it into Amazon, ordered up a few books and other resources, he’s been a Nietzschean ever since. (Joke).

Anyone now under twenty-five has grown up with, for better and for worse, the internet at their fingertips [..insert tedious reminiscences about payphones..]; the official remedy for this, at least if you listen to official guidelines handed out by schools along with NHS advice about nits and Comic Sans requests that cakes for the Summer Fayre are left with Ms Butskell in the office on Friday morning, is to screw things down nice and tight, firewall everything up to the hilt, parental controls, spyware, trackers, all the rest.
Some of this advice is good; some of it feels almost mandatory for anyone with any sense (meaning, it fits into the “why wouldn’t you?” category along with seatbelts, smoke alarms and vaccines); however, even as someone who’s helped hand the official guidance out (like I’ve helped arrange cakes on stalls; and don’t get me started about nits), I’ve sometimes had the nagging feeling that we’re just not doing enough, or we’re just not doing it right; possibly the official guidance doesn’t sufficiently address the positive, the sense in which the right response to the instant availability of information, misinformation, image, myth, rumour, isn’t some Canute-like* attempt to stem the tide but instead the determination to become, as a parent, a trusted source of – or conduit for - information and guidance.

*(Yes, he was a wise ruler attempting to demonstrate something to his courtiers, not some kind of Anglo-Saxon proto-Trumpian pathological narcissist – I know, I know).

By trusted source or conduit I guess I don’t mean ‘knowing it all’ – how could you? how could anyone? – more a commitment to being a sort of imperfect Socratic figure, open-handedly knowing and sharing what one doesn’t know etc. Whether that’s quite the right way to put it or not, what I’m suggesting is definitely both an epistemology and an existential stance more than it’s a specific body of knowledge. There’s perhaps a loose analogy here with drugs education* in schools: the ‘answer’ isn’t restricting information, still less prophylactic (in the sense of ‘prevenative’) lies, rather it’s countering inevitable street myth and rumour with balanced, accurate, age-appropriate information which, acknowledging the attractiveness of drugs as mood-altering substances (users aren’t drawn even to crack or to heroin for no reason at all; surprising how often even well-informed well-intentioned people miss this), also pulls no punches about actual and potential risks and harms.

*(I used to do drugs education in schools – oh, a decade or so ago now. Getting to the end of a PSHE visit to school; at the end, any questions? “Yes – was you one yourself?” Well, I’m not really here to talk about my own background – always best to leave ‘em with a sense of mystery. Then: a question on a standard Youth Service feedback form, ‘what was the worst thing about this presentation?’; Year 10 lad writes in,“not being funny, but D.S.’s t-shirt was the worst thing about this presentation.” Okay, okay; you got me there.)

Fourth, we live in a sort of hippy enclave and we’ve taken her to a lot of music festivals over the years.

If you’re determined that your child should never hear swear words, don’t ever take them either to the football or to music festivals - and if you’re determined only to present a sort of Ladybird Books picture of the world to them, don’t live even on the outskirts of the counterculture (now, I hesitate to use the word... but let me walk you around Glastonbury for the afternoon; yep, there's a counterculture). 

Of course, you still have to supervise. We were all at Glastonbury one year; Saara and I were working at a Churches Together-led welfare project – heck, I could tell you some stories – and there was one lad, about nineteen, who spent a lot of time with us because he was going through a various crises and needed that kind of adult grounding maybe, or to be part of a reparative pseudo-family for the duration: the heart wants what it wants. (Also, he didn’t have a wristband so was evading security; jumping the fence at Glastonbury takes real work and ingenuity since the Ring of Steel went up). He took a shine to Iris as a kind of temporary, honorary little sister, taught her to play the drums (naturally we had a drum kit), told her funny stories; I was there in the background, and intervened whenever he forgot himself and began to include drugs or other misbehaviour in these stories. “Josh, she’s seven.” “Oh yeah, I forgot, sorry, sorry.”

So, yeah: after running the numbers (one key determinant, three associated multipliers), it turns out I have heard of the Velvet Underground... and that I'm top of the world looking down on Creation about that.

