When I was young I liked Cyndi Lauper. Well, I liked some of the songs when they appeared on the radio. I liked She-Bop; I can remember it going round and round on a C-90 cassette tape that I was given along with my first tape-player (after my parents’ first overseas trip).
The C-90 was bunged in the player and the record button went down without thought. I used to just fill up tapes with whatever the radio was playing. Read More
I was thinking
about how
one time we
couldn’t afford
the bills in the flat
– a guy had drawn up
a charter, he’d even used
the word “vestiges” –
there was a flat-meeting
because I was dragging
the chain.
the power was going
to be disconnected, the
internet, in its infancy,
would no longer slow-crawl
at all.
and it was up to me.
time to be a hero.
that’s how I saw it.
actually, time to just
pay the bills.
I had to sell some of my
CDs. I sat in my room.
I chose 10 – of several hundred.
I felt disgusted.
Went down to the lounge, for a break.
And a drink.
I lit a smoke (so dramatic!)
Thought long and hard about the next
things to go – The Symphonic Hits of Phil Collins was
an easy choice, so was The Very Best of Elvis Costello (I had all the
albums is all, no need for that compilation too…)
But what else could go?
Sure there was a bunch of CDs by
obscure 80s jazz-drummers.
There was that Brendan Power one –
his harmonica classics sounded like rubbing
your tummy and patting your head, but it
wasn’t the sort of magic-trick you
needed to listen to often.
I softened when I returned, started
chucking out Frank Zappa-this and
Beach Boys-that. Dolly Parton,
Guns n’ Roses too (tit for tat).
I took the CDs – and a squash racket,
an old robot, some books, a hockey
stick, various other things
to Cash Converters.
It didn’t convert to very much cash.
I took them straight back.
And down the road – to
the second-hand stores.
First time for me. I didn’t
think I’d be back.
I thought I had to build
a collection – I didn’t seem
to be thinking too hard about contingences
for how to listen to
the collection if I couldn’t
pay the power bill. But still…
I thought you had to have it all, every
album – the good and the bad. The terrible,
the silly, the magical, the miserable.
And then a guy in a shop told me that
a collection was like a garden, it would
only bloom after a good prune.
I looked at him like he was Shakespeare,
Rimbaud, Baudelaire – Fuck, I didn’t care,
I thought it was so profound.
The power bill got paid and plenty of
other CDs stayed in my room.
Some I listened to, some were lined
up (almost straight away) for the next cull.
Can you imagine
a time when music was currency.
When you could pay your bills by
selling your CDs.
Years on, I sold four crates
of records – no issue.
Did it in a heartbeat.
My son’s – in fact.
That’ll get you realising
what’s important.
You better have the fucking
power on – and all the other
shit that doesn’t
matter better be out of the way.
You better have something in
the back-up in case the shit
hits the fan.
(And if you’re changing a nappy
with some sort of electrical cooling
device on…well…that’s on you! So to
speak!)
The disturbing thing
in all of this
beyond the shit-hits-fan joke
that I hammered way too hard,
beyond even the flagrant
use of the word ‘vestiges’
back in the first verse is how
perverse it is
that 20 years
ago I paid the (overdue)
bills by selling
CDs.
Now, I sort out
our shortfalls
by selling old
LPs.
In two decades
the only thing
I have worth
selling – all I
can offer of
myself is
the music
I thought
defined me;
stuff that everyone
else takes for free –
that means nothing
to most in terms
of any investment.
Music: the food
of love.
Play on, play
on.
Buy my second-hand
songs I got from
anyone else.
I’ve no idea
what I’m trying
to say here.
So there is,
I guess,
more than one
constant. Read More
Just. Couldn’t. Give. A. Fuck. About Bad Company. Never cared. Still don’t. Listened to this – because it’s a challenge. And feel the same way about them (still) as I do bands like Cheap Trick, Rush, Heart and Grand Funk Railroad. (Not comparing any of them as soundalikes of each other). Just bizarre to think these bands made it to such a level – to superstar status.
