James Higgins: Meanderings

CONTENTS
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On the Passing of DB

Whats Oil For?

Earth Day.

Cave Painting.

The Childlife Montessori Teaching Adventure.

Harmonica Blues.

Cow Drums

Documentaries.

Me and Teddy Roosevelt.

Simple Thinking on a Radical Scale.

The case for Cheap instruments.

Stars and Holidays.

The Faceless Winter Olympics

How to Build and Play a Washtub Bass.

Earth Day 2009.

Brief Scottish History Lesson.

Economic Crisis and the Drug Industry.

Downtown Bellingham Open Mic Night.

Saving Scottish Football.

Pictures of the Hundred Acre Woods.

Perambulating Thoughts on the Road to California.

New CD.

Recording Progress

Pandering, Lies, and Wee Johnny The Cat.

Carbon Emission Moment.

News?

Spooky and Fun.

Mark Flanders: Ace Politition.

Stop Smoking Story.

Washtub News.

Earth Day.

Nada.

Neilston Quiz.

Bad Gig? No Such Thing. Czechoslozakia 1990-ish.

Lip Reading History.

The Busker: A Man For All Seasons.

Whiskey in the Jar.

Rustic Furniture.

A Package in the Post.

Sketch Pads and Cameras.

Karst Caves of Slovania.

Chuckanut Ridge: A Stream (or Watershed) of Thought.

Auld Dug.

Back Pack.

PA System Thoughts.

News and Weather.

On The Passing of Dave.

I really don't know what to say but I guess I should say something.

When we first arrived in Regensburg, we often went to see Dave's band, The Fiascos, play at the Harp.
They formed part of the first impressions we had of Regensburg. When we left, Dave let us host our going away party at Gallagher's and what a party it was!

And in between that time, it really was an 8-year pub crawl for us.
Having said that though, I must add that Regensburg was home too. Our community was like family. We were all thrown together into that certain time and place. Whether we liked each other or not, we lived in each others pockets and for the most part I think we all looked out for each other.
Dave was part of that family. My Regensburg family. For my part I got on quite well with him. He had his daft moments but we were all daft back then.
As a musician he was not the world's best but he wrote catchy songs and could be quite a showman. He, Jim and Miller always put on a good show. We went along regularly to the Harp to see them play. I still remember some of his songs though I haven't heard them in over 10 years. "The Middle of the Desert" and, "Sandy" and "Change of Heart" and "Back on the Road Joe."

Dave hired me as a barman when he opened Gallagher's Irish Pub. Late at night well past closing time we'd sit at his bar with Tina the barmaid and listen to a Bill Withers Greatest Hits cassette. We'd put it on again and again night after night, and each time it ended we'd get the Jaegermeister out and we'd have a shot. I can't remember a thing we talked about but we'd sit there blethering and laughing incoherently for hours then I'd stagger happily home. I lived along the river out in Pruffening but Dave lived just across the Golden Ente Bridge. He'd spend his entire nights takings on a long circuitous taxi ride home because he didn't want robbed of his evening's profits. Robbed? On a good night he'd be lucky to have made the taxi fare.

Gallagher's wasn't a big success but on Thursdays there was the Live Blues Session downstairs in the Keller. Dave would get up and do what he did best; singing the blues. I'd play the bass, Peter Cosmic would play lead and Paul Whaley would play drums.
It was one of the highlights of my week.
I loved playing the bass with him on the Thursday night jams, we had such a blast.

I was working in Gallagher's one evening when Dave pokes his head around the bar and shouts urgently "quick, two Guinness." I pour them super fast and bring them over to Dave. "There ye go" I say. "Who are they for?" Dave just looks at me and yells "How the FUCK should I know?"

Later on, the same night, I'm working away and Dave's involved in an animated discussion with someone at the bar and he turns to me and asks, "James, what's that famous Scottish whisky, Loch something?" and I say "Loch what" and he says "yeah! That's it! Loch What." And he turns back to the guy to finish the conversation. "Loch What. Great stuff…"

………………

We were playing the session in the Harp one Sunday. The usual bunch was there. Me, Peter, Michael, Steve, Tim and Dave. Maybe a few others. We were all seated around the session table and had been for some time. So we were all getting a bit rowdy.
I remember Dave and Tim were seated directly across from one another.
Dave sees Tim's cigarette packet sitting on the table. He says," Tim, can I have a cigarette?
Tim says, "Of course Dave."
Dave picks up the pack and opens it.
"It's your last cigarette Tim. Can I still have it?"
"Ah" says Tim. "You can't have that one. Any other one yes. But not that one."
Dave looks at the cigarette. "But there only is one!"
"Well that's too bad."
"So I can't have it?"
"Sorry Dave."
"Why Not?"
"That's my lucky cigarette."
"Lucky cigarette" scoffs Dave? "Yea right." And he takes the cigarette out the packet.
"Seriously" says Tim. Every time I buy a packet, I take one cigarette out and I flip it round and put it back in. It's my lucky cigarette."
Dave's eyes narrow. "You're joking… right?"
"No joke."
"So can I take it?"
"Sorry Dave."
But Dave now has the cigarette between his fingers and has his lighter poised in the other hand.
"Don't light that cigarette Dave."
Dave puts the cigarette between his lips.
"Don't light that cigarette Dave. I'm warning you. It's my lucky cigarette."
Dave studies Tim. He clicks the lighter but it doesn't work.
Tim picks up a beer glass and holds it menacingly towards Dave. The tone of his voice changes. "If you light that fuckin' cigarette I'll break this fuckin' glass in your face. That's my lucky fuckin' cigarette."
Dave stops. His eyes widen. His eye brows go up.
The whole place is tense now. Tim and Dave are locked in a staring contest.

Since Tim first appeared in Regensburg, he'd had a reputation as a prankster. He had a great talent for dry humour. Even those who knew him well found it difficult to tell his acting from reality. Trouble was that he wasn't always joking.
On this occasion I'm not sure if Tim had decided yet whether he was joking or not. We all knew he'd never hurt anyone with the glass but I couldn't guess the punchline. Funnily enough, it was Dave who had the immortalised last words.

Tim is leaning low over the table: glass in hand like he wants Dave to talk into it. Dave upright: a freeze-frame with the lucky cigarette and lighter.
Tim growls. "That’s… my… fuckin'… lucky… cigarette."
There is a long pause.
Suddenly Dave leans back and lights it. "Not this one man. Hah." He guffaws and he lets out a big smoky demented laugh.
Tim laughs too, shrugs, and puts down the glass. "Ah well. Whatever. Had you going though, didn't I?" He wanders off to the cigarette machine.
Steve, at the far end of the table, stands up, raises his glass and through the smiling gap where Gresh had punched his front teeth out he shouts "Prost ya bastards." Then he picks up a guitar and sings Baltimore oriole.

Ride on Dave.

…………………………….


There was one more incident that I think is very worth mentioning.
It happened shortly after Dave had opened Gallaghers.
As I recall, the place had been quite busy that night. I was sitting up at the bar with Simon. Brian McCrumb was there with his girlfriend. Tim was there.
Dave should have been pleased with business but instead he was getting uptight about something and he began to shout and insult everyone. At one point he disappeared into the toilets and I could hear muffled shouting and thumping. When he re-emerged he started ranting again. his face was red with the exertion of it all.
When it became clear that his tantrum was not going to end any time soon, the customers began to filter out. In a matter of minutes, his bar was deserted except for one guy who courageously stood by him; Tim Doude.

What's Oil Really For?

It's a fair bet that oil wasn't put on this earth to fuel cars.
It was here long before there were cars though it may not be here when the cars are gone.
There sure was a lot of it. Mother Nature spent a lot of energy producing it. It's hard to believe that it didn't serve some useful function.

The earth is a very symbiotic neighbourhood. Everything is here for a reason. There are no useless hitch hikers on Earth. It would seem logical that oil enjoyed a working relationship with whatever else was in its vicinity.

There are food chains and eco pyramids in place everywhere. Weather patterns and tides and seasons. Each leans on the other to create the natural world we know today.

I don't know much about oil but I can speculate. As far as I know oil takes a long time to form. There was once an awful lot of it. Seems our earth's belly must have been practically saturated with the stuff. Why was there so much? What did it do?
Using the theory that everything on earth has a use, then the oil must have been doing something. Was it lubricating the tectonic plates?
Or was there already a broken eco pyramid that had allowed this huge build up? Did the dinosaurs die so quickly that their bodies piled up and began forming this colossal reservoir of oil?

Not so long ago there was an explorer who discovered an orchid in some dark jungle. Its flower cup was so deep that no known insect could help it pollinate. It's a well known fact that moths help pollinate orchids. Many orchids have a specially adapted moth that can perform this tricky task. The explorer could not figure out how this orchid could multiply. He speculated that a moth with an extraordinarily long slender beak must exist to perform this task. So he kept watch for a very long time till finally one night he was rewarded. Sure enough his mystery moth appeared out of the dark with a bill like a fencing sword and did the deed.

My point being that the there did exist a symbiotic relationship that the explorer was able to speculate based on other case studies.

In the modern periodic table there are boxes reserved for elements that have not yet been discovered. Scientists know they exist because there are gaps in their mathematics. Mathematics never lie.


So oil: what does it do? Or more to the point what was its job on Earth that it's no longer doing?
Why was there so much? In nature when a predator is removed from the food chain, herbivores tend to prosper. This happened in Scotland when the wolves and bears and wild cats were removed, the land became overrun by deer (and crazy Scotsmen) who in turn overgrazed the land that had in turn been laid barren by the industrial revolution.
What would prey on oil? Did oil have a predator? Fire? Nowadays, due to the eternal movement of the continental plates, much of the Earth's oil is under sea beyond the natural reach of fire.
Without the predation of fire, has oil continued to mass produce on its own faster than it can break down. Was oil the very basis of life on the planet? Was it life at its crudest form ready to seep into the soil at a pre ordained trickle rate?
I guess now is the time to face the argument that perhaps man is now the only real predator of oil. He may well be but why would he wish to make it extinct? Is it a symbiotic relationship? No it's not.
In a hunter/prey relationship, how fast is the hunter? Just fast enough…sometimes. How fast is the prey? Not fast enough…..sometimes.
In the mankind/oil relationship, we have a one sided genocide in the favour of humanity.

In mankind's case we (the masses) generally have only a casual gas pump relationship with oil. Yes it makes our societies run but this is probably only a passing phase of history. "This is the tail end of the Petroleum Age." Kind of like the Stone Age, Iron Age etc. The oil will run out. It's simple arithmetic. When? More simple arithmetic. What will happen then? There will be some chaos then the world of men will focus elsewhere or we'll all kill each other and we'll revert back to the Stone Age.
In truth, most of us don't care about oil. Even those who think they do. It's a background noise. This being the case then it must be said that man and oil are currently involved in an economic power issue within a species. However it does affect other parallel food chains and eco systems. Drilling and spilling. Refining and storing. Shipping and trading. All of these activities displace flora and fauna world wide. Hopefully the oil will run out soon. It may be the best news this planet's had in centuries unless of course all that oil was actually doing something useful that no one wants to talk about. That might be bad news.

Perhaps oil a barrier? Are what it is and where it is linked? Was oil a volatile liquid wall that existed between the surface and the furnace at the planet's core? Was it absorbing the inner heat and keeping us cooled? Is global warming in fact coming from our dysfunctional underground heating system?
When you think on it, our little crust of life is in a precarious place. A tight spot. Right below our feet we have an inferno. Hovering in the sky above us there is another one. A few degrees difference in our atmospheric temperature would wipe us out.

Or maybe the underground oil fields caught all the rock and dirt that must inevitably filter down gravitationally towards the Earths core. The oil would have absorbed them like digestive juices and somehow returned them slowly to the surface as crude oil. Without the help of the subterranean conveyor belt of oil, the earth would have eventually consumed itself. (In fire of all things).

Of course I do not have the answers but I am at least asking questions.
The last few years have finally seen a surge of comprehension of the inter relations between every species on Planet Earth. But oil remains a mystery. I can't help wondering if we are afraid to look at the damage we may have done as our leaders pillage for fossil fuel. We fear to peel off that bandage from our poor festering wounded planet. What's underneath? Will it be healthy or will it be gangrene? Will it be too late?
Our leaders make us share the guilt of this raping. They claim they drill to pacify the public demand. It is a circle of abuse. Kids follow their elders' examples. Each generation sees the Earth only as it is: not as it was.
The age of the electric car will coincide exactly with the last drips of oil being wrought from the Earth.
But we cannot ignore the injuries done to this one habitable planet. We need a pre-op leader who will take charge immediately and save what he can.
Right now our world leaders are business men. They live for profit. It's what they do. They can't help it. Clearly though a business man cannot also be a leader of people because he is consumed foremost with his profits and not for the well being of planets. That's all very well but they need rules to work by. Let them make all the profit they want but they must earn them without harm to the people or planet. You'd imagine that would be easy. But it seems not. Just look around at the wreckage of our home world. This is a galactic disaster.

I imagine that the business world should be relieved to have someone set rules that could define the game. Imagine a football match with only vague regulations and no referees; it would be madness. With a set of business rules that were strictly enforced, the economic game could become far more interesting and participants might even enjoy it more. Right now the corporate mentality is, "If I don't drill/mine/build it, then someone else will." This only hastens the end.
Even as I write, there is an oil spill disaster in the Caribbean. But oil business goes on as normal elsewhere. The countries around the Arctic Circle are looking North to drill more oil. Meanwhile, environmentalists are shouting about the rising sea levels and melting glaciers. Unfortunately they are too easily denounced by the oil men's media outlets as crackpots.
Our leaders' stupidity is stunning. They want to drill in the national Wildlife Refuge. Canada has strip mines dredging sludge for crude oil. It's an area so big that it's visible from space. Oil is heading for extinction. Has it no rights as an endangered substance? What can fill that void?
……... But I digress……...