[See also: rock family trees]


from lewisham to watchet by cormorant

“I didn’t know you wrote poetry, I didn’t know you wrote such bloody awful poetry.”

If this had been a normal August Bank Holiday weekend, I’d have spent it at Watchet Music Festival. We’d have been catching up with old friends, making new ones, drinking Sheppey’s Sweet, having those random conversations you tend to have at music festivals, dancing to the Bar Steward Sons of Val Doonican, you name it. This time next year, God willing.

At Watchet, I usually end up reading some of me poems into a microphone at the Something Else Tea Tent – because there’s nothing I like more than further confusing some twenty to thirty hungover and fragile-looking souls on a Sunday lunchtime, apart from perhaps a well-cooked vegan breakfast. Oh, and pina coladas. Getting caught in the rain. Alphabetising my CD collection. Actually, there’s quite a lot of things I like more than further confusing…

Enough of the Monty Python impersonations.

I don’t take my own poetry terribly seriously, you understand; it was a weight off my mind when I decided at approx. age twenty-five that “I am not T.S. Eliot, nor was meant to be.” The Pam Ayres de nos jours, perhaps, only slightly more influenced by Pavement than the original; certainly I wish I’d been more diligent about regular dental check-ups. But in lieu of getting those emotional self-immolation kicks in person (“your poetry is basically comedy, isn’t it, Dad?”; yes and no; just because people are laughing, this doesn’t mean it’s a comedy; just because they look confused, this doesn’t mean it’s a puzzle), here are a few which at least look alright on the screen.

Okay. So this next one comes to mind in a music-festival context, because Saara and friends worked it up into a song when she was in the band (and then there was ‘Yvonne’s Pickaxe’, the best socialist-feminist anthem I ever wrote… though in another Richard Curtis style timeline, I wake up after a minor car accident in a world in which Billy Bragg never existed; gifted with perfect recall, I then successfully claim to have written ‘Waiting for the Great Leap Forwards’).

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Lewisham. Monday. 10:47a.m.

Elaine, there’s a cormorant
Outside the One-Stop Shop.

It says it don’t want
Housing Benefit help
And it says it don’t want
Energy-saving lightbulbs
Or Community Arts and Leisure News.

It screams that it’s
The crack in every windowpane
The asymptote of every graph
The gap in our integrated service provision.

Elaine, it’s thin and gaunt
And walking on the wall
Intimidating passers-by;
Plus its press releases and live webcast
Could give Lewisham a bad name
At this critical juncture.

I’m telling you Elaine:
You’d better call the Seabird Outreach Team.
Its claims to dwell in the ruined castle
In the back of every social worker’s head
Are scaring me. Bye for now.


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The next is a bit religious and it partly takes place in Sainsbury’s. YES: turns out I'm George Herbert, only with Nectar points).

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Stigmata

Mrs K.M. of Leatherhead, Surrey writes
“Can you get carpet burns from laminated flooring?”
Well, Mrs K.M., the answer to your query is no,
Those subtle but perceptible marks on your upper thigh
Are, in fact, stigmata, representations of Christ’s suffering
Showing where the nails entered his flesh.

Also, the light in your fridge is the light of life
Factories and outlet villages are the Spirit’s creative power
And the queuing system at the deli counter
Is the fearful soul waiting upon judgement.

Mrs K.M. of Leatherhead in Surrey,
My heart yearns to be with you –
You and your husband Alan,
Your lovely children John and Chloe
And the Alsatians Joe and Lizbet;
Our ordinary yearnings are images of that great desire
The restless soul panting for its God.

Do rest assured, Mrs K.M., Mr L.W., Ms G.F.
And everyone crouching out there in the warm darkness
That God will return at the same time next Wednesday
To answer more of your household and DIY queries. Amen.


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The last of these three I probably wouldn’t read at a music festival; wrong mood.

When I did read it out at a poetry evening, it provoked “a sharp intake of breath.” This I like, just as I enjoy reading both hostile and appreciative responses to fanzine articles; a mixed response reassures me that I’m doing it right.

