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Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

 

Monsieur Hobbs at Vaultage. Original un-cropped photo © Pat Nicholson

First guest up here today is Stephen Hobbs, delivering his annual close-to-home and personal Top of the Poetry & Spoken Word Pops selection for 2018.  This was aired publicly at the culmination of the triumphal (steady on!) return of the celebrated Scribal Gathering – complete with new logo – of which more later.  The one obvious omission from this list of worthy miscreants, geniuses and institutions, many of whom have been mentioned in despatches here at Lillabullero*, is, of course, Mr Hobbs – keeper of various flames – himself.  What a word-popping trooper!  Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce to you, the act you’ve known for all these years, Mr Stephen – “that’s Stephen with a ‘ph'” – Hobbs and his …

Stephen Hobbs’s Top of My Poetry & Spoken Word Pops 2018

Hello Poetry & Spoken Word Pop Pickers! This is the Top of My Poetry & Spoken Word Pops for 2018.

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From 20 to 11

It’s: “The Bar Bar Black Sheep Café”, “The Boat Inn” at Stoke Bruerne, “The Sunset Lounge” at The Cannon in Newport, “The Song Loft” at Stony, “Utter Lutonia” in Luton, Lynette Hill, Dave Quayle’s “Lillabullero … Blog” *, Danni Antagonist, and Mossman!

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At Number 10!

Just squeaking in by a gnat’s gonad after 11 months of doing fuck all, it’s the godfather of the open mic scene in Stony – it’s Jonathan Taylor and SG!

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At Number 9!

It’s a proper poetry & spoken word night where open mic’ers can associate with proper published poets. No Sports TV. No Fruit Machines. They’ve been around for over 5 years and they run a couple of poetry slams a year. I’ve been runner-up three times and last year

I was equal third. Time to give up? Not a chance – one final Banzai charge in 2018. But nobody turns up to contend, so I am proclaimed The Slam Champion of 2018! Please don’t tell anyone how I really got it. Next year I get to host it, so let’s be having you! It’s Ian McEwan and the Ouse Muse over in Bedford!

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At Number 8!

Still the hardest working poetry/S&M/bass&triangle combo in the country. “Pointy Fingers”, “Random words in a random order”, “Friday Night is Gimp Night down at the Fighting Cocks”, “They don’t need it”, and “Stick ‘em up a chimney” – I can’t get those words out of my head. It’s The AntiPoet!

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At Number 7!

The 8th Bardic Trials in January 2018! For the first time in its history the Trials was contested by only two contenders and the good people of Stony Stratford voted Sam Upton their 8th Bard.

We now look forward to the 9th Bardic Trials on January 18th 2019.  Are you Bard enough?  You have until the 6th January to make your Bardic application. If you don’t want to be Bard or if you are barred from becoming Bard then please come and be Audience. In addition to the Bardic candidates, we also have a superb headlining performance poet – Hannah Chutzbah – who will be your reward. Your favourite sound system (thank you JT) will be making us all sound much better, whilst Bardic helpers will be running the bar. What’s not to like? A Bardic Council production. Bardabing Bardaboom!

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At Number 6!

The Feast of Fools storytelling club in Northampton continues to provide the perfect platform for storytelling open mic’ers and it’s also a great venue where the master storytellers can be seen and heard at work. Richard York we salute you!

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At Number 5!

By her own standards this has been a very quiet year for Number 5 but Life (with a capital L) has intervened to take her away from us. Nevertheless, she remains the Godfecker of Spoken Word – it’s Vanessa Horton!

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At Number 4!

A person who continues to bring storytelling, community spirit, and youth drama to Stony Stratford in a unique and compelling way. Despite being a PhD student at Loughborough University; she continues to find the time to create and tell brilliant stories, write pantomimes, run storytelling & steampunk workshops, and Chair the Bardic Council. It’s Terrie Howey!

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At Number 3!

It’s farkin’ Shakespeare innit! He’s the dogs bollocks. For her love of Shakespeare and her ubiquitous dramatic presence around Stony Stratford – it’s Caz Tricks!

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At Number 2!

He’s always there, like the ghost at the wedding. Chemist. Mime artist. Comedian. Poet. Singer/Songwriter. Guitarist? Past Bard. Consummate starer. Shakespearean actor. Storyteller. Yellow vest activist. Phil Chippendale!

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Pat ‘the Hat’ Nicholson. Without hat.

At Number 1! The Top of My Poetry & Spoken Word Pops for 2018 is …..

Someone you all know. A person of great generosity, a person of music, a person of words. A person who embodies the very best spirit of Stony Stratford. Someone who is always there for other people. He’ll give you an open mic spot, he’ll give you a headline set, he’ll lend you his guitar, he’ll even look after your dog. Singer/Songwriter, Poet, Bard, and Vaultage Master. I salute Pat Nicholson!

©Stephen Hobbs

[Mr Nicholson was presented with a whopper of a lollipop]

* The chronicler feels obliged to record that on the night Steve said (and typed, actually) ‘TinTin’ where Lillabullero should have appeared.  For this he is forgiven.  With thanks for keeping me bubbling under.

Vaultages

And while we’re here … Pat’s Vaultage continues on a roll, hitting the spot with great variety, or with Fraser & Toots, one could say the closest it gets to the Variety Hall – witty songs of everyday dilemmas and quirks.

Normally fortnightly, for at least the tail end of the year Vaultage was invited by the Vaults Bar to go weekly.  Which I completely forgot, so sorry, Group Therapy.  Linda Watkins provided as much polished serenity as is ever likely at this gig, while Paul Martin’s 4PM, an accomplished instrumental folk quartet, played up a storm – rare sight of dancing even – the driving power of Paul’s mandocello much in evidence.  Apart from a bit of a sing-song, to a French tune not a million miles away from Ding dong merrily on high, that Christmas billing a bit of a misnomer.

Janice Miller and Ian Walker (“He’s a strapping lad,” said Mike), regular open mic-ers, were well worthy of a featured spot, which they delivered with grace, power and aplomb, voice and guitar, respectively, more than hinting of late ’60s folk.  Couple of Dylan songs and Joan Baez’s Diamonds and rust, a haunting Ride on (à la Christy Moore) and a pumped-up Blackwater side, plus a couple more – a fine set.

Long overdue: a mention in despatches from Vaultage, for Pat’s able cohort: Andy Barber, standing at the bongos, hypnotic handpan in lap, or battling with the PA – take a bow, Sir!

Scribal Gathering

But back to Scribal.  So good to greet its return, smart new logo and all – music hall playbill? – an early Christmas present.  And what a roll call for an open mic, albeit the phoenix was rising again with a few judicious invitees.