……Perhaps that vast oil reserve of the pre industrial age was intended as an emergency atmosphere in the event of a fatal worldly disaster. It could be unleashed into the dying atmosphere killing just about everything but putting a protective coating around the planet like paint on a fence post. Over time this black skin would shrink back smaller and smaller till life would once again find itself contemplating its future in a puddle of goo.

Right now we live in a world grown frail and fragile. Our planet is a crossword puzzle with one wrong answer that was inserted early on. It would have been wiser to erase that mistake right then and there but we continued down the junkie path till the answers began to correspond less and less and they finally dried up. Eventaully the puzzle lay undone.

There was a solution though. Simply go back. Erase the mistake. Continue on the proper path.
I think we all know this but are either afraid to make the commitment or we're frozen like a deer in a headlight.

Oils well that ends well.

…………………………………………..

PS

Ever wonder about that asteroid belt we pass through every year. It looks to me suspiciously like debris from a planet that got blown to bits.

Did you touch the Earth today?
Every day is Earth Day.

Except Sunday which is... well it's Sun day.

Cave Painting Copying

They say that one of the best ways to improve your painting technique is to copy the masters.
In my Art class a few years ago I was copying a Cezanne: The Lac D'Annecy.
Apparently he didn't like this picture or Annecy but I was drawn to this painting because the point of view was of a place where I'd sat many times. Unfortunately I had trouble getting to grips with this picture. Mainly because I used 5 different copies of it and they were all completely different. So I gave up and switched to another Cezanne painting. This one was called something like "House With Crack" or "The Crack House." This was a lot more fun to paint than The Lac D'Annecy.

What becomes apparent in exercises like this, is the master's use and application of paint and his natural rhythm. It seems that every artist has an inborn trademark squiggle. I noticed that Cezanne often repeated a small simple up and down stroke especially with trees.
Van Gogh had a curved shape that often recurred in his backgrounds.
Me? I have a squiggle too. It's sort of an S shape or like an 8 on its side.
My art teacher also had her signature stroke. It reminded me of a gull seen from a middle distance, soaring on a sea breeze: a very romantic description for a small line on a page.

Recently I was trying to copy some of the Lascaux Cave paintings (from library books). When I began to copy the artist(s?) technique, it became a rather unexpected spiritual experience. As I pored over each dot or shaded area, I felt I was reconstructing an unknown person in my head. The artist after all had been dead for 18000 years. All clues of his life were in this work. This was more than a picture. It was an autobiography. My intrusion was a postmortem of the artist, his, life and culture.

Generally we admire a picture as a whole but when critiquing a picture we search deeper for hidden meaning and reason. When we set out to copy the techniques and style in a picture we enter the mind and hand of the artist. It becomes quite personal.

The Lascaux paintings are spectacular. Bold hands set these images down on stone. The Collecting of pigments and colours and making of tools to apply the paint would have taken premeditated thought and time. To bring all this together would have taken imagination and would have resulted in a degree of job satisfaction.

I didn't have to go to those lengths. I did my first attempts with chalk and charcoal which I figured would be similar to the basic tools of the state of the art Cro Magnon artist.
Mostly though I used oil crayons because they looked better. I wasn't drawing on rock either. I just used paper. I wasn't trying to pass off my picture as a perfect fake; I only wished to examine the construction of the pieces.

……………………….

There were two particular grottos worth of pictures that I focused on. The Laschaux caves and the Chauvet caves. (see Art gallery section for a few pictures.)
I found myself more engrossed in the Laschaux pictures than the Chauvet pictures.
Laschaux's artwork seemed to be painted mainly by one artist. That is probably not even remotely true but I had an impression of a distinct style. The pictures had colour, often warm colours. Many scenes overlapped but there wasn't the overcrowded feeling that dominated the Chauvet caves.

The Chauvet cave gave me the impression that an artist had been practicing within. Lots of images of the same animal are sketched side by side covering whole areas as if the artist was trying to get it just right. There seemed to be several artists' work on display in the Chauvet cave. Some pictures, (EG the rhinos), looked very accomplished while others like a picture of a leopard have the style of an 8 year old child.

Theoretically, I guess art can vary in the same way that subspecies adapt to climate and terrain. People drew with what was at hand. They'd utilize native clays, muds, and stones. They'd paint what they saw when they could. Would it be so strange for people of a certain cave to have an individual style passed down through generations? This could explain the unique approaches to art in different areas.
I have noticed several times in modern villages with a small school that everyone seemed to have the same handwriting. I guess this is what can happen when one teacher teaches a whole community to write.
I suppose the same could happen with cave art techniques being passed down through the generations of a tight knit clan.

The first picture I drew was the black bull from the Lascaux cave. When I began to draw, at first all I saw was a bull. But as my concentration kicked in, I saw a distinct style to the work. I started by laying down the contours of an elegant backbone then curved along the tapering solid muscle of the upper forelegs, down to the delicate ankles and the low slung belly. I felt I was tracing an ancient road laid down by an unwitting historian. Considering the simplicity of the strokes, they conveyed a lot of detail.
Shading the torso, I noticed the hidden reds just showing through the black. Then I noticed it had a black horizontal stripe running along the belly. It was quite well hidden. It looked like the black stripe from a gazelle. Perhaps this bull is in fact a relative of the modern eland. Most likely though it's obviously an Aurochs. There was also a pale stripe that runs below the black stripe.
Copying this picture took me about half an hour but my picture was small. Had I drawn it full size, it would obviously have taken longer: though probably not by much. Copying something is far easier than creating something. I mention this though as I think it's an important factor when making presumptions about the pictures creation. If the artist spent two hours on the bull, that's not really a long time. We're not talking Cystine Chapel stuff here. Plenty of time left over for a few more pictures. So perhaps the art was all painted in the same week 18,000 years ago. No doubt carbon dating or something has discarded that notion as nonsense, but it's fun to think about.
Next I attempted a horse. These ancient horses always remind me of the Przwalskies Horse which I understand lives out near Mongolia these days and is quite rare and unpronounceable.
I get the impression that the same artist has produced this work but there are subtle differences. Most of the solid lines are used to draw the legs and hooves. The backbone is constructed of short strokes. The mane is a solid dark mass similar to a zebra mane. The ears appear more like pronghorn horns but it may just have been due to some flaking on the walls. The colouring is a shade of bay which seems to have been applied quickly but accurately in order to give the body a barreled shape. Perhaps it was pregnant. Arrows appear to have been shot at it. But they protrude from the ground and not from the horse.
This makes me think on Artistic License. The Artist was apparently painting a hunt. He could have chosen to draw the arrows sticking in the horse's body but he didn't. Did the horse escape? If so then why? Did one of the arrows belong to the artist? The angle of the arrows suggests that the hunters were ahead of the horse and a little to the side when they fired their arrows. Could this be a real live recorded historical event? The artist may even have been poking fun at himself: depicting himself as a terrible hunter. If I had to name this picture I'd call it, "The one that got away."
The big question though is did they have bows and arrows back then? I thought bows weren't invented till about 10,000 years ago. Or are those just little spears? They may have had spear throwers. Or are they just 2 blades of grass? If they are blades of grass then they are the only vegetation pictured in the cave.

The lines of the horse's legs are especially noteworthy. The ends all appear to have been carefully curved. This artist didn't like jagged edges on his Pictures. Even horns curve gracefully. perhaps this was his trademark squiggle. The horse's belly appears white but has been left unpainted. The natural colour of the rock fills in this detail.
Disproportionate heads are also a common feature. It seems that horses have traditionally been painted with small heads right up through the 19th century. It shouldn't be a surprise to find the practice goes way back to the Ice Age.

These two pictures seemed to be each composed of only two solid lines. The solid line of the backbone and the lines of legs and underbelly. The rest is filled in by colour. Both the bull and the horse are in motion.

……………………………

In what must have been an era of carnal desperation when mankind held only a mid table position at best on the food chain, I am amazed to imagine some guy coming home from wrestling with wild beasts and saying to himself, I think I'll do a bit of painting, Maybe it was therapeutic.
I wonder if the whole clan watched him paint or did he (or she)do it in the wee hours while everyone slept. Did he have a sketching alcove? His studio? Was an area reserved to practice before the main picture was tackled? This could explain his uncluttered walls.

I have heard that there is a picture of a shaman in the Lascaux collection. (I haven't seen all the paintings). Could this also be a self portrait? Was he a shaman? Was he old? Was the artist an old woman? Perhaps someone with some time on their hands.
On the whole, life didn't seem too bad. The pictures are not the work of disturbed individuals. The scenes are of animals and hunting as would be expected but there is very little gore and carnage. They seemed a straight forward, uncomplex people with a strong hunting culture who respected the animals they killed. I'd guess that this tribe wasn't strictly vegetarian. I don't see any murals of giant carrots or broccoli on the walls.

From the Chauvet cave, I drew a rhino. Just a head actually. I love the simplicity of this picture. It gives the impression that it was drawn in one sweeping stroke. I doubt it was though because of the roughness of the walls but however it was painted, it is a wonderful work of art. It almost looks like it's smiling. A caricature?
This Rhino is very similar in style to the horse picture in Laschaux. Both artists have used the darkest colours to emphasize important features like the Rhino's horns and the horse's mane and limbs.

One prominent feature of the Chauvet art work is the overlaying of pictures one on top of another. Many of these pictures focus only on the head. Many are black and white with only pale traces of colour. This may have been due to unavailability of pigments or the colours have faded. Or maybe the artist liked working in monochrome.
This overlapping gives a sense of abstract to many of the artworks. The horses and rhino scene which depicts about 5 horses does appear to be painted by the same person. Likewise the lion pictures would seem to all be one person's handiwork. Did the same person paint both scenes? I don't know. Is it an example of students of the same school of art that we spoke of earlier.
Horses and lions both lived in herds or prides. It would be natural to draw them in that environment. Rhinos are more solitary which could be why they are depicted alone or singular.
I can't help thinking that the lions seem a bit too modern. The style of the sketches reminds me of a book I have about how to draw animals. Maybe there's a fraud out there.

I have to admire these artists for what they have accomplished. If only our modern art will be so long lived and still be bio-degradable. Those artists worked on the field using basic tools at best. They had to study those animals and learn their gestures and anatomy while trying not to get eaten. They were lucky just to get back home. I doubt posterity was on their mind.
They had no cameras or field guides for reference work either. Information was stored in the head till it was rendered onto the wall.
That's dedication.

..................

I was in Yellowstone last year and I got a bunch of brochures and stuff at the ranger's office. There was a fold out map with a picture of all the animals we could expect to see in the park. They were all posed side by side like a happy family. There were plenty of them too: elk, moose,wolf, bear, beaver, pronghorn etc. I guess if you are careful, Yellowstone provides a great opportunity for sketching animals in the wild. Just as long as you're always looking over your shoulder and have good running shoes you'll be fine. Here's an extra hint for Neo Magnons out there. It might be best to draw from behind a bison proof windshield.

Nowadays the Yellowstone animal population is probably a mere fraction of its glory day numbers. We can only speculate how dangerous it must have once been. We can hardly appreciate the difficulties facing an average stone age artist who lived in a far busier Yellowstone environment that spanned the entire world.

A few days later in nearby Bozeman, I walked into an art gallery. There was some nice stuff but it was so expensive. There was an oil picture of a rough and mean grizzly bear. It was a great painting but it did make me wonder if the artist had drawn it in the wild or not. That giant grizzly was standing way too close to be casually sketched in safety. My bet was that the artist, being smart, either took a telephoto picture or just copied it straight out a book. That's fair enough. There's no need to die for your art but it did seem a bit like cheating.
Anyway as I was leaving the gallery, I saw an enormous abstract painting of a bunch of Yellowstone's wildlife. They were all standing in a row and all their features had been blurred into the background. I was admiring it and its stunning 4 figure price tag when I realized I'd seen this picture before but in a different incarnation. Yes indeed it was the thinly disguised picture from the Yellowstone brochure.
I wonder which master he'd been studying?

Teaching.
Sammish Woods Montessori School
23rd March till April 1st

I am not a teacher and I don't pretend to be one either. I have no teaching qualifications whatsoever. I do have some experience teaching individual guitar lessons but I have never taught a whole class at one time.
When the regular music teacher at the Montessori school went on tour for a few weeks somehow I was proposed as a candidate to fill in for him. I accepted the challenge though I had no idea what I was supposed to do. I hadn't a clue what the kids knew or what they normally did. So in I went flying totally blind… to… eh… teach them… something… maybe.
I must say I was a bit apprehensive.

There were about 12 kids in the first class. Their ages ranged between 6 and 10 years old. I'd brought along a big bag of percussion instruments to see what would happen.
I introduced each instrument and gave a quick demonstration of its super powers. Then I passed them round till they all had one each. The kids shook them and rattled them as recommended. One kid took a bite out of my spinning wind tube and left lasting teeth prints. Then we sang some songs till just as it was getting a little over-chaotic, it was over.
Time had passed fairly quickly but I realized that 45 minutes might be quite demanding to keep 6 to 10 year olds engaged. By the end of the lesson, the natives had become undoubtedly restless.

Next class was for 3 to 6 year olds. There were only about 8 of them. If it came to a fight, I think I could take them.
"Sounds like a woodpecker", said one authorative kid as they all listened with one ear pressed against the guitar. An unusual conclusion I thought: but there ye go. He could always have added, "Or a Strumming Bird."
This class was only a half hour long. By the time we'd tortured the instruments and sang the songs of their choice, time was up.
I'd deliberately omitted the noisier instruments this time.

The 3rd class was 6 to 10 year olds. But a different bunch. This dozen were the rowdiest of all. By the end, they were ganging up on me like the Children of the Corn. Too late I remembered a subtle warning that the kids would test me. They did indeed but I lived to laugh another day.