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Rotterdam

My link worker visits; asks, “and how are you in yourself?”
I think: how am I in myself? As opposed to what, exactly?
How am I in a bag? How am I in a suburb of Rotterdam?
What, exactly? But Agnetha’s not so bad. She says,
“I’m going to put you down as a Level Five.” I think
She just wants to close the case, to step me down.
I can see she’s busy.

And how is Agnetha in herself? Agnetha pities me
If she thinks of me at all – I mean, outside of working hours.
Agnetha is getting married; Agnetha dislikes her name,
Tells friends she keeps it out of loyalty to her dead dad.
Perhaps he was called Agnetha also.

Today Agnetha feels scared when she watches the news
And that’s how Agnetha is in herself –
But how is she in a bag? How is she in a suburb of Rotterdam?
I voted to leave the European Union
But please don’t think the worse of me for that;

I am a Level Five.


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(Oh, and speaking of the EU...)

The best poem I’ve yet written (in my own estimation) is a long sequence called ‘Burnham Beach Amusements’ which took a weekend to write and about fifteen minutes to read; it reworks Matthew Arnold’s ‘Dover Beach’, quoting from it, extemporising and folding in various other found texts and fragments of overheard speech. If you haven’t noticed a long, withdrawing roar lately, you haven’t been watching the news. 
By the way, I don’t include poetry collections in twenty-seven word reviews even though I read them. This is because there’s something inherently glib about summarising something you’ve read or watched in twenty-seven words; I just don't want to be or sound glib about other people's poetry collections (poets are delicate, prose writers can look out for themselves).

Quick ‘heads-up’ and ‘thank you’ then that I’ve recently enjoyed poetry collections by Ama Bolton, Rachael Clyne, Michelle Diaz, Jo Waterworth, and also that I’ve enjoyed listening to work by Ben Banyard, Chrissy Banks, Beth Calverley, Jinny Fisher, Tom Sastry, Louise Warren, and Pam Zinnemann-Hope. Much of this has been through Fountain Poets - for me, to look through the Fountain Poets website is both to remember some standout evenings (etymologically speaking, to ex-ist is to stand out) and to look forward to meeting up again ‘when all this is over’ (and it will be).

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(If you're a Christian or other festival-goer who'd normally join the Churches Together worship service on the festival site on Sunday mornings, here's a virtual act of worship put together by local Christians. Hopefully next year we can get together and lift our voices!)

(For more details of family leisure pursuits - and, frankly, what could possibly go wrong? - see Some Things Just Stick In Your Mind). 

coming soon to this cinema



Dad loves the Beatles (and he was there at the time – in the “young in the 1960s” sense, I mean, not as a member of their immediate entourage); so do I, so does my daughter. 

She and one or two good friends have started swapping ‘classic’ recommendations for Beatles, Bowie and, heck, even the Velvet Underground; it’s interesting to me to observe this from a distance and to see what she’s making of it all; she’s grown up in a household full of music and talking; naturally the teenage years are about self-authorship, a sort of existential threshold - consult Mark McConville’s ‘Adolescence: Psychotherapy And The Emergent Self’ if you don’t believe me or just spend an hour or so journalling and thinking back.

I’ve recently written a 5,000 word piece about the Beatles, John Lennon’s difficult teenage years, Beatles literature, other 1960s rock and roll and – more intangibly - what it means to love and appreciate popular music in a world where there’s an actually-existing popular music canon which stretches back, by this point, a half-century and more.

I’m seeing if I can get this Beatles article published somewhere. I’ve got a couple of ideas about that but if the publications I’m thinking of “don’t think it’s quite right for them” (rejection letter euphemism!), I’ll self-publish it at this website on 8th December. If you have to ask why that date, you’re clearly not serious about the Fab Four yourself – and that’s okay, other beat combination groups are available, plus it's okay (arguably better) not to like pop music at all: for the late Roger Scruton, conservative philosopher par excellence, it's "the endless repetitive background which is rapidly driving both music and silence from our world."