So Americana duo the Hatstand Band (double bass No.1) kicked off this festive Christmas edition with a trio of rather good murder ballads.  Poet Mossman and storyteller Lynette Hill followed.  Mick & Steve’s Christmas Jukebox opened with a pretty straight Blue Christmas, and then proceeded to murder one of my favourite – a short list – Christmas songs: the one about the cavalry.  Complete with Kazoo Orchestra; great fun.  They signed off with the Band-Aid Do they know it’s Christmas; “I’ve never heard anyone do that live”, said Antipoetaster, Paul Eccentric – say no more.  Up comes Caz with her spirited Scribal Gathering: House rules, the text of which appears in its full (or thereabouts) glory below, with her permission and for your delectation.  Then a brief touch of poetic class from Liam Farmer Malone.

The Antipoet (double bass No.2) started with a couple of new numbers, and I wish I’d taken more notes.  One about the ills if consumerism (“They don’t need it“) and one called (?) Kids today (“Stick ’em up the chimney“; their Christmas number invited F.Christmas to do one, and, asking for request, reminded us that We play for food.  There may have been a bit more.

MK Acapella, a male voice choir, amazed with their harmonies and celebrated the season with the Beach Boys’ Little Saint Nick.  8th Bard of Stony Stratford, Sam Upson, in what might well have been a farewell performance in the role, regaled us with some of his Stony stuff.  Stephen Ferneyhough concertina-ed us in Music hall mode, Oom-pa-ing all the way.  Danni Antagonist performed poems from her brand new slim volume, Emotion Memory.  Phil Chippendale appeared in the guise of his new alter ego, un gilet jeaune … avec cod Français.

Walker Miller I’ve told you about in Vaultages: Buckets of rain kept falling and another powerful Black WatersideStephen Hobbs presented his Top of the PopsAnd a lollipop to Pat Nicholson.  Last up an open mic-er who was new to most of us – fresh voices always needed and welcome – a bloke whose name I missed, but with a more than decent bitter-sweet song about his dad.  It’s great to have Scribal back.  Twas like it had never been away.  I’m thankful I’ve managed to finish this before the next Scribal night at the Crown.  Not that I’m going to be doing this every time, but I hope I haven’t left anyone out.  Bravo Jonathan JT Taylor and all the elves!  Bravo!

A lot of performers dislike Open Mics because of – to be kind – the general background pub hub-bub, or indeed the blatant disrespect shown to performers by ‘audience members’ who have come to converse regardless of what else is happening.  Stony Stratford’s Scribal Gathering is a bit special in this regard, from its  conception being a creative vehicle for poets, spoken word artists, singers and musicians.  Performers can invariably be confident of getting an attentive (and generous) audience.  Especially if Ms Tricks is in the house:

Caz Tricks’s
Scribal Gathering:
House Rules

It’s all about the words
From the musos
The poets
The often absurd

It’s the voices
Their choices
Their thoughts and reflections
Their sounds
Their music
And their perceptions
The rhythm
The structure
The flow
And the feel
The stories they’re telling
The fiction
The real

It’s the sharing
The sharing of thoughts
Both sublime and ridiculous
They go on a journey
And sometimes it’s serious

There’s an etiquette
A way to play
You listen
applaud
perform and should stay
Don’t do your bit
Then split
That’s not okay
it’s really [immaculately timed comic pause] rude*

You don’t have to perform
You don’t need to show off
You can just sit and listen

However
It’s the person behind the mic I want to hear
Not the twat at the back with their wine or their beer
We take time with our rhyme
We craft it, don’t shaft it:
Shut the fuck up or go downstairs

©Caz Tricks
* Honourable exception to the Antipoet, and others, who have come a long way and/or have a double bass to consider.

The Kazoo Orchestra (hiding their kazoos), that’s Caz 2nd left (c) Jonathan JT Taylor

 

 

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The beautiful librarians

The title poem of Sean O’Brien’s The beautiful librarians (Picador Poetry, 2015) starts off with the poet remembering how, as a schoolboy in the early ’60s, he was in awe of the young librarians – ‘Like Francois Hardy’s shampooed sisters – in his local library, how he yearned to inhabit the life he glimpses in them.  “I shared the geography but not the world / It seemed they were establishing.”  He says he has tried to “nonetheless keep faith with them“, that “Book after book I kept my word“, and is mourning the passing not just of those librarians (poetic license – there will still be some survivors), but also, austerity driven, the very libraries themselves.  He closes with: “And all the brilliant stock was sold” (of which more later).  You can read the whole poem, and a further, more erudite exploration of it, here:
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2015/mar/16/the-beautiful-librarians-by-sean-o-brien-poem-of-the-week

It’s a fine and varied collection.  He’s been likened to Auden in his breadth of style and subject matter, so making a poem called Audiology the opener shows a certain swagger.  Particularly in his state of the nation stuff he can be sour, dour, often on the miserable side of melancholy, but he can bestow dignity on hidden voices and simple pleasures.  Oysterity describes a meal in an expensive restaurant discussing austerity and guzzling oysters, later contemplating morality and “the sink’s own non-committal eye“.

He made me laugh out loud drinking coffee while waiting for my wife in the caff in Sainsbury’s in MK with Do you like Dickens?, a pithy tale of a small plebian victory concerning a girl through the power of literature, deliciously heisting the title of F.R.Leavis’s The common pursuit to his own ends.

Indeed, literature is never far away, along with nods to the Ancient World and popular culture.  His endurance of writers’ weekends and performances (‘the thin but earnest crowd‘) are entertaining, but there’s the fear, in War graves: Must this be / ‘The trap of elegy’, to find ourselves composed / Entirely of literature?” In The lost of England he’s marking EngLit students’ exam essays on a train, including one on Hardy: “Forgive me, England. As so often I was dreaming / On a train that drowsed along, cross-country / By an insane route that takes the reason prisoner.”  It’s a rewarding if somewhat depressing journey, rich in descriptive passages, momentary landscapes past and present.

This one made me smile, not least because I’ve just read a book on Bob Dylan as Latin scholar (another time), and it reminded me of John Williams’ extraordinary historical novel Augustus.  It also encapsulates a lot of Sean O’Brien’s concerns:

Damn right I got the blues: Ovid live in Tomis

I hate to see that Euxine sun go down
I hate to see that Euxine sun go down
Cause Lord it reminds me that for reasons of state
I been exiled and confined to this one-horse Pontic town.

Reading allowed

One of the narrative themes of the Reading allowed: true stories and curious incidents from a provincial library (Constable, 2017) is the grinding effect of rumours of austerity and cuts in library budgets, with redundancies of experienced, qualified librarians – the next generations on from the ‘beautiful librarians’ – their posts rationalised out of existence.