The last class of the week were a friendly little crew of 3 to 6 year olds. They were so mellow and happy and just wanted to sing and dance. We played the Grand old Duke of York and The wheels on the bus etc. All the hits. It was just like Paddy's Night except everyone was sober. We had a lot of fun.
This class had the least politics of all the classes. Politics? Yes I too was surprised by the political undercurrents already prevalent at this level.

So that was week one. I'd been tossed in the deep end of the kiddies' pool but I was still swimming.
I'd learned that keeping kids engaged for the duration was tricky but vital to the success of the class. I'd learned to avoid the noisier percussive instruments as that inevitably led to raised voices. Thirdly I'd learned that the kids were smart and witty and demanded a level of respect.
Fourthly, I now knew I better come up with some new ideas quick.
Onward into week two.

The first class of the new week was with the original 6 to 10 years olds again. At the kids' prompting we played a name game. They all told me their names then I closed my eyes while they all shuffled around and I had to guess who was who. They really enjoyed that. I am notoriously bad at names. They go in one ear and out the other (if they even get that far). Somehow I managed to remember most of their names after 2 games. I don't know if I can still remember them now.
Next we sang a few songs. Even though this was the 6 to 10 year olds class, they got as much satisfaction from the Grand Old Duke of York as the younger class.
After that we played Guess the Sound. I rattled some bear bells attached to a small strap hidden in my mystery bag while they had to guess what it was. Of course they sussed it right away. I set it down on the floor and invited them to try pick it up and put it on their head without it jingling. They all took turns and though none of them managed it, they were totally engrossed for ten very hushed minutes.
Disgusted by their own failure they turned their suspicious gaze on me and demanded to see if I could do any better. For a brief moment I had a fleeting vision of a corn field ablaze and a wicker man in flames. It seemed I had no choice but to comply. I managed to raise it a few inches off the ground and they were all holding their breathe in utter silence when I suddenly yelled "Boo" and they all screamed.
Next, they produced a book with a fox song which was their favourite. They sang it for me and I was very impressed. They said they planned to record it.
To finish up we sang, Jack and the Beanstalk. Which they all loved and wanted to hear again. This was a relief because I'd written it just the day before based on the story but with more stunts.
This class was the best so far and I felt we were getting to understand one another.
The Name Game really helped. It immediately broke down the communication barrier. I learned that teaching familiar faces is far easier that teaching strangers.

The 3 to 6 year old class was a strange one. Right from the start the kids seemed distracted. I went with the flow and left them to their own devices while I sang quietly till the half hour was up. Some drifted back but others had little projects they were working on. Everyone seemed content.

At the next class of 6 to 10 year olds, I basically repeated the same class I did with the other 6 to 10 year olds. One thing I noticed by accident was that when I sat on a low chair when I was with the older kids, it made a big difference for the better in their behavior. When I sat on the floor with them they were rowdier. Interesting.
At one point in this class they had a long discussion about whether or not 2 boys should be removed from the circle due to their disruptive behavior. I was surprised how much back and forth discussion took place over the issue. They took it very seriously. I told them I'd let them debate it like a jury then I'd be judge. They all liked this idea. Well all but the 2 accused. The Children of the Corn were morphing into the Lord of the Flies. And just to show it, I taught them how to dance the Dying Fly. Sentence was delayed.
I wouldn't be surprised if the 2 disruptive kids turned out to be the musicians of the class in years to come.

The last class were the happy bunch of 3 to 6 year olds. They too demanded something different but were happy in the end to have some egg shakers and to dance and sing their favourites: The Wheels on the Bus, itsy Bitsy spider, and If You're Happy And You Know It.
My last memory of my 2 weeks is of the 3 to 6 year olds all sitting in a row on the floor, howling like an innocent little pack of wolf cubs as we sang Old Macdonald Had a Farm.
It was 2:55pm and their parents had come to take them home.

The biggest thing I learned apart from confirmation that I am not a teacher was that teaching kids can be a lot of fun but hard work.
The most advantageous tiny thing that helped us begin to form an understanding was the Name Game. Rather than adopting an attitude that I would never see these kids again so why bother learning names, we played the game and had a good laugh about it.
My two weeks for me were a real positive experience. I have a greater respect than ever for the teachers who do the groundwork introducing children to their very first songs and who teach them to sing and dance from nothing. I also gained an admiration for the many anonymous songwriters who pen these children's songs. As adults, we may laugh but in many ways these little ditties are ingenious.
The kids themselves were amazing. They are bundles of life. Their energy and capacity to learn was overwhelming and non stop. It must be hard graft for teachers who spend their whole week in the company of inquisitive kids. The energy it takes must be well off the caffeine scale. I find it hard enough looking after my own 5 year old all day. And there's only one of him.

Summing it all up, I'd say they taught me more than I taught them. I hope I don't forget their names.
I don't know what they learned. Hopefully they didn't regress.
The Dying Fly will of course always be useful in any situation.

………………………………………

Disinterest at best was the biggest encouragement I got as I encountered my first clumsy guitar chords in Scotland. At least my family never told to shut up. They probably couldn't hear me over the rest of the racket that was going on in our household. We were a family of ten. There were 3 upstairs rooms. Each had its own record player. Often they were all blaring different songs simultaneously. Down in the living room, my Father would be standing in his string vest by the fire place bellowing out, "There's a Hundred Pipers In A In A." Radios blared, the T.V. yelled, Spin dryers rattled, dogs barked and folks bashed guitars, pianos and each other. It was a lively place; not that big, yet easy to get lost in.

Primary school produced some nasty musical negativity from a teacher who will remain anonymous. This individual ridiculed anyone he thought sang out of tune. He never offered any constructive criticism, just regular beatings with his belt. Sometimes he'd take the whole class for singing lessons and have us singing the glories of St Thomas. We dreaded these music lessons. We'd sing like a child choir while he'd come round and listen to each of us individually. If he thought anyone was crap he'd tell them to keep moving their lips but not to sing. Then to rub it in, he'd make the rest of the kids stop in mid song while about 5 of us were forced to mime like drowning fish. We'd mime for our lives because we didn't want to get, "The belt." Everyone had a great laugh except us unlucky mimes. When the lesson was over Mr. Teacher would belt us all anyway. Good times.
So not much luck there on the music front.

Next stop was St Lukes High School Barrhead. By now I was aged about 11.

Half of the old St Lukes high school was down by Commercial Rd. The other half was about a mile away on the Barrhead Main Street beside the new sports centre. The new Sports centre looked like an enormous red brick. The St Lukes' Annex building next door looked like a grey prison. Inside the Annex there was an indoor courtyard from which many doors opened onto like prison cells. Above, was an identical situation with a walkway with a cast iron railing. Each of these rooms held classes. They were high ceilinged and the windows were above head height so if we looked up and out we saw only grey sky. The walls were coated with green flaking paint that reminded me of Florence Nightingale era hospital wards.
As you can imagine, it was a dull and dreary place. Teachers and pupils went through the motions of an unimaginative education designed to supply the bare necessities for another lethargic Scottish generation already destined for factories, unemployment and real prison.
At that time I don't believe there was even an exam at the end of the 4 years. Punishment was still being meted out by teachers armed with leather straps just like primary school.
These belts were curiosities; simply because they were standard equipment: not just a belt off someone's trousers. They were made from a strip of leather about 2 feet long and about a half inch thick. One half was slit like a forked tongue. It was often carried concealed under the shoulder of a coat where it was readily at hand to be whipped out at the merest hint of a mis-spelt word. Undeniably it was a weapon with a premeditated function.
I imagine that newly minted teachers must have bought them at the same store they bought their text books and stationary. Was there a seedy room in the back where they tested them out? Did teachers discuss techniques in the staff room? Did they practice every night after school like golfers working on their swing? Were there belting classes at university as part of their teacher training course?
This belting nonsense continued up till the very year I left school. Just my luck.

The music class such as it was, was located at the far right hand corner of the inner courtyard. It was conducted by a chain smoking old crone with hawk like features and hair tied up in an ash grey bun. She was thin as a twig and her voice was brittle and harsh as a bad tempered crow. She treated us with open hatred; deeming us worthless twits. She saw her job of teaching us spud heads, the equivalent of banishment to Siberia to tutor a colony of monkeys.

The classroom was sparsely furnished. There was an upright piano, an ash tray, and rows of little writing desks all designed for right handed people (Of which I wasn't one.) Due to her chain-smoking and careless stubbing out of cigarettes, the teacher's half of the class looked like an oncoming storm front creeping over the piano towards us like clouds over crags. This smoke seemed to stick to the nicotine stained walls and climb slowly up to the ceiling where it thickened and brooded throughout the one hour lesson.
It was no wonder that half the class became chain smokers too.

Every Friday as the very last class of the school week, the old bat gave out music books containing big lists of musical terms. Our instructions were simple. "Copy out this book", page after page until the bell rings. There was never any explanation as to what these words meant or what they had to do with music. The book read like an Italian Yellow Pages. It may well have been a pizzeria directory.
The class was held in complete silence except for the occasional rustle of paper and the tiny scratching of pencils. One day someone farted. It broke the silence like a gunshot. We erupted into pitiful pent up laughter. The teacher marched out from behind her piano like a furious trapdoor spider. Usually all we saw of her was the fog of her cigarette smoke and the occasional sad tinkle of some vague jazz tune like a smoldering memory of some lost love that she'd throttle like a chicken if she ever saw again….
For now though, she'd have to take it out on us unfortunates.
"Who did that" she shrieked at us?
There was no reply. She repeated the question and got the same response. Naturally the guilty farter didn't want to get belted. Anyway how could she ever know who it was unless she went round and sniffed everybody's bum?
"No one is leaving this class till I know who made that noise."
That was a serious ultimatum because all the Neilston people had to catch the four o clock bus home or face a 3 mile hike.
The clock ticked slowly on towards 4pm.
With 1 minute to go Tom Daly spoke up. "It was me Miss."
"Step out here now."
Tom was swiftly belted several times then the bell rang and off we went to catch our bus.
The odd thing though was that it hadn't been him at all. He'd just confessed because he didn't want to walk home. I don't know who did it. There's a guilty farter out there to this day running free.

She asked us one day if anyone played a musical instrument. I don't know why but I decided to put my hand in the air. "I play some guitar" I said timidly. "What kind of music?"
"Paul Simon kind of stuff"
"Pah", she spat like she'd swallowed a fly. "Rubbish. That is not music."
I went home later and quietly put the Paul Simon book away. In the future I'd just keep my mouth shut.

……………………………………….

There came a day when the smoke that pumped rhythmically from behind her piano barricade stopped rising. It was our first clear day in class and we discovered that the mysterious dark abyss in the far wall that came and went in her smog, was in fact a blackboard. She stepped out and surveyed the class. "You" she snapped, pointing to a boy at the back. "Lawson. Yes you. Come here."
Lawson wasn't the brightest bulb in a class already feeding near the bottom of the Brichter scale. He stepped forward, wondering what he'd done wrong.
The crone opened her purse and handed him some money. "Go across to the shop and get me 10 Embassy Regal (cigarettes)."
"What if the don't have Regal?"
"Get John Player Special."
"What if the don't have…"
"Then just get anything" she barked exasperated.
Lawson returned a half hour later carrying a brown paper bag. He handed it to the teacher. She opened it suspiciously and gingerly drew out a sausage roll and then a cold mince pie.
"What's this", she yelled.
Lawson looked at her in complete innocence and said, "You said if they didn't have your brand then just get anything."

Well I didn't learn much in that class. It lasted a year. That's about 3650 cigarettes in the crone's measurements.
Looking back I have to say that the unaccredited fart was the most musical event in that whole class year. I wonder what key it was in.

………………………………………….

Though I continued to potter around with music at home, I never drew any connection between school music and my love of music at home. They were worlds apart. Unrelated entities. School music was cold and cruel while music at home was pleasant and fulfilling; even magical. It was a world of discovery.
At home, I was never prompted or forced to play guitar. I just did it. No one said shut up and no one said play louder.
No news is good news.
…………………………..

Apparently the old St Lukes building was sinking. So a new Super Unsinkable St Lukes was built up at the top of Auchenbach. I must say it was a much nicer environment to learn nothing in. It was set high above the town of Barrhead like a fortress of education. From the art class we could see the Highlands and the Erskine Bridge (10 miles away) crossing the Clyde. But this school too had its dungeons. Down in the bare unfinished passageways where faucets dripped and dim lights spluttered, were classrooms behind heavy ominous soundproof doors. Here, where no one could hear our screams, we were given further music lessons.

But I learned nothing. We had a new teacher. I tapped some beats on a piano top. That's all I remember. We had lessons for a year.

That was the end of my school music career. I spent a further 4 years at that school but never returned to that underworld again in all that time. Nor did I miss it.

In fairness it must be mentioned the new St Lukes education program had been rewritten and updated. There were many new teachers who were actually enthusiastic about their work. The art department was open plan with large windows that let the sunlight pour in. The school now offered finishing exams with an opportunity to take further exams as university qualifications. I think it became a well respected school and I believe it deserved that praise. It rose from the swamp and ascended to the top of the hill.

I was up in the art department one day drawing a skull when a classmate lent me a cassette of a band called Rush. I'd never heard of them. It was a live album called "All the World's a Stage". When I listened to it, I didn't know what to make of it. The melodies were disjointed and the singer had a helium high voice but there was something that attracted me to it. I don't know what it was. The music gave me the sensation that I'd missed something. I listened to it several times back to back and still couldn't put my finger on it. Could it be that it was just plain interesting? Here I was listening to a band I knew nothing about. I had no preconceptions. I was judging this faceless music only on what I was hearing and I found it an enjoyable experience. I realized that this music was not composed to be instantly catchy. This was music written to slowly seep into the senses. It wasn't sweet like pop, it was salt.
After I heard a few more albums, I bought a big thick Rush song book. Their chords were unusual and fresh. This was not a Dylan play-along colouring book; this was, by my standards, complex stuff. For the first time since I'd closed the Paul Simon episode, my guitar playing crept forward. I'd opened a new chapter and soon learned the whole book.