The 1970s: it was as good as it was bad. For every ground-breaking act there was some fucking horseshit fluking its way through to the big bucks. Read More
There I was in the car on a Friday night, wondering when the right time was to enter the Te Rauparaha Arena to see The Original Wailers (conclusion: I’m not sure there was a right time) and I was chatting with my friend (who I will refer to here as Nik; because I always have before). We were talking about Tricky and I mentioned the album Blowback. It straight away made me nostalgic for the album – I realised in talking it up that I no longer owned it. I even announced, during my talking up of the album, that I would be off to get a copy of it quick-smart (well with haste at any rate). Read More
I was sad to hear of the passing of Bob Dorough – I mean, amazing life: richly rewarding, a quiet achiever and he made it to 94, that’s never to be sniffed at – but I wanted to mark the passing in at least some small way because Bob Dorough was kinda a big deal for me. You see when I first discovered him – somewhat randomly – I thought his voice was ridiculous. I couldn’t work out if he was the coolest cat out or the weirdest, strangest thing happening in the mainstream. I swiftly decided he was both. Read More
we used to
have this joke
in our family
about who had
showered – and
who hadn’t –
weird joke?
well, weirder still, it’s
still going…
and no one knows
the answer.
well,
we all do,
actually,
including the one
who is lying.
but isn’t it
fascinating – when
with family – when reduced
to just the few, the closest
crew, you find yourself
in a state of weird, wild
and wonderful
euphoria
(as if there’s
– actually –
any other kind).
i was home,
just recently,
and this story
about who played
tennis, and who didn’t – or
did for a bit – but definitely
didn’t shower
is in its final set.
surely.
it’s been going
on and on
and
on
and
we have
all enjoyed
the close
net play.
we have
all enjoyed
the
commitment,
the conviction,
the dedication…
i have
come to
realise
that this
is what
you’re
entitled
to enjoy
as family.
this is the
game.
this is the
aim.
you all have
your stories,
you all have
your version
of the truth.
and then there’s
the stories, you each
keep – but know –
are deep
inside – and all
around –
the family.
you can
have your
own version
all you like,
and good luck,
but actually,
it’s not up to
you.
and just so long
as it’s – also –
not
up to them
you’ll keep
talking to one
another.
it’s part of
the plan,
part of what
keeps you
together.
we all have
our tennis matches,
the games
we play.
we all have
our versions.
we all have
aversions.
and the truth
is really
out there…
Read More
It was where we got our name from in the first place
The Spines very first gig
We’d been unable to decide from a long list of terrible attempts
It was a packed University hall at lunchtime orientation
Malcom McSporran was going to introduce us and he asked me what we were called
I looked down at the set list… Read More
The Wellington Film Society’s program continues – last week it was Mon Oncle, now
we’re moving forward several decades to something far more modern, contemporary with 24 Weeks (2016).
It’s a tough watch about a touch subject – Astrid (Julia Jentsch) must choose whether or not to have a late term abortion when she discovers the unborn child’s health is severely compromised. A highly emotive subject and the result is a hugely affecting film. Read More
The Sensational Alex Harvey Band – well it was only a name I heard, read. Never something I decided to seek out and hear. It’s been a 2-for-1 deal here because I’ve found the actual “2-for-1” album pack of not only this but also Framed – so I’ve been playing both; digging both. I can see Bon Scott was definitely listening…
It’s funny what we cling to, what sticks to us. I could have just as easily been a massive Sensational Alex Harvey Band fan – same with Mott, most recently in this list. But instead it was Alice Cooper 
and Lou Reed and Bowie and T-Rex – no reason why it couldn’t have been this too, or instead. But so often the cue was provided by my folks or my older brother. And they weren’t on board with The Sensational Alex Harvey Band. So neither was I. And even when I read the name I was just never that curious. Read More
We were watching
music videos, old
concerts – some we’d
seen and others we hadn’t
– and it was going well, it
was good.
Until I put on ol’ Tom Waits.
And almost as soon as he crooned
I felt out of tune with it
all. I love Tom Waits. I barely listen
to him these days, and now I know
why. There he was, all fraud-boho, all fake-hipster,
brave though – he could have been found out
at any minute – but still nailing it. Living it. Loving it.
Faking it in the very best way.
And I sat cringing.