It’s never stated but you don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to work out that Chris Paling is mostly working at Brighton’s award-winning showpiece Jubilee Library, that opened in 2005.  When still working I’d been there on a fact-finding visit and thought I recognised what he’s describing, and his Wikipedia entry confirms it.  An exile from BBC radio production (voluntary redundancy) and a published novelist, he’s worked there for 2 years for spending money as a Casual Library Officer – in old money a Library Assistant.  The life of a mid-list writer is not a happy one, he sadly relates.  This book comes as a result of his agent suggesting he try doing non-fiction.  This book is proof it was a good suggestion:

Although I’d published nine novels it had been clear for some time that the likelihood of ‘breaking through’ was now remote. Nobody sets out with the intention of becoming a mid-list writer but that is the destination of most. There is, so far as I know, no such thing as a bottom-list writer.

He has a novelist’s eye for character, and it’s the quirkier users that get most of the attention.  He has his favourites, and there are some decent heart-tugging stories in there.  The only staff that figure prominently are Trev and Bob, walkie-talkie wielding ‘Facilities’ (aka security), who seem to be needed more than in my own experience, so good for them.  I worked as a Librarian for 40 years, half of those in busy central libraries, and the picture Chris Paling paints is easily recognisable, though the recent rise in homelessness and rough sleeping must have had an impact.

Some may be surprised by what’s going on, but Public Libraries serve the public, and all that entails.  So, a typical staff room scene on a bad day:

The conversation … is all about rude, intolerant customers throwing their weight and, occasionally, their books around. A normally mild-mannered colleague admits that she has wanted to slap every other customer. This is compounded by the computer system seizing up mid-morning, making issuing tricky and anything more complicated impossible. Not our fault but the staff take the blame for the ever-failing system. It’s the closest I have ever got to calling a customer a f***stick, kicking over the terminal and storming out. When a full concession customer (two free hours on the computer ostensibly to aid job-seeking) tells me YouTube is inaudible, I resist suggesting he get on with his job searching and stop watching Beyoncé videos …

Not to mention junkies, thieves, creeps, blocked toilets, cyclists(!), challenging behaviour, building failures, printers running out of toner, self-published authors … easy to forget that the vast majority of readers, users, customers (whatever you want to call them) are appreciative, supportive and no trouble (or worth the taking of it).  Which this book understandably is thin on, save the parenthesized latter – a bit like newspapers and mundane good news

Paley throws in a potted history of libraries at intervals, useful for those who have taken them for granted, as the book progresses.  His conclusion on the importance of the continuance of the public library:

Customers are, of course, in and books are being issued and returned via the automatic machines, but the primary function of this place today is a community hub – an old-fashioned village green with plate-glass windows.

And as Mr Dylan says in Chimes of freedom (this is me, not Paley, though he has tales that bear it out), “An’ for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe / An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.”

A slight return to The beautiful librarians.  Setting the scene near the beginning of the emerging dystopia of the Thirteen o’clocks sequence we get: “Parks and Gardens, Ways and Means, / Drains, Finance, and General Purposes / And all the virtuous tedium required / To underwrite the civil surfaces, The lawns on which the lovers lie …” 

Dear Fahrenheit 451

Here’s what Annie Spence, a young American librarian, thinks:

The library is genius in its usefulness. It can be a different place for each person who walks in. Your library can help you find a job, go vegan, read up on the new medication you’ve been prescribed, or learn a new language. Your librarian can listen to your knock-knock jokes …

At parties she’ll linger by the bookshelves, and warns about plying her with drink:

But seriously, I can’t go overboard with the alcohol because I tend to pontificate about reading and the social significance of the public library when I get drunk. Two drinks: funny work stories. Poop in the dropbox, Lady with the Face, the guy whom we caught looking at porn and eating a big can of sardines and we didn’t know what to be more offended by … that kind of thing. But if I morph into telling inspiring patron stories, look out. I can give a rousing/annoying lecture on the benefits of getting your library card. I’ve shouted, “I disseminate information to the masses!” while being helped into a cab before.

Dear Fahrenheit 451: a librarian’s love letters and break-up notes to her books (Flatiron Books, 2017) started out as a series of letters she’d write to library books she was withdrawing from where she worked, for all sorts of reasons.  It’s called weeding in the trade, and it’s a decent metaphor: you need good husbandry, a bit of space on the shelves, for the decent, up-to-date stuff to breathe and potentially bloom and be read, and the longer a book stays untouched on the shelves the less likely it is to ever go out, no matter how worthwhile it is (one of the textbooks named this phenomena ‘fatigue’).  It used to be one of my favourite parts of the job, and I’ll admit I’d occasionally indulge myself, by extending the shelf life of a few quality favourites (hello Andreii Makine).  So I know where she’s coming from, and it’s a very good place.

Dear Fahrenheit 451 broadens from that initial idea to take in books happened upon in all sorts of places, and gives us a glimpse of her home life, youth and more.  The main part of the book is the letters, but there are also a number of entertaining annotated lists, like Excuses to tell your friends so you can stay at home with your books (example: “Ack, sorry. Kids are fighting again” when you’re in bed reading Lord of the flies by William Golding).

Library nostalgists will appreciate the use of old 5×3 catalogue cards as chapter heads.  That page opposite reads: “Dear Librarian, Please don’t weed me. Love, Annie.”  I’m charmed, air high-fiving and laughing out loud, even though I don’t recognise a fair number of titles which don’t seem – particularly the teenage material – to have crossed the Atlantic; but I wish she wouldn’t swear quite so much.

Annie kicks off the discards with Donna Tartt’s The goldfinch … because it’s falling apart, affectionately addressing the author as ‘Finchy’.  She covers the full range of materials from picture books to out-of-date text books.  When she finds a copy of Steinbeck’s Cannery Row (a favourite of mine, too) in a friends bathroom she tells it, ‘YOU ARE BETTER THAN THIS BATHROOM‘.  And so it goes.  She has such immaculate taste; there are three books she raves over I’m definitely going to have to add to my pile.  Immaculate taste you say?  Here’s her take on Richard Russo’s Nobody’s fool (hello, Sal!) as therapy:

Read this when you’re down about mankind, and you may start to notice a roguish glint in the eye of the curmudgeon who bitches at you about your grass being too long.

She has a list of Good books in bad covers, and considers her own:

Well, anyway, think about how difficult it is to come up with ONE image that totally evokes an entire book’s identity. Nearly impossible. I can’t even think of an example of a book jacket that 100 percent captures its insides. Except maybe this book. If I get my way, the cover of this book is going to be a knockoff of the Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely hearts Club Band album, except I will be all four of the Beatles’ faces and all of the decoupage heads are going to be famous authors (plus Jared Letto) crying because I’ve weeded them from the library. Also, I promised my cat, Barb, she’d be on the cover.