I guess I've moved on from most of my heavy rock phase but I can still appreciate those Rush albums and the band's imagination. I believe they're still out their doing it.

………………………….

My musical education was obviously never going to happen in a classroom but I think the Montessori kids already have a great start. Someone up there is doing a good job. At least the kids don't dread their music lessons.
Staring out the window up there at the kids' school reminded me of looking out the art department window back at the new St Lukes. From up there in Auchenbach I could see the huge Clyde Valley and the distant Scottish Highlands. I could also see the discarded shell of the old St Lukes buildings and the music room where we learned more about beatings than beats. Here in Bellingham I gaze out over the San Juan Islands towards the open Pacific. Behind me in the class, I hear children laughing and making a terrible din from rattles and shakers. I know I should go tell them to behave but it's a great sound.

One verse leads to another.

Harmonicas Blues.

"Capital, investment, profit". That was Frank's motto, or so he said as we stood freezing down the Annecy subway. He was talking about the merits of harmonicas. I was thinking about the merits of fur coats.
Buying a harmonica would be an investment that right then would break the bank but ultimately would pay off. At least that was the theory.

So, me being a gullible lad, I took Frank's fine Germanic advice. I forsook the luxury of food and beer for a day and I marched off to Veran music and purchased a harmonica and a harmonica holder.
The harmonica was in the key of A. I hadn't a clue how to play it, never mind play it and a guitar at the same time but I was determined to give it a go.

………………………
Capital, Investment….. Starvin'.

Later that same day, I stood down the subway, poised with my shiny new harmonica in its equally new metal holder that fitted round my neck. I had a guitar strapped to me too. If I'd have been a bomb I'd have been lethal.
After a half hour of frustrating up and down guitar tuning, I finally had both instruments co ordinated. No one had mentioned that the guitar had to be in tune with the harmonica. I began by strumming an A minor chord with my capo on the 2nd fret. Then I'd blow a random note on the harmonica. That went well so I switched to a G chord and sucked in.
I must have sounded like a little baby fire engine. "Nee naw nee naw" all afternoon. Luckily there was a convention for the tone deaf in town that day. People actually threw money. It seemed my investment might just have paid off.

After a few weeks I was getting the hang of it. I had mastered Neil Young's Heart of Gold solos and a few Dylan tunes. Don't Think Twice springs to mind.
Simultaneous harmonica and guitar playing turned out to be fairly simple after a little practice; kind of like patting your head and rubbing your belly. SJ had also reluctantly invested in a harmonica and was now reaping his own financial benefits. One morning I came down the Annecy subway while he was playing. He said to me, "Check this oot". He blew a note into his harmonica as hard and as long as he could. His cheeks puffed out. He looked at me directly and then he made his eyes go cross eyed. No words were necessary.

My party piece was to puff on a cigarette when no one was looking then blow a big cloud of smoke out through the harmonica as I was playing. I'm easily amused.

…………………………

The biggest problem with these harmonicas was that their lifespan was short. They needed replaced fairly regularly. I noticed that they tended to last longer in Winter than in Summer. I think this was because in warmer times there was more build up of saliva gunk on the reeds. I was never exactly sure why this happened but I would play the same harmonica all winter till it mysteriously broke as soon as the weather heated up.
Another problem was that they were not cheap. So a harmonica had to be well and truly pronounced dead before a new investment was made. This meant nothing short of being flattened by a steam roller. On purchasing a new harmonica, the shopkeeper would test it quickly on a little bellows. He'd place the harmonica on it and give it a flourish like Jerry Lee Lewis sliding his knuckles up a piano, one end to the other. Then he'd slip it swiftly back in its box and say "50 francs s'il vous plais." By the time I'd returned to the subway and blown a few notes and realized it was broken, it was too late to bring back. Once my lips had touched it, the harp could not be returned unless maybe if I lied and told the shopkeeper that I'd taken it home and tested it on my own personal private sterilized bellows.

SJ kept his broken Harmonicas handy to sell to tourists and natives for the price of a beer or a coffee. I'm not sure who got the better deal.

…………………………..

One fine Autumn day in Annecy, the Pope came to town. Yes the Pope. I was down in the subway tunnel busking as usual. Things had been slow since Summer had ended but this day the subway was jammed with sanctified pilgrims in transit. Train after train of them and busload after bus load came tramping in little congregations through the tunnel. It was an odd experience. Each time that the person at the forefront of one of these flocks would stop and drop me a coin, the whole group had to do likewise. It was as if each member was trying out Samaritan the next guy. This went on all day. It was unbelievable. Dare I say miraculous?
In the middle of this money harvest, my harmonica blew a gasket and needed replaced. It was only 10am but I had already made over 250ff. I didn't want to abandon my pitch even for 2 minutes but luckily SJ appeared and he played while I went off for a new harmonica.
It was a busking day to remember. Later in the afternoon with bulging pockets and blistered fingers, I went into town to see if I could spot the Pope. (Maybe thank him personally). He'd been making speeches down by the lake. There was still a huge crowd assembled. It filled the whole park. I stood at the back, near the pedestrian tunnel at the Bonlieu. I could see a Pope shaped figure speaking distortedly through a microphone. He was far away. I couldn't make out a word. It may have been him or a bishop. I don't know.
That night there was bread and wine back at the Fox's apartment. And some holy smoke too.
Number one hit song of the day? You guessed it. "Knocking on Heaven's Door."

……………………


To this day though, I am not much of a harp player. I can play melodies and stuff no problem but that real Blues stuff eludes me. It's all backwards to me. I will never be a "Little Walter", but then again neither will most harmonica players. I'm a folky harmonica player which kind of means "Same key, same harp. Not fancy.'

…………………………

Playing plugged in gigs with my guitar and Harmonica was always a logistic problem for me. Every time I'd arrive at the harmonica solo, I'd accidentally blow directly into the mic and miss the Harmonica. This produced a thud clunk sound instead of a harmonious wail. Other times I'd find myself onstage standing on my tiptoes and shrugging my shoulders so as to reach the mic with the harmonica. Often the harmonica holder would slip over one shoulder so that I had to face sideways to the mic and stand on my tip toes and hunch up my shoulders just to get within range of the mic. I'd have my back to the audience and be looking at them dementedly over one shoulder. If I lowered the mic stand then I'd have to bend to sing.
If all that wasn't bad enough, sometimes I'd get ready to blow the solo and discover the harmonica was just a tiny bit out of reach or the screw would loosen in mid solo and the harp would slip out of reach. Or I'd start the solo only to find the harmonica was upside down with the notes all reversed. The classic clanger though is of course the wrong harmonica key for the song being played. That's a real head turner.

Scarred by the experience, I gave up playing the harmonica at gigs for a long time.

………………………….

A long time ago in Amsterdam I had all my stuff stolen. It wasn't much: mainly a bag of rags and a sleeping bag. But my harmonicas, harmonica holder and sketch pads were stolen too. By then I was carrying around about 4 sketch pads. Not great works of art or literature but irreplaceable to me. Luckily they were found later in the station's public toilets. Maybe they'd just gone for a poop.
To cut a long story short, it was late winter and freezing. So I hitched South and ended up in Salzburg. Me, the clothes on my back, a hat, a guitar and some sketch pads.
After a few days busking, I bought a new harmonica and harmonica holder. I was back in business. The show must go on.
Capital, investment, profit.

THE RAG AND BONE DRUM.

Since I wrote this, my sister has moved house.

My sister lives in La Loge in an old farmhouse in the official middle of French Nowhere.
It's very peaceful there. Hardly a car passes by all day. So how the cat managed to get itself run over, I don't know. I suspect the baker may know something about it.

There are a number of upright pianos but no drum kit at La Loge.

We'd (me and Hill) arrived there that Summer in the VW bus with my broken four track studio that couldn’t bounce tracks. I also had my Takimine and Vantage guitars plus the mandolin, a dodgy banjo and a bass guitar.
The bass guitar still had only three strings after the G had snapped at a gig about 4 years earlier. I had substituted the broken string with a piece of white twine. From a distance it did resemble a guitar string. Unwitting musicians often borrowed the bass to sit in for a song at Blues Night at Gallagher's. Their focused expressions would change to sudden bewilderment as they discovered they were trying to slap bass a piece of twine in front of a live audience. Most musicians saw the funny side but some were down right insulted and furious. One walked off stage in mid song. I guess I should have forked out the money and bought a new string. But hey, that was good drinking money. Still, it kept me laughing.

Also with me at La Loge, I had a few broken harmonicas and a cobweb filled didgery doo.

Some months earlier when we finally departed Regensburg in the VW bus, I had crammed this whole assembly of musical implements into the overhead storage compartment. We drove around for months with most of this equipment completely unused. Through Austria, Italy and Slovenia till one evening in Annecy, France, we parked at the edge of the old town and went for a wander. On returning we discovered that our car had been plundered. Everything was gone: all the music stuff plus all our packs. Desparue.
Peter J. was hanging out with us at the time. His guitar and pack were gone too. He was devastated (as were we). Our guitars were our livelihood. I remember thinking perhaps it had just happened a minute before we returned. Maybe the thief hadn't gotten far. I figured he must have made more than one trip. So I looked around and concluded there was only one possible escape route carrying that amount of gear. Behind the parking area there was a sloping field with some trees and some little used unlit pathways. I called Peter to grab a torch and follow me, and then I ran up the hill. Sure enough as I entered the darkness below the trees, I saw a figure kneeling over our packs. He got a shock as my shadow fell across him and he took off like a rabbit. Peter came up with the torch and we examined our scattered possessions. It was all there. We had been very lucky.

So from Annecy, Peter went back to Freiburg while me and Hil went off to visit my sister in La Loge. We stayed in the Granny flat next door to her rustic farmhouse. It was high Summer and there was a contented air of lazy stupor about the place. I decided I'd set up my 4 track studio and get some recording done.

I tackled "Rag and Bone". This was an old song I'd written hitching through Switzerland years before.
On track one; I recorded the vocals with harmonica and rhythm guitar.
On track two, I added some bass.
On track three I stuck on some lead.
The studio was a bit old and hissy and was no longer able to bounce multiple tracks down to one track. I'd bought it second hand years ago. It was probably an early Roman model. This inability to mix multiple tracks down to one single track was a severe hindrance but the studio was still useful for getting basic ideas down.

So with 3 tracks accounted for, that left only one track for drums. But as we all know by now, La Loge has no drum kit.

I’d always pictured that song as having a colossal drum beat, more of a boom boom boom Godzilla stomp than a beat.
It's never a great idea to record drums as the last track on a project. This is because all kinds of tiny out of time moments tend to appear like hiccups that cannot be disguised. But I had no drums, so this wasn't a problem. I was however toying with the idea of some random percussion but I hadn't anything percussive either. I was stumped. Stumped for a stomp.

So I went out into the backyard for a break. The sun was blinding. I rolled a cigarette and sat on the time worn step drinking a beer. A heat haze shimmered across the cow field, blurring the fly swatting cows as they munched anti clockwise around the field's single tree. My eye settled idly upon the old cow trough at the bottom of the garden. It was a huge round grey metal thing, 2 feet deep and bigger than a back tractor wheel. My sister and Hil and the kids had found it half buried in some far distant brambles. They'd rolled it like a giant hamster wheel all the way across fields and walls and ditches and cow pats and electric fences all the way back to la loge. They'd cleaned it up and used it as a paddling pool.
Today, no one was paddling, though I'm sure the cows would have loved a dip and a sip. Every one had gone off except Hil who was sitting across the garden at the picnic table, reading a book.
I walked over and sat down across from her. It wasn’t a chatty time of day. Lizards flickered in and out of cracks in the crumbling garden wall.
I went for an aimless stroll around the premises and chanced to end up stopped beside the trough. I tapped it with my foot like someone buying a car.
It sounded like a cavernous metallic gurgling belly.

Well that was all it took. A minute later I was tipping out the water and dragging it across the garden towards the steps at the picnic table. Hil looked up. “What are you doing,” she asked as I struggled past?
“Nothing”, I replied guiltily. She shook her head and went back to her book: the very picture of an experienced musician's girlfriend's non chalance.
I hauled the giant trough up the stairs through the gap in the crumbling wall and across towards the piggery till finally it rested on the grass just outside my recording room
I turned it upside down and went in search of two stout twigs and a pair of socks.

I wrapped a sock around the end of each stick and taped it on. They looked like toffee apples. I bashed one against the upside down cow trough and smiled with smug satisfaction. Yup. I'd found my Godzilla drum for the Rag and Bone song.
Hil looked up blandly as she turned a page.

But now I discovered that the trough was too big to get indoors to record. I fetched the mic but it didn’t reach all the way outside. The lead was too short.
This was a problem. Some shuffling of furniture ensued.
I moved the studio unit nearer the door: Then I moved the reverb unit, plus the table and a few other things. When finally this was all done and I was ready for the first practice takes, an hour had elapsed. Still though the head phones didn’t reach. They were just 6 inches too short.
Short of moving the house, I couldn't do anything else so I was forced to lean backwards into the room at my back and tilt my head skyward.
In the end the track was recorded. The trough gave off a huge sound. I added reverb and the recording was complete…. rubbish.

A few days later a farmer came striding purposefully over the hill. ”Bonjour”, he said, and “that trough is mine.” He took it away and it was never seen again.