Thinking of when I would take
my Tom Waits CDs with me to
the pub. They’d put them on and
I’d order my drinks, get pizza delivered
to the bar, lose at pool – win at playing
the fool. Always stay on the right side of
full until it was time for the bar to empty out.
Stumble home to start the next day then and there…
There were things to write
if not things to right,
I never thought of getting anything correctly lined up
beyond the next shot.
Ghastly poems (I guess I’ve never learned) and silly
songs and first attempts at writing for a living,
living to write even if no one was paying.
And I had these weird – and (often) wonderful heroes.
And some of them I still have now.
Charles Bukowski and Tom Waits.
My good friend Patrick Gower. Steve Braunias…
There were many others.
Suzanne Vega, Janet Malcolm, Burroughs and other
Beats and Neil Young and Dylan and on and on…
One day Paddy Gower told me I would struggle if
I aimed at the life of a freelance writer. I laughed as
I wrote back to him. Tom Waits’ The Heart of Saturday
Night on in the background…
“…let’s shoot it full of wine/Fishin’ for a good time
starts with throwin’ in your line”
I said something about how I was gonna do it, gonna
make it. He told me there were very few that did – or do – and
that Braunias was one. And I said good, cos he was a hero
of mine. As if that meant that I’d follow suit.
(I’ve never even owned a suit, can’t tie a tie).
Wellington was my old stumbling ground.
I stumbled around until I found a version of
happiness. Now it’s actual, real, it’s wedded bliss.
Back then it was blistering winds and withering
looks and all it took was a word in the wrong direction
and I was wound-up but with nothing to be angry about.
That was the source, I think, of my frustration.
Self-sabotage, self-sabotage, self-sabotage…but why?
Gabor Maté may say it’s all down to childhood trauma.
But there was none. There is none. It was never there.
Everything was clear. Everything was in the air and up
for grabs and I just couldn’t be fucked
(in all senses).
A bottle of red, to calm the dread, to ward off the Wednesday,
or Tuesday, or Thursday, or that day or this day or whatever
was coming next…
and it was never my fault.
It was Charles Bukowski’s
or it was Tom Waits’
or it was fate’s mistake – not mine.
We all have issues, we are all
on the spectrum (it’s called A
Spectrum after-all…)
But not everything
is clear.
I knew the truth when I was
hammered and listening to
James Taylor. I knew the regrets
when I heard Neil Young’s lonesome
blues.
I knew the game – but never acknowledged
that the game was done – when I heard
Tom Waits playing it up.
It’s not his fault. It was never
his fault.
It was always mine.
It was always mine.
It was always mine.
And then, nearly 20
years on, I’m sitting there
almost cowering, definitely
uncomfortable
as Tom is singing
“Wasted and wounded, it ain’t
what the moon did…”
and
“I don’t have a drinking problem/Cept
when I can’t get a drink”
and
only now
I think
about how
it was always
up to me.
But I was
never at home
to answer the
phone, I was always
alone, I was always
alone, I was always
alone – and it was
always my choice.
My voice would
howl like a dog’s.
Like Tom’s, if
only I (ever) knew
how.
And sometimes –
when you’re there on
a Sunday night
with the computer
playing you its
blues – you think, finally,
you’ve got it all
worked out.
Your best girl
is by your side.
You’re on the
other side of all
of your blues – whatever
the world threw up
at you.
And it’s either still
Tom Waits’ fault
Or it was never his
fault.
“They all know they could be
just like Romeo/If they only
had the guts”. Read More
“But Mona Lisa must have had the highway blues
You can tell by the way she smiles”
Bob Dylan
I’ve said it before
– It’s hard to talk about the act of painting without appearing pretentious
If you’re a record store tragic then you probably have “a list” – I mean the sort of list (mythical, in your head – at best) where you hope to find the album when and where you’re looking. It would be too easy (and boring) to just click the link and have it delivered – it’s about the hunt. About being in the right place at the right time. And having some money on you at that time too.
That’s been the case for me many times over – it’s probably why I started The Vinyl Countdown series.
It was certainly the case, a few years back now, when I found Syreeta’s album.
That was an important find. Read More