Sadly, this didn’t happen.  I loved this book but was exhausted by the end of it.  If Annie Spence had been a colleague I think I would have appreciated the first couple of days of her being on holiday; but soon I’d have been missing her.

Afterword

I stumbled on The beautiful librarians browsing the literature shelves in my local library.  It had almost certainly been purchased as part of a seasonal standing order I had set up with The Poetry Book Society a couple of years before I retired.  I don’t know if the standing order has survived, given the relentless austerity-driven shaving of the book fund since.  On a pence per issue basis it’s arguable they probably shouldn’t, but it was a subsidised bargain and we Brits are meant to be good at poetry.  I fancied a copy of my own and bought one cheap from Better World Books via Abe.  Only published in 2015, it was already a library discard.

Such a purchase is tinged for me by guilt, though at least it contributed a few pence to that library service’s income generation, Better World Books is a charity supporting literacy charities around the world, and it’s a small profit Amazon doesn’t get to not pay tax on.  So The beautiful librarians becomes a subject of Sean O’Brien’s closing line to the title poem of his collection – “And all the brilliant stock was sold“.  Actually, he was probably thinking more of the selling off of the major resources of out-of-print material that extensive reserve stock collections like Manchester’s – ‘the stacks’ away from public gaze – that have been sacrificed in the course wholesale re-building and refurbishment projects of grand old buildings.  But it still makes for a nice rhetorical flourish at the end.

Or maybe not quite the end.  I was looking for a book cover to decorate the last couple of paragraphs – something library-y I thought – and thought of that Peter Sellers film, Only two can play, where a lot of the action springs from a public library in South Wales, based on the Kingsley Amis novel That uncertain feeling (1955).  What I found – and there are many – took me straight back to Annie Spence‘s Good books in bad covers list.  Along with many examples of her pet hate – the movie tie-in cover (seconded!) – there in Google images we find something really quite tasteful and apposite … and an outrageously bad seventies abomination, shown here for educational purposes only.  One of the worst.  Ever.  (Though any ex-Camdenites reading this might recall a certain branch librarian).

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2018 programme cover designed by Mason Edwards

‘Covers’ being a pretty bad excuse for a pun, as may become evident from what follows later on.

New readers start here: StonyLive! is an annual Festival of Music, Dance and the Arts in Stony Stratford, a small town that used to be in North Buckinghamshire, but is these days, ahem, the proud “Jewel in the Crown” of Milton Keynes. Now in its 20th year, it runs for 9 days from the first Saturday in June to the next Sunday.  (You can see a bit more info and what you (and I) missed by clicking here.  It was a splendid year, so much to choose from)  I always resolve to go to something every day; here’s what I actually managed to take in.

Shall we contradict ourselves by starting with something I went to on the Thursday before.  Yes we shall, because the weekend performances of Carabosse Theatre Company’s Real Ale and Drama Shots 5 were there in the official programme.

Carabosse – “We like it dark” – who take their name from the wicked fairy godmother out of Sleeping Beauty and other folk and fairy tales put on a great show in Swinfen Harris Hall, an intimate venue, full of character.  You knew you were in for a treat when Billy Nomad, knowing smile in minimalist clown-face, stepped up to MC and punctuate playlets with his own ditties.

Immediate coup de théatre with the opener, Eamonn Dolan’s Finn and Tilly: a couple in the audience arguing as a production of Waiting for Godot comes to a close; she all WTF?, he quoting critics as to its profundity; they take it onto the stage and … Godot (a brilliant performance) turns up.  The programme was nicely varied and full of genuine theatrical moments, not least from a chilling theatre of cruelty piece.  Much laughter at Sophie Patterson’s Red Velvet, a Quentin Tarantino take on an Acorn Antiques set in a coffee and cake shop near the law courts.  Three other pieces were concerned with writing or theatre, one in which the playwright is seen as undesirable alien.  The last piece, 19 & 28, featured the whole cast and crew, the dead hanging about awaiting their next reincarnation assignment – a bureaucratic nightmare in a creepy heaven.  Shame about the punchline (methinks) but it all segued nicely into a choral Stairway to Heaven – two “words” in the lyrics of the first two verses?   And it makes you wonder.  Local, yes.  Am-dram? – never: this was the real deal.

Saturday

Yay!  TheHigh Street closed to traffic and there’s dancing in the street.  All sorts, but primarily, for me, Morris.  Nonesuch, an enthusiastic side from Bristol caught the eye, not so much for their garb as their steps – moves other sides hardly touch taken for granted, I was told.  And so to the Fox & Hounds for the traditional StonyLive! opener, a pint of bluegrass with the as ever enjoyable Hole in the head gang (Sorry. I know there are well-set precedents for surprisingly effective bluegrass treatments of Soul-Stax songs, but for me Mustang Sally is not one that wears it well).

And in the evening the magnificent Roadrunner at a sold-out York House.  Local legends from before my time in Stony, “Rutland’s finest R&B band” as it says in the programme – and you can see why on both counts.  From the opening full attack of Let’s work together they were outstanding.  Yes, you can call them a covers band, but it’s the spark of the choice of material that counts.  From way back to Minnie the Moocher and Sam the Sham & the Pharaohs Wooly bully all the way through to 1993 and George Thorogood and the Destroyers’ Get a job (did they do anything later?), they played with the intensity of classic Dr Feelgood supplemented by some well-oiled showmanship – singer and singer and guitarist delving into crowd with the aid of radio mic-ing.  A good time was had by all.

Sunday

And the sun shone bright on the Classic Car Show.  Lots of E-types this time (wife thinks they’re ugly).  My car of the show (not that I know anything) was the Bristol they used on the poster, though nothing stood out as of yore (or I’m getting jaded).  When a bunch on scooters unexpectedly arrived on the scene en masse, the musician on the bandstand broke into the Who’s Can’t explain; nifty, I thought, even though there wasn’t a parka in sight.  With camera to hand I like playing with reflections.

Sunday afternoon and it’s the Big Lunch, a family picnic in Rocket Park.  Lovely cod and chips from a van.  Was surprised how moved I was when a Lancaster bomber in World War 2 livery flew over to the strains (eventually) of the Dam Busters March.  Stirring enough to make one put the firebombing of Dresden to the back of one’s mind for a while, and wonder at what the sight and sound of a sky full of these magnificent machines must have been like.