Somewhere along the road, that recording got lost. It wasn't very good but looking back now, I wish I had a copy just to laugh at my futile attempts at recording at La Loge.
Maybe I have it somewhere. I don't know. Bad recording or not, it must have contained some of the essence of La Loge that I enjoyed so much. I guess a bad photo is better than no photo.
It was a blast. Like I said before about art, "Sometimes the chase is better than the catch."

I wonder how a cow trough washtub bass would sound?

Documentaries

I have always been fascinated with wildlife. As a child I had countless toy animals and every Christmas I was presented with heaps of animal books. Not kid books either. Real text books filled with Latin names and weights and measurements and facts of life. My first pocket money was spent on a subscription to World of Wildlife magazine. I'd bring it to school every Tuesday and bore the other kids with irrelevant facts and diagrams of subjects I could have barely understood myself.
Still, for me it was riveting stuff. I remember my Father rousing me from bed to allow me to watch Jacque Cousteau's, oceanic documentary "The Silent World". He obviously had noticed my interest and the phenomenal rate that I absorbed anything about animals. One day a neighbour came by and was talking to my father about his sick parrot. My father called me over and said, "James, what do you think?" I didn't think anything. But my father seemed quite expectant that I would cure this parrot. I asked a few dumb questions like, "what colour is it?" and "does it get regular exercise?" I was of course just stalling for time. Then I said, "I don't know. Maybe you should go to a vet". This answer seemed to please my father greatly. Perhaps he was thinking, "My son may be thick as two short planks but he's knows what time it is."
After Cousteau I was hooked on Attenborough documentaries and just about anything with an animal in it. Remember the migrating wildebeest story? Just like the movie Red River but without John Wayne and the chuckwagon lads. Epic stuff.
When I was at secondary School at St Lukes, Barrhead, I saved my dinner money for a whole term and I bought a dog. But that's another story.

I cannot honestly say that I "Love" animals. It was more of a fascination. Animals to me were not cuddly, wide eyed Disney creatures to be petted (Though that's good too). They were big and real and lived in a big real world.
They did big, real things. That was the attraction.
I had a deep appreciation for them is probably a better description. To see a deer on the edge of a meadow quietly melt into the forest. Or see a foxes eyes across the campfire when you thought you were alone. These moments stir a sense of wonder within me. Perhaps it's a proverbial call of the wild reminding us that our lives should not be so meaningless and tedious as we allow them.

I'm a lot older now but just as fascinated by wildlife as ever. But whenever I see an animal documentary, the story now seems very similar and sad. "Here is an animal, it is beautiful. Once there were lots but now only a handful are left. Here is their homeland. Now it's a wasteland. Once it was bigger but now it's been developed."

The plot is the same again and again everywhere in the natural world. Here is the pack ice. Once it was bigger. Here was a buffalo. Here was a tuna. Here was a tiger…
Nowadays I have difficulty watching wildlife documentaries. I am always aware of the approaching fatal punch line. "Only a handful survive". It hurts too to think that there are nuts out there who still trade and profit from furs and by products of endangered species.

What can I do? I joined forces with the World Wildlife Fund a few years back. Their efforts seem honest in a non anarchistic or over volatile way. That's why I chose them over other organizations. I do admire Greenpeace but I'm not sure they always have their heads screwed on right. They can come across as a bit desperate. These are desperate times I guess.
Well normally I don't affiliate myself with any party at all. So it was a big day when I became a member of The World Wildlife Fund. I gave them a membership fee and they gave me a hat. I paid the fee for a few years and made a donation on occasion which never amounted to more than 25 dollars at a time. Presently I don't think I am a member. Recently they asked me for 16 dollars. I wanted desperately to give it but right now I don't even have 5 dollars.
I always wish I could put my music to more good but people will only pay a pittance for music. Would anyone pay if I announced that I would play 30 gigs a month and ask for WWF donations and a small fee for my own expenses? I think in honesty, most folks would begrudge a musician anything even if they were desperate to save the planet. I think it would come down to mistrust. As we all know trust makes the world go round. They'd be afraid I'd run off and spend the money on sex drugs and alcohol.
It's also a little disappointing as a musician that people would say that they wouldn't give me money for entertaining them but they would help the planet if I wasn't there. Not too inspiring for the old artistic ego. In fact if I don't get paid soon for a gig, then I too will be on the endangered species list.
But supposing by a miracle that I got my small wage and still raised 300 extra at every gig. That would be a handsome chunk of change to benefit the WWF as opposed to zero.

I once proposed an idea to CD Baby (Online sales company that helps me sell CDs) that perhaps there was a way that a dollar from each of my sales could be automatically diverted to the WWF. Unfortunately it didn't work out. I figured I could afford a slow dollar trickle but not a mass donation.
I'd certainly love to make useful music. In many ways I feel I've said most of what I've had to say. Now I'm just stagnating and getting repetitive. I'd like to put my experiences to work.

Meanwhile, the world continues to degenerate. There will come a moment when it is now or never even more so than it is today. That's a tongue twister. Our world leaders will be politely swept aside and true representatives of a common good for all that lives on this sole known wildlife reservation in the solar system with begin to truly tidy up. (Dream on.) This world needs more than patching now. Major surgery and focus and solution is now required or we will be the next Mars.

No matter what your political affiliation is, saving our planet is always a good idea. Once it's safe then everyone will at least have a place to argue.
Right now, what are this planet's chances of survival? No one is talking about that yet. Are they 50/50 yet? Or are we beyond that already? Where is the bookmakers money? What are they saying? They seldom lose.


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Me and Teddy Roosevelt

Roosevelt seemed to enjoy hunting. He was always at it. Blasting away at buffalo and rhinos and elephants like there was no tomorrow. Finally he realized one day that there would indeed be no tomorrow for a lot of the species he was killing off.
It took him a lifetime of killing before he decided to invent the National Park system in order to help preserve endangered American Wildlife. The very wildlife he'd been annihilating for decades. The National parks were actually designed to save Teddy from his own savage instincts. Round of applause for Teddy.

When I was a wee boy of about ten, there was an abandoned estate near our village. It was called Cowden Hall. The house that once stood there had long since rotted away and been smothered by weeds and ivy. In the estate's heyday, the grounds had been planted with over a hundred tree species from all over the commonwealth.
One morning I was stalking around there with an air rifle. I saw a little bird, a blue tit, tweeting on a branch. It was only a few strides to one side of my gun barrel. I took careful aim and pulled the trigger. The song stopped abruptly. The little bird tumbled off its perch and dropped like a plum line onto the grass. I stooped over it. All I could think was, "What have I done?" There was no satisfaction: only remorse and anger over my own stupidity. I never shot at any living thing again.

What strikes me odd about this tale is how a 10 year old boy can catch on so quick that killing for fun is bad, whereas our good friend Ted and his illustrious colleagues must have wiped out half of Africa before they got the message. They only copped on when hunting began to get more difficult. They were forced to stop because there wasn't much to shoot (at least not without leaving the safety of their car). Perhaps they should have shot each other.
In my mind I wonder if they are just restocking the pool.
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Simple Thinking on a Radical Scale.

Ideas? Recycling old ships. As the ice caps melt and Polar bears starve, can't old liner and tanker ships be welded together and landscaped into giant ice bergs. Make them miles and miles long. Paint them white. Let ice accumulate. Let krill and other ocean nutrients swim around them. Let seal colonies thrive on them. Polar bears can rest and hunt on them. Let the sun reflect off them.

Why can't the world use species on a "Land left fallow" basis? For example: No salmon hunting for 2 years while we eat a more plentiful fish on a different healthier food chain. Then repeat this process with tuna. Perhaps farming our game food is better but I am only throwing out ideas. I am after all a musician not a professional gamekeeper. Common sense is all I know.

Back when I was a kid with my World of Wildlife magazine subscription, I entered a competition to win a safari trip for 2 to Kenya. I had filled it all in but hesitated to post it because no one wanted to go with me. I wondered if dogs were allowed. My Mother wasn't really a "Let's all go to Kenya", kind of housewife. In the end I never posted it and I have never yet been to Kenya.

In reality even if we successfully patch the world together for the next 50 years, I will never see it in its true glory.
It must have been a wonderful sight only 300 years ago. Even 150 years ago. We can only imagine what it must have been like to see flocks of birds, miles long, Schools of whales stretching to the horizons, Herds of buffalo merging one into the other for the width of a continent. That will not be seen again in my lifetime.

Now if I only had 16 dollars to give the World Wildlife Fund. Jeez, if I only had 16 dollars for anything.

The Case for the cheap Instrument over the expensive.


If I wasn't broke, would I record any differently? Would I still be drawn to old broken instruments or would I suddenly want expensive Gibsons, Martins, and Rickenbackers?
I actually have a Takamine acoustic guitar. It is an excellent instrument but I rarely use it for recording purposes. Instead I use my Vantage guitar which is in the price range of an average Yamaha.
I bought the Vantage in Annecy, France over 20 years ago (1987?). It cost 1470 French Francs. I paid it up week by week to Veran Music, the local instrument shop, from busking money that I earned playing a little guitar I'd bought in Nurnberg, Germany.
One day when I had almost paid the whole thing off, Patrick the harmonica player stopped by as I was busking the subway. He informed me that the man in the music shop wanted to see me toute suite. Very important. It could not wait. Some problem with the guitar and the money. Patrick offered to hold my pitch for me if I wanted to go and sort it out. My first thought was that this was an elaborate hoax to get me to surrender my pitch. But Patrick seemed sincere.

On arrival at Veran Music, the first thing I saw was a guitar case on the floor. The manager said, "Viola, votre guitare". I told him that it wasn't mine yet. I still had two hundred francs to pay. He shook his head and explained that a little man had come in about a half hour earlier and had paid it all up. I was confused. "A little man with a harmonica, I asked slowly?
"oui".
I shook my head in disbelief. Patrick. It must have been him. He had come in and paid it off. He had known how hard I'd saved for that guitar. It was a tremendous act of generosity yet in some ways I resented his involvement. Somehow I now felt like I owed him a dept. I hate dept and I avoid it at all costs. It dents my freedom.

Patrick had had his share of problems since I'd first met him. He'd appeared one day and started jamming with me as I was busking. He didn't ask for permission or anything, he just slumped down at my feet and started playing away. His musical style was a bit crazy. The best I can describe it would be to say he looked like he was vigorously brushing his molar teeth with a harmonica. It seemed to get sucked right into the cheek of his mouth. He alternated it from left to right whilst ferociously blowing and sucking and frothing in a manner that made it squeamishly difficult to watch. Yet the sounds he made were actually quite musical. Sadly though, I wasn't hiring any band members. In the subway busking business, two was a crowd. At first I ignored him and let him play. He was harmless enough but he returned again and again. Not that he was a bad player but he was always bursting into tears for no apparent reason. I felt sorry for him but I had problems of my own. Whenever I asked him to give me a little space, he'd become very gruff and angry and play louder.

My French vocabulary wasn't the best, so it took me a while to unravel his tale. There was a wife. A child. A separation. Alcohol. He missed his daughter. He was living in a tent. His unemployment money was dwindling. His tale grew more tragic each day. I think what he grieved most was the law enforced separation from his daughter. That was what really ripped him apart. What could I do? I was a starving homeless street musician who had nothing to offer but some half hearted solace. Each day he would sit on the stone subway floor and play his harmonica. He actually was quite good but he always ended in inevitable sobbing. My earnings would slowly fizzle out as passersby accelerated past us, trying not to stare. I'd stand uselessly beside him and roll a cigarette, too polite to abandon him but with nothing to offer. Occasionally I'd play him a "P'tite Blues" and he'd blow along mournfully but content. Sometimes though I'd give up and I'd invite him for a coffee. We'd get away from the gloomy station and head to the Bar des Arts. He would be like a puppy who was going for a walk. We'd sit on the terrace and he'd fight back his tears while blurting out his dreams of better days. All he wanted was to be reunited with his daughter. I was never exactly sure what had transpired to ruin his marriage but those coffee terrace moments seemed to help him put his thoughts in order.

One day after months of this odd toiling relationship, he came by the tunnel and was so happy he almost cried again. Some sort of reconciliation had been negotiated. He was to see his daughter once a week but he had to stop drinking and prove it too. I never saw him after that for a month till one morning he appeared down the subway, grinning from ear to ear. Beside him, holding his hand was a little girl maybe 5 years old. "My daughter" he announced beaming with so much pride I almost needed sunglasses I thought he would explode with happiness. She smiled up at Patrick. He hunkered down beside her and said, "This is James. Il est mon ami".
Then for once I thought that it was me who was going to start blubbering.

As far as the dept that I feared I owed was concerned, it was wiped out. Patrick had clutched something that I had failed to see. When he payed the last few francs of my guitar for me, he had only handed me an attainable goal slightly earlier than anticipated. But to him that gesture was nothing in comparison to what he considered I had helped him regain. His daughter and his sanity. Both of which until recently had been so out of his reach.
I hadn't really done anything. I'd just been there. I wasn't a marriage guidance consultant. I wasn't a very comfy shoulder to weep on.
Perhaps he'd been inspired by my stubborn determination to get that guitar. I'd had a goal. I'd set my sights. Then franc by franc I whittled it down till I could almost grasp it. Patrick may have thought, "If James could do it, anybody could do it." But he didn't want a mere guitar, he wanted his life.
In the end, I believe it hadn't much to do with me. He achieved his purpose all on his own. The times he spent with me gave him a destination and also a friend outside his usual sphere. His harmonica provided a creative outlet as opposed to a destructive corner. Was it simply, time, distance and perspective that were the catalyst, hope and cure? Or maybe he just looked at me and thought, "Jeez, at least I'm not as desperate as that clown".


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From the music store I'd returned to the subway with the new guitar. Patrick was sitting cross-legged on the ground blowing his harmonica. I saw him glance sideways at me and pretend he hadn't seen me coming. When I stopped beside him, I didn't know what to say. All I could muster was, "Patrick… mais….pour qua…c'est trop. But Patrick looked up at me with the first true grin I had ever seen on his face. "James, he said, like he was talking to a child, "Tu est toujour gentile…sympathique. Ca suffis".