The Youth and Junior Bardic Trials were a surprise too – strongly contested by 6 contestants, all of whom might have been well in the running another year, in front of a decent and appreciative audience.  So close the judges created a new post of Bard in waiting when it was scored a three-way tie.  The future’s bright.

Monday

Nice little interlude in the shade of the trees by the Magdalen Tower, all that remained of Stony’s other church after a devastating mid-18th century fire.  Masterminded by Derek Gibbons, 6 out of the 8 Stony Bards each recited a poem dedicated to the tower.  Impressively, without collaboration, each approached the subject of the tower in different ways, ranging from historical chronicle to contemporary trysting place.

Should have been Southern Blues Fiasco from Oxford at the Fox but circumstances meant it was but one of them – a medal winning guitar pedal designer, no less – and an accomplished pick-up band with an age span of 30 years or probably more.  A lively evening of powerful blues and blues-oriented music ensued.  A lovely People get ready with a lot of harmonica made you believe Dylan might have written it.  Was it this lot who did a storming Louie Louie?

Tuesday

… and it’s An evening with the Bard and Friends back at York House, and another fine evening of words and music, most of it original.  So much talent around, all in fine form.  Impossible for me not to resurrect the words ‘quiet power’ when poet Fay Roberts is performing, but she was spellbinding, switching from deadly serious to throwaway flippant and all stations in between within a couple of lines.  Important to mention what ‘Fred’ adds to accomplished singer-songwriter Sian Magill’s work.  Taylor Smith go from strength to strength, with writer Taylor dismissing the infectious rabble-rousing Leaders as ‘folk dirge’.   Shame this event always clashes with the a capella session in the Vaults.

Wednesday

Innocent Hare and a pint of Mad Squirrel in a crowded Beer Bear was fun.  Tunes, songs spanning a century or six, add a bit of clog – not to mention good company – are a lovely way to spend an hour.  Damned licensing laws.  (What a fine addition to Stony High street the Beer Bear is, by the way).

So it’s back up the High Street to the Vaults and ‘our’ Ian Anderson’s Blues from the Ouse.  For shame the audience outnumbered the band – coupla guitars, gob iron – by only one at the start but it soon picked up.  More generation spanning musicians, this time acoustic blues of high order.

Thursday

A Vaultage special for StonyLive!  Not the usual fortnightly open mic, but a one-off pre-scheduled closed mic for songwriters.  No covers allowed.  I say one-off, but apparently so many applied there’ll be another one later this year.  Proceedings were kicked off by Bard 007, Mr Stephen Hobbs, the bee in his bonnet about cover bands a-buzzing strong with this little ode:

A salute to Songwriters
[dedicated to Pat “Vaultage” Nicholson]

I salute you
for daring to be original
for taking a thought
maybe just a whisper –
and giving it life:
for showing us your heart.

Stony Live? Do me a favour!
Gimme a break!
L
eave it out!

Let The King, The Starman,
The Private Dancer,
The Gingerbread Man,
and the Joker
be themselves:
this imitation flatters no one.

Stony Live? Do me a favour!
Gimme a break!
Leave it out!

You are the freshness
that masks this slurry of covers
masquerading as a festival.
But you are not alone
look around….
I salute YOU!

© Stephen Hobbs

Archivists might like to note that not all listed turned up (H&S, at least one other) but that happily gave a bit more space for the driving reverie of David Cattermole’s songs.  So much talent and variety in one small bar.  Take a bow Pat ‘Mr Vaultage’ Nicholson (no mean writer and performer himself).

Friday

I have to admit to a stamina fail.  Guilty to an inability – a failing too sweet and rare many publicans who put on music will say – to spend time in a pub without a glass – or with an empty one – in hand, the week was taking its toll.  I am, however, assured that had I walked up and down the High Street on Friday a fruitful game of Cover Band Bingo was very much in prospect.

ers-stonylive/cover-band-bingo-2/” rel=”attachment wp-att-8865″> I’d give a source if only my source didn’t say they’d love to give a source.

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On Sunday Derek  G put up a provocative post on FaceBook saying “Cover bands aren’t local music” which was greeted with varying degrees of approval, moderation, and a fair amount of scorn.  I’m pretty sure I only witnessed one song on that graphic all week, but I wasn’t trying.  I think the point – in the context of StonyLive! – is that you can see cover bands in Stony most weeks, and that there’s a difference between doing a more or less straight cover as opposed to an interpretation.  I shall return to this theme on Sunday.

Saturday

So much to choose from.  I eschew the traditional outgoing lunchtime bluegrass session with those very fine Concrete Cowboys in the anticipation of a long day at the talent packed Fringe Festival, which I come and go from throughout the day, so I didn’t see everyone.  The Antipoet‘s Paul Eccentric got so worked up about the Americanisation of the English language via film & tv (“It’s not to go / it’s to take-a-fucking-way“) that he managed to draw blood with his signature mic forehead bounce finale of The wrong question.  This was a splendid event – well done JT & co, good to see that Scribal Gathering logo on the poster – but I have to submit to an attack of blogging fatigue here.  It was great to see (and hear, of course) Naomi Rose – one of the best songwriters around –  in good voice.  Headliners Forest of Fools did what they do – with folk-based accordion, congas, drums, bass, sousaphone and a touch of electronica – magnificently .

Mason Edwards design again

Sunday

A nice relaxed Folk on the Green in a cool breeze and gentle sun.  Climax of, and, of course, a totally separate entity from StonyLive!  First time we’ve settled down on a spot with only a mere soft drink (Schloer Red Grape found in the garage leftover unopened from New Year’s Eve).  A great early set from another prime local singer/songwriter Mark Owen, who has never sounded better (thumbs up to the PA crew) and went down well.  Izzie Walsh and her equally young band gave us a sweet set of Americana, mixing originals and covers.

Paul McClure, the Rutland Troubadour, appeared in what he described as the closing wind-the crowd down-down spot.  This is the refreshing FOTG rethink of the last couple of years, whereby things close not so much with a bang as a … whimper?  No.  When I say Paul did his job well is not to say he was not anything but a charming and engaging end to the day (with a little bit of rock and roll on the side, just for good measure).

Trigger warning: if you are a post-Syd Pink Floyd fan, better to pass over this paragraph of self-indulgence.  Truth to tell, Paul McClure didn’t have much to calm down after Little Pig‘s cover of an obscure (to me) mournful slow Pink Floyd song, the second in their set.  Nothing against the musicianship, and they opened with a welcome workout on Kirsty McColl’s There’s a guy works down the chip shop swears he’s Elvis.  For argument’s sake let’s just say it’s my problem.  It is said that in the golden age of glossy music mags, Pink Floyd on the front cover was a guaranteed circulation boost.  I’ve also heard it said, last week in fact, that every town of a certain size has a tattoo parlour and its own Pink Floyd tribute band (Mr Hobbs, I believe).  I just don’t get it.