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So from the beginning, me and my guitar already had history. Almost anything musical that I possess has some tale to tell. But even the best of friends were strangers once.

I doubt I would drown my songs in technology even if I could afford to. I believe I would continue to search out unusual instruments and amps but I wouldn't mind a better studio. I wouldn't even crave computer software, just more tracks and some more space to walk around in. In fact if I could record outdoors, I probably would.
There is undeniable organic honesty in recording with the tools at hand. The same goes with my sketches. If I had only a blunt pencil or some charred wood from a campfire then that was what I used. The artwork becomes a blended balance of medium and subject regardless of quality. As we all appreciate, art is never wrong.

The bass guitar I used on the first few CDs was a nasty untunable affair. It became known as the Dead Man's Bass. I'd picked it up in Madison from Hil's sister (Xanda) who'd had it left over from a friendship with a musician who had apparently been murdered. Details were vague. The incident happened a long time ago. I think I met him once briefly. I believe he had unearthed the bass in a garbage dump probably near New Haven CT. It had been broken in two. He took it home and glued it back together.
When me and Hil moved out West, we brought it along till I passed it on to Xanda's son who then presumably took it with him to Montana or returned it to Madison.
So I guess it traveled coast to coast.

I also have a mandolin that I bought from a music store in Regensburg called Picobello's. I'd seen it in the window as I was passing. I'd just been recording a song around that time and I quite literally bought the mandolin just for that one specific tune.
I entered the shop and attempted to twang a melody out of it. After an hour I was still trying to tune it. I must have driven everybody crazy. The machine heads needed pliers to turn them. By the time I gave up, I was sweating. I still hadn't tuned it. I stood up, turned to the shopkeeper and said, "I'll take it".

Second hand instruments. Beaten up and broken. Lost and found. They all have tales. They are unique. They have their own voices. I derive great pleasure in recording these sounds. Recording my Takamine conveyor belt guitar isn't the same fun. It is a great gigging guitar. It has a great sound. But not a unique sound. There are countless Takamines out there and they all want to sound the same. If they don't have the expected tone, then they are considered inferior. I might be interested in recording such a guitar.

In short. Professional instruments for gigs. Personalities for recording.

Stars and Holidays.

I was doing a quiz about planets and stuff with my 4 year old son. I found myself amazed by his knowledge of the universe. I certainly didn't know this stuff when I was his age. In fact I'm only learning it now. I asked him which planet was closest to the sun. "Mercury" says he.
Which planet is known as the red planet?
"Mars"
Who was the first guy on the moon? "Neil Armstrong".
Which planet is the hairiest? "Eh, Earth?"
Which planet is nearest to the milk section in the supermarket (…And it's not the Milky Way)? "Eh Earth?"

Not bad for a 4 year old.

It got me thinking though about all the stars out there and their scientific catalogue names like bxii4 or y3L9. Kind of boring names for kind of boring places. I guess all the exciting cultural events happen on Earth. Like Christmas or Midsummer's day and Mardi Gras.
There are no holidays on these outposts. You'd imagine that the moon at least would have Armstrong Day: the equivalent of Columbus Day. Mars would have Rover day: A kind of Lewis and Clarke thing. Of course these are all American copies. We need some more international perspective. Perhaps on Mars we should have a Midsummer's Day celebration. Isn't the Martian year almost the same as an Earth year?
These would all make fine holidays. I think that sometime in a Martian January might be a fine date for a James Day. And why not. If I don't claim it then someone else will claim it for themselves. It's a land grab already. So I hereby officially proclaim January 19th (Mars time) to be James Day. While I'm at it, I'll proclaim August (Mars time) to be Mother's Month. October 30th can be Hil Day; May 15 is Ronan's day. March 10th will be Huck's day. Let's see if that sticks. Is there intergalactic plagiarism out there?

Are there trespassing laws yet? Is space still ruled only by the Laws of physics?
Who's in charge? It's odd how we assume that scientists and governments are in command. But in actual fact they are not. Who ever is up there is in charge. It's that simple at the moment. If two people are up there and one is armed then that person is in charge.
I guess those who keep an eye on space the most have their own appointed hierarchy. But until they actually get out there, they are really just playing at Spacemen.
That will be fine until something useful is discovered. At that point it will all come down to who is better armed.

Remember the old panicky sci-fi cry, "The Martians are coming, the Martians are coming"? Isn't it strange that it's turned out that it's us who are actually invading Mars? "The idiots are coming, the idiots are coming."

To the non skier, the Winter Olympics can come across as a rather repetitive and boring spectacle. Why?
Because they are faceless. Almost every competitor is clothed identically in layers of thermal scuba diving gear and gloves and goggles. They could as easily be the Teletubbies or terrorists. The only thing that separates one identity from another is a number and perhaps a small national emblem emblazoned on a shoulder. When one skier comes hurtling down hill, he could be anyone. In fact he could be the same guy coming down again and again. From a distance and without an announcer, who would know? No one sticks out: and if they do, then it's by a tiny particle of barely measurable time.
Before the invention of the stopwatch that could split a second into hundredths, every race must have been a tie. You have to ask, do we really want to know who is a molecular period of time faster than another guy? And if we do, is it worth building entire Olympic cities and stadiums just to find out? Couldn't they just hold the Olympics in a lab instead of carving up a mountain and turning it into a short lived boom town resort? Let the contestants build their own igloos from the snow or have prefabricated re-usable igloos shipped in and back out? If athletes were serious about their sport, they'd be willing to suffer a little ice for that gold medal. Why not make a competition of it.

I, of course must list myself among life's non skiers. At most I have dabbled but not inhaled. Long ago when I was about 12 years old, I went ski-ing with the Boy Scouts. We were called The 1st (and only) Neilston Troop. We weren't much of an outfit. We didn't do many scouty things. Once a year we went to the Annual Competition Camp where we traditionally were last of the 6 district troops. We knew no knots beyond tying our shoelaces. Mostly we met every Friday at the Scout Hall and we played football. The actual scouting code was an unknown distant concept.
So when we had the chance to go ski-ing up in Glen Coe, it came as a bit of a surprise. It sounded a bit too scouty. None of us had any experience in such things beyond sledging down the back park. This ski business was all new. It didn't even involve a football.

We were loaned some old skis of various lengths by a Barrhead scout troop. They also provided us with ski boots and poles. They invited us to their hall for a kitting out session. As we tried to match skis, boots and poles from what was literally a huge pile of odd abandoned ski relics, we resembled an outtake from a Laurel and Hardy movie: one of those scenes when the skinny guy is carrying a plank of wood on his shoulder and keeps accidentally whacking the big guy on the nose with it.

Finally though we were out on the snowy slopes of Glen Coe.
I remember bending down and putting on my skis and feeling the wind suddenly getting up. When I looked up from my boots, I realized I was moving and gaining involuntary momentum. As I sped for the bottom of the hill, I began to do the inflatable rubberman semaphore wave. Voices behind me were yelling," Fall over. Fall over." So I leapt to the side and dived into the snow.
Before getting to my feet I had to loosen my skis. The moment I undid the first one, it skimmed like an arrow for the base of the hill. I was still clamped to the other one so I was unable to pursue it.
Thus began my short ski career. On retrieving my ski, I also noticed for the first time that one was a about foot shorter than the other.

The day continued as a comedy of errors. It was certainly a learning experience. Davie Kelly learned that ski-ing off cliffs was a bad idea. I learned that Gloves and sandwiches freeze solid within minutes of leaving your body heat. I also learned that I had prehensile muscles on my rear end that can grip a ski lift chair.
My encounter with the ski lift chair had come at the end of the long day when I was feeling worn down by the elements. The cold and wind had clouded my brain. We were standing half asleep beside the ski lifts, preparing to descend the mountain. I had been wearing my back pack when the ski lift ladled me up and over the edge. When I tried to sit back, I discovered that the pack prevented me from getting all the way on to the chair. There was nothing I could do about it now that I was airborne and flying 3rd class with no plane and nothing to hold on to. My bare frozen hands were held up uselessly at face height because my inner elbows cradled several pairs of skis that had been dumped on me. I'd been too numb to argue. How I managed to stay on that lift defies me to this day. The chair seat comprised of 2 cross planks to sit on. My pack took up one and a half of these. This left me with mere inches to grip on to with nothing but my prehensile buttocks. There were brief moments when the chair almost touched the ground. I'd contemplate sliding off but then suddenly I'd be riding 40 feet up in the air. I'd grip the chair with my imagination more than anything. Despite turbulence and crosswinds and mounting panic, I miraculously reached the bottom just as all my cargo of skis tumbled from my arms.
I guess it's not easy to become a black belt skier if you don't live close to some semi permanent snow. If folks could rain ski, then I'd be good at it. You don't hear about many great sea surfers who live in Central Saharan Africa.

Anyway here are a few events that I haven't noticed getting much attention in the Winter Olympics to date.

The snow ball fight event. This could be fought out in the old fashioned way or it could be fought on a paintball course using dyed snowballs that fire from paintball guns.

Best snowman or sculpture award.

Uphill ski-ing.

Snowshoe hundred metres.

The Icicle Javelin.

Why not re invent the slalom race? Instead of having those useless bendy poles that skiers just plough through anyway, let's have some solid obstacles that don't bend in the breeze. Stone cairns for example. Let's change the name from Slalom to Downhill Steeplechase or The Avoidawall.

And instead of the ski jump, why not have a canyon leap with adjustable width.
Or keep it simple: if you make it across then you're the winner.

Avalanche surfing.

But the one event that has forever been conspicuously missing from the Winter Olympics is the sled dog racing. An Iditarod styled race from point A to point B that would last a week. This would be the equivalent of the Marathon. It could also spawn a new Olympic event: The Search and Rescue.
The Iditarod would have to be the culmination of several races over a period of time leading up to the Olympics that had produced a small group of finalists. It would not be feasible to have a giant group of racers all tearing around the mountains. Especially if in the end they are all separated by a mere hundredth of a second. That would be quite a pile up.

But still. What about those faceless competitors. That is a problem. Until the participants' faces can be seen, there will always be a separation of fan and athlete. Frostbitten skiers wouldn't help sell the games to the public. Maybe they are already frostbitten or just plain ugly. They may already be subtly masking hideous injuries.
I guess all those layers are necessary in order to be streamlined and to retain body heat. It's a delicate balance between getting frozen or getting noticed.

My second ski-ing experience was in the French Alps about 10 years after the Glen Coe escapade. I'd been working in a youth hostel near Annecy and as a small perk of the job, we were allowed to use some ski equipment and go up to the summit of the Semnoz for some ski-ing.
Well by now you already know the sad extent of my ski-ing experience.
This time round we were going to do, "Ski du Piste", which I as a Scotsman took to mean, first we drink a lot of alcohol then we go ski-ing. Not quite. Ski Du Piste was cross country ski-ing. Not too slopey.
The Hostel supplied us with skis, boots and poles but couldn't supply the proper alpine sport clothes.
So up the mountain we all went. Everyone had their own personal ski pants, goggles, balaclavas and parkas… except me of course.
Our expedition was made up of a chef, a receptionist, an electrician, a handy man and the assistant warden but once they got into their ski outfits they became anonymous skiers just like in the Winter Olympics. But me, I was a busker. I had but the clothes on my back. I had no change of disguise. There I stood in the snow, Denim skintight patchy trousers, several woolly pullovers, a denim jacket and a bogard hat. Yip. Kind of hard not to stand out on the slopes, especially when my borrowed big giant ski boots, skis and poles are added to the picture. I was getting some odd stares. "Surely he's not going ski-ing like that?" Alas he was.
Off we went round the course. Daniel the handyman gave me a quick lesson on getting into the rhythm of it all then he zoomed off. Soon we were all quite spread out as we wound our way through the forest. After a while I decided to stop and roll a cigarette beside a big rock. Several spandex clad skiers slid effortlessly past. More than one glanced back over their shoulders at this moon booted cowboy apparition.
One way or another, I did accidentally succeed in making a skier stick out from crowd. But I doubt Bogart hats and denims will catch on at the ski jump.

The only solution I can think of to banish chronic Winter Olympic blandness is to hold the Olympic Games in summer: somewhere it's nice and toasty with no snow.

My good friend Carlos returned from a trip to Cuba a few years back and was inspired by the local musicians to build a wash tub. After I played a few notes on it, I was smitten by the bug. I'd never been addicted to an instrument like that. It was love at first note. I went straight home and built my own.

First I bought a big metal wash tub and a length of clothes line. Next I cut a long thin broom handle sized branch from a tree. I knocked a shoe lace sized hole in the bass of the tub with a hammer and large nail then I passed about 6 feet of the clothes line through. I tied a belly button knot in it to keep it tight. The other end of the string, I tied to one end of the branch. Now it looked like a fishing pole with an upside down tub as bait. At the loose end of the stick, I notched a groove like on a screw that would stop the stick slipping from the rim of the tub. Now the instrument was complete. The branch I used had a fork at its upper end which made attaching the line much easier. Without a fork, the string will tend to slip down the pole unless you bore a hole through it. Watch out too for elastic ropes as these will stretch. They may need played and retied a few times before they settle in.

Now to play the wash tub.