Anyway, here’s to the StonyLive! and FOTG Committees and small army of volunteers.  Now, World Cup permitting, it’s back to the telly, and the gloriously bonkers Flowers, and catching up on The handmaid’s tale, The Bridge and that series on African music.  I’ll finish with a rather wonderful detail from a Pontiac in the car show:

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Photo ‘borrowed’ from the Bookshop FB.

Early 2016 and the rumour is that the Willen Hospice Bookshop on the High Street in Stony Stratford (“the jewel in the crown of Milton Keynes”) is – shock! horror! – going to close.

Come March 31, 2018, the volunteers who put together a rescue bid are celebrating two years of successfully running the shop as a wholly volunteer-run enterprise.  And the Bardic posse of Stony Stratford are on hand to commemorate the achievement in verse.  Here be those verses, made available on Lillabullero through the good offices of Stephen Hobbs, of the Bardic Council:

Book Covers by Sam Upton
Bard of Stony Stratford

You shouldn’t ever judge a book,
Not by its cover, title or look,
At first it may appear old, torn,
Tattered and dog-eared,
But open it up, give it a chance,
I bet it’s not what you feared,

A picture is only worth a thousand words,
So why let it decide if you live or die
The next thousand pages,
Let ink fly,
Paper stages wait to be great,
Even if the cover’s a state,
Inside those words may sway your fate,

So, see past the picture,
It’s never too late,
Grab a battered, broken,
Bruised looking book,
Be a crook,
Steal its zeal,
Live a life that isn’t yours,
And make those characters real.

©Sam Upton

Sam Upton is the eighth and current Bard of Stony Stratford, elected, as is customary, at The Bardic Trials – an annual event that is part of the StonyWords! literary festival, every late January. There is a link to the Bardic website near the end of this post.  A later development has seen the appointment of a Youth and a Junior Bard.  This takes place at an event that is part of the annual StonyLive! music(and other things)fest, and is open to anyone aged 8-15 (the youngest presumably being the Junior).  Here are their poems written for the Willen Hospice Bookshop celebrations:

Books: How do you choose yours?
by Dylan Piper Junior Bard 

Is it by the cover; is it by the name?
Is it by the thickness, or is it by its fame?

Do you take a fishing rod and see what you can catch?
Or do you trawl through hundreds for that perfect match?

Do you use your senses; see what you can smell?
And maybe give a little lick before reading it as well?

Can you hear the words within – do they jump out off the page?
Does the cover creak and moan, revealing its old age?

Does the story draw you in; can you see the author’s view?
Many useful facts to learn? Or maybe just a few?

Is there too much gadzookery within the book itself?
Or do the words flow and fly that book right off the shelf?

When you’re in the bookshop, looking for that next read,
Notice how you choose the one – that meets your every need.

©Dylan Piper – Junior Bard (age 10)

 

I love books by Isabelle Chapman Youth Bard

Books, books, please don’t let them fade
Put those screens and devices away, and let the books rage
There are lots of secrets and adventures heading your way.

But we have to support our book shop to make sure it stays
It could be reading and learning, all the new things to know
There are many different ways to learn, just get up and go!

Turning the pages, seeing the pictures how could you not love
The special bond a book can produce and all of the above!
You could even learn all about our own Cock and Bull history.

So keep reading every day and make a book your new accessory!

©Isabelle Chapman – Youth Bard (age 11)

“Charitable bookworms share top ten successes” said the headline of a write-up in local free-sheet MK Citizen, thus maintaining local press tradition by working the word ‘bookworms’ – to the despair of library service press release writers everywhere – into any story ever published therein about libraries or bookshops.  A team of 35 volunteers, ages ranging from 19 to 87 have kept this splendid institution on the road, giving, between them volunteering  5,000 hours in the shop.  At the time of the birthday they had sold 86,000 books from the 105 metres of shelving, which hold 5,000 volumes.   Apparently James Patterson is the author most frequently donated, while the highest earning individual book – sold on eBay – was a classic of railway literature.

You can read a bit more of the MK Citizen article at:
www.miltonkeynes.co.uk/news/willen-hospice-bookshop-celebrates-two-years-of-success-1-8421698

The main Willen Hospice website is here: www.willen-hospice.org.uk/

Here’s the Friends of Willen Hospice Bookshop FaceBook page: www.facebook.com/WillenHospiceBookshop/

And for your further delectation, the Bardic Council of Stony Stratford pages are here: bardofstony.weebly.com/

An addendum I found it hard to resist:

Book Booty

‘You can either come into Rags [free plug] with me,’ said Andrea, who needed to change some slacks last Saturday, ‘or I’ll meet you in the Bookshop.  Not a bad four quids’ worth.  One of the funniest writers on the planet, one for the grandson (early poetry induction), and a brick of a cult classic that I have every intention of reading (Patti Smith raves about it), but will look good on the shelves anyway.

& finally – discuss:

Borrowed from the splendid goComics website, specifically: http://www.gocomics.com/lastkiss/2018/04/18

 

 


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The morning before The Antipoet‘s 10th anniversary video-shoot show, WiiFit told me I had the body of a 21 year-old.  The morning after said performance WiiFit told me I had the body of a 37 year-old (still only just over half of the reality, but, you know).  Nevertheless, as the I Ching invariably says: no blame, and there is a Latin tag for it (post hoc ergo propter hoc, for what it’s worth).   Though the sweets provided at each table  – pick-and-mix and mini-chocolate bars, a nice touch – may have contributed to the weight gain.

‘Come and be part of the fun as we film 10 years of The Antipoet,’ they said; ‘be an Antipoet extra for the evening’.  ‘Watch and enjoy as The Antipoet perform pieces from the last decade whilst filming a DVD to pop into their new book, Does my bass look big in this?’  So we did, and they did, and a grand time was had at The Cock Hotel in the town of Stony Stratford (“our spiritual home”), last Thursday.  The book is published later this year.

Philfy Phil lived up to his moniker (maybe too much at least for wife and her mate) and lamented that no-one onomatopoeic enough had died lately to refresh the pantheon of his take on Paul Simon’s The boxer (the one with that chorus).   Then it was time for those “masters of beatrantin’ rhythm and views’ (© www.theantipoet.co.uk/ ) to take the stage and give us two ‘best of’ sets – ‘greatest hits’ as far as I’m concerned – from the last decade’s prodigious output.  Filming necessitated a more disciplined approach than seen previously (though not a great deal so) (or should that be soberer … ).  Retakes and director Donna’s interventions only added to the fun.