Place the tub upside down.
Place one foot on the tub. If the pole is in your right hand, place your left foot on the left side of the tub. (And vice versa)
Hold the pole (about chin height) almost upright and slot the notch onto the rim of the tub at the side away from your foot.
When the pole is completely vertical the string should tighten up. If it doesn't then your string is too long. You will have to experiment a few times to get it just right.
Twang it with a fore finger and a deep resonating sound should occur. I recommend wearing a garden glove to avoid blistered fingers.
By subtly moving the pole backwards and forwards, the pitch can be altered. Don't yank it about like crazy; the notes can be changed by the slightest movement. Hardly an inch or two back and forth is required. To the unwitting bystander it may look like you are doing nothing, yet the notes will be changing.
It should sound very like a one string double bass. Which in effect is what it is.
If the metal handles on your tub are rattling, simply duct tape them down against the tub sides.
Total expenditure was twelve dollars for the tub and three dollars for a giant length of rope.

Any questions? Drop me a line.

Earth Day 2009.

Did you touch the planet today? Not with gloved hands or rubber soled feet, but actually physically consciously bend down and feel its surface? Not carpet pile or concrete slabs, but actual soil or a blade of grass or perhaps a tree? Touch the planet and maybe it'll touch you.
But watch out for crocodiles and poison ivy. Don't touch those.

Happy Earth Day.

Brief Scottish History Lesson.

122 AD: The Picts, the original unwashed hordes, are running around the countryside, showing off their tattoos. The Romans, who do enjoy a nice bath, build a giant wall to keep them out of their neghbourhood.

1270: Birth of William Wallace, a famous Scottish knight.

1314: Robert the Bruce and his comically outnumbered army defeat the English at the Battle of Bannockburn. Good times.

1707: The Union of the Crowns. Dubious peace treaty is drawn up between Scotland and England.

1745: Jacobite Rebellion. Some kind of farcical attempt at an uprising involving a lot of people hiding on moors and jumping around in the dark ambushing one another.

1746: Battle of Culloden. The last battle fought between two armies on UK soil. Bad century for Scotland.

1759: Birth of Robert Burns. Scottish National Poet. What Willie Dixon did for the blues, Robert Burns did for Scottish folk music.

1978: Archie Gemmel scores wonder goal against Holland in the World Cup Finals.

1999: Scottish parliament meets for the first time in about 300 years. There's not much to catch up on.

As America weeps in her beer over the loss of the entire country's life savings, how can the average citizen still have any trust in the system that gives them nothing? Actually to be fair, the system does offer a degree of stability but at the price of enduring an equal measure of stagnation. America's two party political system is the equivelant of a tug o war in a phone box. Neither side is really going anywhere.
But right now that stability is in trouble.

There is a fundamental reason behind the lack of free public health care. The simple fact is that the government does not want it. They patronize the public by discussing it a lot but I think it doesn't take 40 years of debate to decide if it's good or bad. That's just how long I've been hearing it. To the American psyche, a national health care system has an aura of communism to it. Heaven forbid that you get cured by a communist.

As we all know these days, there are those amongst us who are bigger than the government. These corporations, whether crooks or not, couldn't they just fund the damn health care thing then go back to their thinly disguised lifes of crime. Think on it as a felony tax.

The United States of America fights a war on two fronts at the moment. There's one in Iraq and the temporarily forgotten war on drugs. It cannot afford either and it's losing both. Why is America always at war?

I hate to be controversial but I wonder if soft drugs were legalized and the US police force focused its resources on chasing "real " criminals, then the money saved and the profits made by selling and taxing US cultivated Marijuana would have the economy bailed out in no time. The time has come to turn what has been an enormous drainage of wasted energy into a sudden U-turn profit. Judging by the amount of grass seized regularly at the Canadian border, there is unquestionably a market for the stuff. Talk about an economic stimulus? The soft drug trade must be worth millions if not billions of dollars. It is a huge industry. Every week there is a news story of a huge shipment intercepted at the border. Somebody out there is making a huge profit. I hear there's big money selling hockey bags too.

Of course you can already hear the far right conservatives moaning and mongering about Obama. He's the first coloured president, only a month into his presidency and he's legalized grass. What next? Sex education?
Not to worry. Those extreme right wing people are unpleasable anyway. They live to gripe.

Anyway… all I'm saying is that with proper regulation and common sense, America could market this commodity and pay its debts. Of course it'll never happen but it's intriguing to contemplate.

If we can't trust the government to rule the people with honesty, can we trust them to be drug dealers?

If the idea doesn't work out, well at least it was fun trying.

Please don't mistake this writing as just another pro legalise weed rant. Think about it at least, because whether you smoke it or not, Grass may be Wall Street's salvation or it may be just another pipe dream.


While we're on about ideas… I hear that food is becoming more expensive because farmers have taken to growing bio fuel crops instead of edible food. Couldn't bio fuel crops be grown in long straight lines along the verges of highways? This land is often unused anyway. While we're still raving on that subject, couldn't garages and warehouses and tyre shops be located on bridge like structures built over the highways. This would help with sprawl. Put car related stuff where the cars are. It would save gas too. Didn't we talk about that last idea before?

Just thoughts.

In Bellingham there are regular open mic events almost on a daily basis.
I think there's one at the Green Frog on a Sunday. On Mondays there's one in Fairhaven. The Three Trees Cafe has one on a Tuesday. The Buffalo recently switched its open mic from Wednesday to Tuesday (I think).
I was wondering if it might be a good idea for bars to work together to agree on a certain night a month where all the open mics would be all over the Downtown and Fairhaven. Kind of like the monthly Gallery Walk.
An Open Mic Festival.

I imagine it could be a big night. There are plenty of venues. Musicians could sign up all over town and play short sets in half a dozen bars throughout the evening. They'd have to pick up a dance card schedule (in advance) of the venues and time slots then fill in a copy for the bar and one for themselves.

With all these people coming and going, there might even be a good buzz in the Downtown. Why not occasionally combine the open mic evening with the Gallery Walk?
I'm just thinking out loud.
Trying to be helpful.

Happy New Year.

Talking of ideas. What's so bad about a 20mph in town speed limit for New Years Eve to help cut down on drunk driving accidents?

For sober drivers in haste and aiming for the highway, all they'd have to do is be breathilised by the friendly cop waiting at the ramp as they enter and exit.

I bet there's plenty of room for arguments with that idea. Some will say it will encourage people to drink because they're confident that they can drive at 20mph, drunk or sober.
Perhaps it would be too expensive to enforce.

Maybe it's a crap idea but sometimes via some discussion a better idea emerges from a bad start.

I guess we discuss all kinds of things on here.

In the wake of Scotland's teams exiting European football without having won a single game, serious revolutionary solutions must be sought.
Scottish footballers are as human as other nationalities yet they consistently under achieve.
Several elements are at work here:
Lack of funding. Lack of imagination. Fear of change. Lower wages than many other top tier teams. Crappy weather. Too many tiny teams.

Being the neighbour of one the most famous and fantastically rich leagues in the world does not help. Who would play in Scotland when right next door, in England, even average players are being paid obscenely high wages. Scotland is left to fight over players who are past their prime, or too young, or hail from poorer nations and hope to stop in Scotland just long enough to get noticed by an English club.
What to do?

Then there's the weather. Last season, I saw a game almost every week and I swear it was bucketing down every weekend. Remember Motherwell's pitch when they shared it with Gretna Green for a season? Fir Park swiftly resembled a ploughed field.
Has no-one yet invented a giant tarp that could cover a field during deluges in order to protect the precious turf for matchdays?
What about having stadiums with giant umbrella domes that didn't quite enclose the roof but offered enough covering to keep the pitch dry but not too tight as to make the game indoor football. I guess indoor soccer would not be granted entry into the Champions league. Most Scottish teams only watch the Champions League on TV anyway. Of course Scottish football could simply just switch to a summer schedule or take a long winter break. That would be common sense but just too radical for Scotland.
Why not play the League Cup as a short Christmas tournament?

Let's imagine the season starts on August 1st till November 1st. That would allow for approx 12 games plus the European games. Then through November and December play the league cup fixtures. With no league matches to compete, I imagine that attendances might be quite high. When January rolls around, start the Scottish Cup fixtures till mid February then recommence the Premier league. With a 14 or 16 team premier League, a season would consist of either 26 or 30 games. Twelve games before Xmas leaves either 14 or 18 games till the end of the season. Football culture would hardly be disrupted at all.

When I was at school, football was not taught in Physical education class. There was volleyball, basketball, hockey and athletics but no football. I believe that the Scottish Education Board thought that the kids played football all day anyway so it was a waste of time to teach it. Yet every school had a football team that played against other schools.

I often wonder what would happen if Glasgow suddenly had a third major team to challenge Celtic or Rangers. If teams like, Clyde, Clydebank, Morton, St Mirren (Glasgow West) and a few others united as one club and pooled their resources, could Glasgow accommodate a 3rd team? I bet Glasgow could actually handle a 4th team too. Glasgow East? Motherwell, Hamilton and one or two others. This pattern could repeat all over Scotland. Instead of multiple leagues, why not trim it all to two? Why even have two? Maybe just one with various competitions within.

But would any of these changes improve the Scottish game.
Something seems to go wrong between school and becoming professional. The fun gets strained out and only the serious dour faced adult attitude is left.
Take a look at the best leagues in the world. The fun is mixed with professionalism. Players actually seem to be enjoying themselves. What is it we admire most in a player? His skill and trickery and imagination. We love to see a player leave a trail of fallen defenders in his wake as he races through them and scores a spectacular goal.
No such enjoyment in Scotland where shell shocked imported foreign players look as if they have been banished to Scotland for some crime in a past life. Wingers run in straight lines till they run out of steam or pitch markings. Defenders are as subtle as bags of hammers. Midfielders slog it out like kick boxers. Forwards are treated as if they have heads but no feet.
Flair is vacuumed out of the game so that results can be ground out week after week. This ensures survival but success has become a bigger commodity than entertainment. This leads us to the question would football have taken off if it had begun its life as boring as it has now become? I doubt it. And yet we watch it. Why is that? Is it because it's just become a reflex action like scratching an amputated limb.
Are Scottish footballers genetically unenhanced? Surely they have the ability to be as fit and skillful as any other nationality. Yet our national game is a dumpling compared to Spanish, French, or Italian delicacies. We are Hammer throwers running around muddy fields in torrential icy rain. Is this due to the small town mentality in Scotland that fears change even though they know they need it? Afraid to act for fear of what the neighbours would say. "Ooh look at him wi' the ba' noo. Hinks eez a' fancy wi' yon wee yella boots." Are we just a poor wee country with limited facilities and imagination?

Could Scottish clubs offer educational programs at university level? Not just for sport but for any subject. This would encourage potential players to enroll in studies safe in the knowledge they are not wasting their youths entirely on the gamble of becoming a pro footballer.

And if clubs are feeling environmentally friendly, why not turn their stadium roofs into gardens or solar panels? But I digress...but not much.

Great international moments in Scottish Football are few and far between. The late 60s and 70's seem to have been the heyday. Glasgow Celtic reached 2 European finals (won once) and were in the semis a few times. Glasgow Rangers won the Cup winners cup back in the 70s and reached the Eufa cup final in 2008. Celtic reached the Eufa cup final around 2001.
Aberdeen won a European trophy in the 80s and Dundee Utd reached a Euro final too.
Beyond that, there may be other stuff I don't know about.
The National team's motto is "glorious defeat…again".
They were the first team to defeat England after England won the world cup in 66.
They qualified for the 74 world cup and went out undefeated. Then in 78 in Argentina, they had to beat Holland by 3 goals to go through. They won 3-2. Archie Gemmell scored a wonder goal but Scotland were out. That's the best of Scottish football in the last 50 years.

Let's talk about tactics.
Okay that's enough.

First what is the objective of the game?
To score more goals than the other team.

Meaningless mid league fixtures. Surely with no pressure on either side then a good open game of football would be guaranteed. Such a fixture could provide an opportunity for teams to really experiment. Play with 4 strikers for example. Or even five strikers with three midfield and 2 defenders. A thrills and spills match. Let the keeper play as a striker for a day.
There is a philosophy in football that says that winning ugly is acceptable if you win the league. I can understand that reasoning but I would not pay extortionate prices to stand on a freezing terrace every Saturday to witness it. No, if teams want to win ugly, then only diehards and fanatics and idiots are going to show up to be bored out of their skulls by 22 guys aimlessly kicking a ball around.
Football: Why did people start to play it? Why did crowds assemble to watch it? Why has the game endured? Not because it was boring. Because it was exciting, thrilling, tense, and a great emotional outlet for the working classes. Any town or village soon had a team. Pride. Football could easily replace war. Who wants a war in a world cup year?


Celtic's and Rangers' reserve teams playing in the 2nd division. Would this boost attendances? Would they monopolize the 2nd division?

Finally we must ask, why bother saving Scottish football at all? Who really needs it?

Scotland is a beautiful country. If I were offered a healthy wage, I think I could happily play for a team such as Inverness. Why? Simply for the pleasure of living in a decent looking town, in the highlands of Scotland, near the sea in one of the most scenic parts of Europe. Just throw in some summer football and I think you could have a whole team of Germans suddenly knocking on your stadium door and demanding jobs.
Most successful clubs tend to come from very large cities. These are not always the most endearing of places. Personally if Manchester Utd were paying the same wages as Inverness, I'd be far happier in Inverness.

With the lack of competition for Celtic and rangers in the scottish league would it be worth it for the SFA to introduce a team of their own in order to push the level of competition higher. This could be one or two sponsored teams that perhaps can't win the league but would be like pace setters for Tour du France riders. Pushing the limits and driving the Old Firm teams to higher standards. Decent wages would attract decent players to be a part of these new teams whose only motive should be to make it tougher at the top.
No doubt there's a negative side to this proposal like favouritism, cheating, etc. Still as I mentioned, bold moves are needed to save scottish football.

The Great Auk

Me and Huck the dog spent a lot of time in the Hundred Acre Woods. They are a little known but very special part of Bellingham that have been a great source of enjoyment and relaxation to us over the years.
Now rumour has it that the bank is planning to knock down the woods to make way for a housing estate. This is sad and shocking news. To me it just seems too brutal and malitious a deed to contemplate.
Over the years I've doodled a lot of sketches in the woods. They are not very good but I put them on here just to show for posterity that the Hundred Acre Woods really did once exist.
I guess there are a lot of forgotten Hundred Acre Woods underneath Bellingham.