For those (oh lucky people) yet to come across the Antipoet (oh, come on – I’m talkin’ ’bout the joy of discovery), in the past I’ve written about the lads extensively here on Lillabullero, so I’m not going to repeat myself.  Here links to two lengthy pieces on the occasion of their last two albums, We play for food and Bards without portfolio:

Thursday, they delivered all the faves: there’s plenty to sample on YouTube and their website.  I never tire of their take on painful poetry gigs, Random words in a random order, and indeed many more, but was particularly glad they chose to feature 1420 MHz (megahertz), one they don’t do that often, evoking as it does a sense of wonder amidst the worthy scorn, angst and social commentary.  Here it is from an earlier time:

As Phil says, they should be on telly – after all, what else is Channel4 for?  The name chosen for the FaceBook event for this show should serve well enough as a title for the show: Rant along an Antipoet!  And what a panoply of guests they could showcase, including those who closed the show – Fay Roberts, Richard Frost, Justin Thyme – with cleverly and joyously worked parodies and addendums to the basic opus.

Another Wow!

A kid’s show at the local library a couple of days earlier and a quieter enchantment from the Wriggle Dance Theatre‘s Into the Rainbow.  There in my capacity as grandparent, I had a pretty good idea we were in for something a bit special when  greeted in mime at the top of Stony Library’s stairs by a young woman with an umbrella, guiding us to our places on the floor.  I say us – it was one child, one responsible adult, so I just lingered close by, leaning on a pillar, witnessing the show and watching the watchers.  Both were great.

Why the umbrella?  Rain sound effects because … rainbows! I was slow to make the connection.  Amazing what you can do with a couple of boards, some long coloured ribbons and a big shiny blue sheet if you are a couple of trained dancers – women working through the medium of mime and, um, interpretive dance (I’ve always wanted to use that phrase) – and a relaxed troubadour leading or commentating in song.  I don’t think I’ve ever been that close to trained dancers before – graceful and gymnastic, in tune with each other – and was so impressed overall by an accomplished ensemble performance as, over 45 minutes, they introduced the colours of the rainbow one by one, each colour given its own min-show.  The big shiny sheet was the sea, under which they swam, heads popping in and out of strategic gaps in the cloth; grandson – live performance like this was a new thing for him – had to be discouraged from going under the waves himself.

 Brilliant show, expertly pitched and well appreciated by all.  A lovely interlude.

 

It’s The Antipoet’s tenth year and to mark this momentous event, we once again return to our spiritual home of Stoney Stratford for a one off best of show which will be recorded and released as a DVD for the summer 2018 season. So come along and be immortalised as part of this celebration and wonder at how we ever got this far and where the hell we’re gonna go next!!!

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The Bardic Trials

And it came to pass that Stony’s got a brand new Bard.  All hail poet Sam Upton!  Crowned (or rather, cloaked) after an absorbing contest with accomplished storyteller and laidback one-time Texan Lynette Hill at York House Centre.  Tellingly, Sam delivered his statement of Bardic Intent acknowledging the tradition and the work of previous holders of the post in verse form.  Shame there were only two up for it this year, but it was a good contest, and a fine evening’s entertainment was put together by the Bardic Council and outgoing Bard – Bard 007 Mr Stephen Hobbs – nevertheless.  Sam will have a hard job to match Steve’s work rate.

Fay Roberts held a buzzing audience still and entranced with a poem delivered entirely in Welsh – I add No, really! for those who’ve never seen her – while Northampton’s Bard Mitchell Taylor‘s was an energetic (with much poetic striding) and passionate set, by turns personal and political.  Original stuff from singer-songwriter from Dawn Ivieson, in fine voice.  Professional comedian James Sherwood finished the evening off in style.  He had me in stitches, not least when – sat at and playing keyboard – singing and raging against the mathematical inexactitude all too often found in popular songs.  Wish I could remember some culprits other than 50 ways to leave your lover (in which just 5 are listed); there was that Cher song …

The Pantomime

The Stony Stratford Theatre Society‘s 3rd annual panto,  Dick Whittington in Stonyland was a hoot, with all the traditional trimmings, complete with plenty of nods to the locality and no little originality from playwright (and Principal Boy) Danni Kushner (no surnames on the handout, no surnames here … except this one … for the writer).  Great ensemble performance (Oh, yes it was), invidious to single out etc etc (Oh, no it isn’t), because as Dame, troubadour Roddy’s Sally the Cook is already legend; not bad for a first acting role – “Oh, you won’t believe your eyes / at the size of Sally’s pies.”  Another first was Danni singing solo – who knew there’s a folk singer in there as well?  [Photos © Denise Dryburgh]

The Talk

Sarah Churchwell, prof of American Literature and Public Understanding of the Humanities at the Uni of London, delivered a bit of an eye-opener at the Library for those who think of Scott Fitzgerald‘s The Great Gatsby as rooted in, and symbolic of, the Jazz Age.  No.  As she enthusiastically demonstrated, published in 1925, almost as a warning, it is pointedly and set in 1922,  highlighting with some telling slides what was in the news that year, and suggesting 1922 was to the celebrated Jazz Age what 1962 was to Swinging Sixties.

She expanded her subject to look at anti-immigrant origins in the 1920s of the first America First movement, and its links with the KKK.  I almost bought the book, though I have piles waiting to be read at home, she’s that charismatic a performer.  We didn’t have lecturers like her back in the day.

This talk, along with a handful of others, and various other events that I didn’t make it to – and those I did, above and below –  were all part of the programme of the splendid 14th Annual StonyWords literary festival.

Roger McGough. Photo © Andy Powell, who seemed to be everywhere, sound engineering and performing: so here’s a thumbs up.

That Roger McGough

Tickets for Roger McGough at York House were sold out even before the StonyWords programme was printed.  Resplendent in red sneakers he delighted a packed crowd with material that was new to the vast majority of the audience (and certainly to me).  Refreshingly none of the greatest hits were called upon; at the age of 80 he’s a sprightly and dapper performer, and still writing.  [One, um, golden oldie, Let me die a young man’s death cites the ages 73,91, and 104.  Not as much a hostage to fortune as Pete Townshend’s “Hope I die before I get old” in the Who’s (and their middle-aged tribute bands’) My generation, but then, they still do that. ]

Saying he was often accused of being ‘too sentimental’ he went out of his way to disabuse that with a neat reworking of one piece.  He was very funny, but at the same time, with a broad-ranging selection of an hour’s worth of material, not afraid to give us pause for thought.  I did succumb here, bought the autobiography.

This StonyMusicHall4

The Prince of Wales Rattlers. Photo © Andy Powell

Even without The Prince of Wales Rattlers, special guests from over the Northamptonshire border closing the show, StonyMusicHall4 would have been a grand affair.

What did we have?  With various multi-talented members of the Stony Steppers never far away we had: a sand dance, a recitation, a  clog dance (Daisy), singalong Vera Lynn, Whispering grass (from Two Men not called Matt, with accents slipping), a surreal chorus line dance routine involving half black/half white costumes, Mr Ferneyhough and concertina implanting an earworm (“With her ‘ead / tucked / underneath her arm“), some stunning slapstick choreography on If I was not a clog dancer, and … an act I’ve forgotten, I fear; sorry, please do tell.

The Rattlers started off with a couple of temperance hymns.  Too late, the barrels were empty.  Then continued with material more from the folk than music hall tradition but fully the latter in spirit, (and they elided somewhere in there historically anyway (didn’t they?)).  Great four-part harmonies, a moveable feast of musical accompaniment, a fine comedic turn, much jollity.
And so home with a big grin all over one’s face.

Them Theatre pop-ups

Caught one of these – the Light Programme, as opposed to the Dark Programme – in the Library.  A selection of rehearsed readings from a shifting cast of members of the Stony Stratford Theatre Society including a couple of Alan Bennett monologues, a bit of Bard and another old dude, excerpts from Alan Ayckbourn, the Stoppard Rosencrantz and Wossname, and a surprising piece (well, to me) from Chekhov that I wish I could remember*.  Good show, Caz & Co.

*The sneeze; the evils of tobacco – thanks Caz.

 

 

 

 

 

Pop-up theatre in the library

 

 

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Scribal: The last hurrah!

A fine if occasionally damp-eyed Last Hurrah! at the passing of Stony Stratford’s Scribal Gathering, the open-minded open mic‘ that has welcomed ‘poets, musicians and all performers of any style, genre or level of experience, to share their creativity before a warm and receptive audience‘ once a month for nearly nine years now.  Your humble host here at Lillabullero was not the only performer on the night to salute Scribal for getting their writing and performing asses into – or back into – gear over the years, not least two (or was it three?) former Bards of this parish.  

It has been enormous fun and a lot more.  I think my first Scribal was on its first birthday and I’ve only missed a couple since through illness.  I’ve made some friends and seen some great (and, naturally, not so great) local performers (both nascent and experienced) and the featured guests have included a sparkling array of performance poets, spoken word artists, musicians and singer-songwriters of wider repute.  No time now for a chronicle or arbitrary list, but I can’t not mention frequent visitors The Antipoet.

Immediate reason for its disappearance, in the words of current prime mover Jonathan JT Taylor – for whom a massive vote of thanks – who’s been there from the beginning: “Our venue, The Crown will not be opening on a Tuesday this year and I can’t find another suitable venue. I have tried holding the event on a Wednesday in the past but it doesn’t work, so I’m putting the event on hold for now.”  (The Crown is now a gastro-pub, so understandable, I guess, if no-one’s eating of a Tuesday). 

JT goes on: “Personally I feel the spark has gone from the event. It’s had a good innings – nearly nine years! So it’s not a goodbye, it’s a so long and thanks for all the fish…”  Yeah but, no but: while it could no longer maintain the manic energy of what, I guess, must be called ‘the Richard Frost years’ – how could anything? – and there weren’t so many fresh surprises, Scribal could still be the best and most creative show in town, and usually was.  So thanks again to JT and the Scribal Elves and all their hard work.  Mind, there’s the small print (see the poster); not so much Adios as Au revoir?

The Last Hurrah was a grand way to go out, with the welcome return of a featured guest who markets himself as ‘The Rutland Troubadour‘ and gets away with it in some style.  The personable Paul McClure has some fine songs of his own at his disposal – Americana-ish and more – which he punctuates with good-natured and self-deprecatory wit and wisdom.  (Check out more at: http://www.paulmccluremusic.com/  – go to ‘Film’ to hear some music including the one that goes, “I just want to play / the best version / of the simplest song / I could find / in my heart / that’s true”  – or on YouTube)

The Robot Orchestra

Spent an absorbing hour wandering around the members of the orchestra then being still and wandering around again at Stuart Moore’s Robot Orchestra pop-up installation at the Stantonbury Gallery.  I’ll let Stuart explain:

The Robot Orchestra members are a diverse collection of modified cyborg instruments and sound objects ranging from antique church organ pipes to digital-control-auto-feedback guitars. They will be performing a microtonal soundscape composition who’s non-western notes are sourced from nature to explore the bigger world of fluid unnameable harmony that exists between the gaps.

Meditative, intriguing, sounds swelling, ebbing, flowing, birdsong weaving (was that a frog?), therapeutic and more.  Given Stuart also drums with my favourite local band – The Box Ticked, if you’re asking – one has to revise all those old drummer jokes.  More here at Stuart’s website: http://stuartmooresound.wixsite.com/stuartmooresound – go to ‘Some sounds’ to get the feel of it.

Centurion Vaultage

Yup, a hundred Vaultages down and, it is to be hoped, many more to come.  Take a bow Pat ‘the Hat’ Nicholson, MC and troubadour of this town.  Long may you run and your silver hair hang down.  If there were a recording of his almost talking blues A day in the life (not the actual title) chronicling him greeting the day and taking a stroll up and down the High Street with his dog, then I would provide a link right here, right now.  But there isn’t, so I can’t.  Watch this space.  Anyway, a poet-friendly open mic still thriving, though it can be hard waxing lyrical when the other non-Vaultage end of the pub is lively.

Couple of quickies

Was it the third or fourth Wassail, waking up the apple trees at York House?  Lovely little event, the miserable rain stopping just in time for open air frolics and mulled cider drinking, though too damp for the bonfire this year.  The ever resourceful Innocent Hare carousing, nay wassailing.

And All Hail the New Bard!  Congratulations Sam Upton.
More about this grand event in another post.

Vintage Stony 2018

Now in its ninth year, so surely worthy of the description ‘traditional’, Stony Stratford’s New Year’s Day Vintage Car and Motorcycle Festival opened to fair weather and more cars and visitors than I can remember.  Seemed to be more really ancient vehicles this year, but overall (or am I getting jaded?) more quantity than Wow! quality.  Out of nowhere – it wasn’t forecast – the unkind weather changed to a vicious cold rain; felt for those who didn’t see it coming.  Early birds, we were lucky, home back in time to be safely tucking into hot chocolate.
Click on the photos (all ©DRQ) for an enlargement.

Not for the first time, this 1934 Citroen Traction Avant (built in Slough!) was my favourite in show, seen here with self-portrait with camera. I got a bit hung-up with reflections, especially of trees:

 

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