(Click on "Sketch Pad" and scroll down.)

September/October 2008.

As we headed south from Bellingham on the Interstate 5, the weather grew steadily milder. At first I thought only that the grey sky had cleared and we were simply having a nice day, but by the time we were in Southern Oregon, it was unquestionably hot. Seriously hot. This wasn't just a break in the North West clouds; this was a change of climate.
Of all the states I've visited, California is the first I've encountered that feels like a foreign country. There is something very continental about California. It seems part Spanish, part French and part American. Sierras, Riviera and MacDonalds.
I think I like California. Maybe it was the palm trees, or the sunshine, the impressionist painting light, the wine yards, the architecture, the pace, the faces, the fauna or the flora. Maybe it was just a breath of a different wind.

I feel that California's sense of Americanism has been diluted by the sheer distances and history that stretch from the capital city DC to the Californian state line. I doubt they are even aware of it. It's one of those things only an outsider would notice. It could be that the lack of dour Nordic influence on Californian culture, combined with the close proximity to Mexico, has given the state a unique perspective on life in the USA. Californians seem more Mediterranean and less Germanic. They lean more towards siesta, and art than "Arbeite macht frei". That's not to say that Californians don't work. I'm sure they do. I'm sure they have their problems too, but if average Californians worry, I bet they're not worried about the weather.

…………….

The Napa Valley wine industry seems to have some kind of a feudal system going on. The poor keep the rich vintners content and the rich keep the poor employed. Very symbiotic if not exactly legal.
The valley appears sleepy below the early October sun. Wine Chateaus are dotted around the hills and roadsides. Row after row of vines, mile after mile of potential hangovers. Some fields seem to have been harvested by invisible hands but on many yellowing rows there still hang great bulging udders of purple grapes. The field workers are nowhere to be seen. The valley is hazy and silent. Perhaps the pickers are not yet ripe.

……………..

As we leave the Napa Valley and head south west, eucalyptus trees are everywhere. They lend a sub tropical, savannah like landscape to this region of California. Apparently the Eucalyptus were introduced from Australia but turned out to be useless as building material. They proceeded to grow rampant across the Californian hillsides where though they're fine to look at, they are considered a fire hazard because of their oily bark.
I guess that what I mistook for savannah, giraffe country was really Australian bush kangaroo country.
………………


It's a strange thing when you go places and see iconic things with your own eyes. Preconceptions instantly evaporate. When reality and imagination clash, myths are often remolded. I remember the Mid West was nothing like I pictured it. Now, looking back, I'd say I preferred the winter over summer. My lasting impressions of Madison Wisconsin were not what I'd have imagined they would be. They consist of square grid country roads, frozen lakes, Quann Dog Park, mosquitoes, Old Milwaukee beer, and an abandoned railway line. I have a fond recollection of the hills to the west of Madison where my friend John Henry Cornellson had a patch of forest.
I'd always pictured that the Great Lakes would be ringed by spectacular peaks. I thought the far shores would have been visible. But the Great Lakes were vast as oceans. There were no mountains I could see and the far shores were over the horizon. The president's monument on Mount Rushmore in the Black Hills of South Dakota was very disappointing. It was tiny in comparison to my vision of it. I remember thinking, "Is that it? It looks like a postage stamp". I'm glad I didn't pay the entry fee. But I must say though that New York City was exactly as dizzying as I'd imagined it.

…………………

So we arrived in San Francisco from the North. All of a sudden there we were, merging with the traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge. It was spectacular enough but it wasn't golden at all. It was red. A rusty red. That revelation hadn't been on my radar. Nor did I expect the Bay Area to be a hodgepodge of a whole bunch of towns. I hadn't expected the bay to be so verdant and spacious either. There seemed to be walking trails everywhere.

Memories are so often made up of unexpected moments. A quiet afternoon sketching under a tree in the Napa valley or an inflatable space shuttle by a highway. A tram ride through San Francisco. Sea lions basking and barking on the pier. A wild mustang horse standing uninvited on your car and staring at you through the windshield.
Travel destinations are vague expectations and impressions. We can stare at the moon all our lives or ponder maps and hear stories of distant places but each narrator's perspective tells only a part of the tale. Perhaps our sense of touch is enhanced by novelty.

……………………..

And there was some music too, of a sort.
A friend from away back was getting married under a tree. So we had driven to the Napa Valley to be there under that tree.
It may have been an oak tree, but I can't be sure. It didn't look like one, but I overheard a conversation where it was referred to as, "The oak tree".
From atop a hill of grapevines it overlooked the Napa Valley. Under this tree, I met a cellist (Viola player?). Five minutes before the wedding began, we ran through some traditional folk tunes together. Obviously as we were total strangers to one another, we'd never played together before. As the ceremony ended, we played our new learned tunes as background music. Then we shook hands and introduced ourselves. I am forever amazed by the power of music to unite strangers. The chances are that we will never meet again. But there ye go. Two strangers born, years and miles apart, meet upon a hill under a tree and play some music then continue on their own paths through life.

………………………………

Heading back north, we followed the coast for some of the way. We visited the giant Redwoods. I guess they must be a few inches taller since last we met. I guess that makes me even less significant to them. But they are an inspiration to anyone who has the privilege to walk amongst them. The sheer mass of history that they have paid no heed to is almost overwhelming to ponder. They are as neutral as Switzerland. They voice no opinions and take no sides. They ask only for peace. There is surely some wisdom in that.

……………………

I guess I should mention that there's a new CD out. It's called Driftwood and is available on line through cdbaby. Tell your friends.

My newest CD is waiting for a few last tracks to be mixed down. There was a delay over a piece of software but that hitch is almost ironed out. Then again, I've been saying that for months now.

The Muddy Boots CD is progressing nicely. Tree did his drums a few months back. Donald done his bass lines, mostly all in one setting. Last week, I done half my vocals.
Last night, out in the cabin, we were recording till after 2AM. During that six hour session, I done the rest of the vocals and most of my guitar parts.
Charlie has been patiently manning the studio as we record our tracks but he's also working on his lead parts too. Soon it will be time for icing the cake.
Maybe we'll throw in some mandolin and other bits and pieces. We'll have to have a think about it for a while.
So far, I'd say it's quite a solid body of work. It's taken a few unexpected twists and now it's beginning to form a shape of its own. I guess that's the fun of recording with other musicians: you never know what they're going to add to the mix.

The world moves on.
The U.S. stagnates. Don't think the rest of the world commits suicide just because America does. America is being left behind. She only needs to choose what era she wants to stay in. The Salem witch hunting years?
The McCarthy era? The Bush Era?
I guess listening to endless political speaches filled with shallow promises and vague expansive soundbytes has finally driven me nuts.
Perhaps though, I am more disappointed by the people who listen blindly and find hope in their polititions blatant contradictions and deceipt.
Pandering must surely be a waste of energy. Whatever you gain from one bunch of gullibles you lose to another. Telling the truth almost sounds like a good idea.
Politics in the U.S. is really just a back scratching excercise between two parties who want power. They are willing to share it between themselves if they agree to keep all third parties at bay.

Most people never see a politition in their lifetimes. You have more chance of seeing a grizzly in the North Cascades. Yet we see the polititions on TV and in newspapers and magazines every day. They project personalities no different than any average television character.
On these pages, I could be anyone I want you to believe me to be. James Higgins: African bush pilot and veteran of the Falklands War. Shot down, captured and tortured by Argentinian Amazons who forced me to watch mexican soap operas for 5 years till I was an addict. Then I escaped into the jungle where I met a record producer down at the crossroads. He taught me the ways of the jungle and how to play Smoke on the Water on one string.

As a kid I believed America was great. Maybe it was. But as I grew older I realised how much self agrandizing propoganda spouts from the U.S. itself.
Now I see that the only people who refer to America as great, are American polititions and those who watch too much television. The very people who keep telling us that America is great, are the very people who are bringing it down. Polititions.

Though I say America is not great, it's also not bad. It has its problems like any country but it seems unable to take a step back long enough to repair them. Instead it ploughs ahead as if all is well.
Isolationism is a big problem for the U.S. It's easy to be the best dog in your own back yard. And if you stay in your back yard. It's easy to believe too. But go abroad and look at other cultures and you may be surprised to discover that the world is different outside your pop up picture book. The rest of the world is out there too. It's as alive as America. It's bursting with characters, landscapes, religions, and languages. It's not perfect either but I'd guess it has a stronger sense of realism than the States.

Much of this casual indifference to the world is created by the sense of security that the U.S. government coddles the public with. It's an odd form of propoganda. It's wholesome and nourishing. It's warm and fuzzy, unlike cold war iron curtain propoganda that can cause a person to break out in a nasty Bread Queue.
When election time comes around, the public are given small non lethal dozes of reality on the home front. Up come the usual never changing issues. Home security, education, health etc.
Up pop the usual lies and the slogans. "We have to work together" and "Freedom", and "change" and "My opponent is a bastard". Then there's a quick vote, a recount and it's back to business as usual.

Referring to polititions, Someone once said, "We don't need them but they need us."
Strangely enough, the only folks who keep bringing up subjects like abortion rights and gay marriage are polititions. Are these really political issues? They tend to do this around election time to help divide the people into separate factions. It's always good to have the populace divided over issues as this makes them less likely to all riot at once. Thus making them much easier to control. The people causing wars are generally polititions. Those who tax us blind are polititions. The people who won't fix the health care system are polititions, and those who won't face up to repairing this planet we all live on and depend on are polititions. Can you tell I mistrust soap box heroes.
But polititions have found that a lie can always be replaced by another lie. "Yes" and "no" in political language are in fact the same word. they are interchangeable and can be used anywhere and anytime. for example, "No, I won't raise taxes", actually means, "Yes I'll raise taxes".
It seems confusing but the best solution to understanding it, is to not believe a word. It's very simple.

I grew up surrounded by chancers who lied and exaggerated routinely every day. They lied to their teachers, parents, to policemen, judges, and each other. Often it was quite entertaining. Everyone just lying at leisure. Very casual.
Yet it was still frowned upon. Our parents scolded us for telling fibs.
I wonder how did lying become such an acceptable part of politics? I guess that lying for survival and lying for gain are two different categories.

It's not hard to spot liars especially when they can't sustain a lie more than once or twice in the telling.

I've met some bold liars and story tellers in my time. A friend of mine, Donal O'Crumb from Belfast (no better man) used to say before his every sentence, "This is true. This is true". Or "Hugh will back me up on this. Won't ye Hugh?" Or, "I swear to God this is true." Then almost defiantly as the drink kicked in, "Would I lie to you. Would …I…lie.. to you?" Back me up on this Hugh. Not a word of a lie".
But his best moment by far was his, "James, I love my mother. And she's not dead. Heaven forbid. If I am lying to you now, may she be struck down.
That's how much I'm not lying to you now".

One afternoon we went for a walk round Regensburg town with a bagful of German beer. We ended up in a little park by the river and started drinking.

He starts telling me about his cat.
"Have ye met wee Johnny my cat?
"No. I haven't"
"Ah wee Johnny. He's a wee darling so he is. I love wee Johnny. He's all trained and everything. And I didn't even hit him. Well actually, there was this one time when he tried to get out the window. See we live on the second floor and wee Johnny's an indoor cat. Can't go out. I tapped him on the nose like, as ye do, and said No Johnny. Bad Johnny. But that was it. I'd never hit him proper like".

Two beers later.
"So I comes home one night and comes in the door and there he is on the kitchen counter I'd had a few jars and I swear he was pissed off at me 'cause I'd forgot to feed him. He looks at me and he knows what's coming. He knows he shouldn't be up there. So I swipes him off and I threw a kitchen knife at him, as ye do, but he ran away under the bed. The wee bastard".

Two beers later.
"So I come in the door late one night, as ye do, and the wee F****r is on the kitchen counter again. I swear. And this is true. The wee bastard looks up at me and starts pissing on the dishes in the sink.
Right ya wee f****r I says and I throws a plate at his head but he jumped off the counter and tried to get away. I booted him right up his arse and he went flying across the room and hit the bedroom door. Then I grabbed him in a strangle hold and a punched his head in and threw him against the window, as ye do. He was all dizzy and panicking then he just lay there. But it was his fault. He was messing with me James. You'd have done the same. See I love animals. Just ask my mother. She'll tell ye. It's true. My mother is not dead. Heaven forbid. I love my mother, as ye do, ye know yersel'. If I'm lying to you now then may she fall over dead. That's how much I'm not lying.
Ah Wee Johnny. I love wee Johnny. And that's true. Would I lie to you? Seriously James. Would....I ...lie...to you?"
The bag of beers was empty. We stood up from the bench. "So will we go to the Harp go for a pint?"

But U.S. polititions aren't even good liars. They are embarrassing in fact. You have to respect a good liar. It is an art. But these guys can't lie any better than they can tell a joke.
I guess I'm generalising. There must be an honest politition out there somewhere. Or is that like looking for a vegetarian cannibal. (Only eats vegetarians).

Right now in America, the election is coming up. The Republican Party are lying like crazy. They seem to lie more and more, as election day draws nearer. Their lies are harmful calculated lies that gather momentum till it's a lying frenzy. Speak no truth. Answer no question directly. Deny everything and condone all mistakes. Mistakes? what mistakes? "Vote for change", is their latest motto. What do republican corporations want to change? They're living the dream. Certainly they may make alterations but you can be sure they won't be positive for the common man.
Meanwhile, I'm sure the democrats are not saints either. They do their share of truth twisting but the republicans are way out there. Lying about anything that moves. History has shown that political lies carry no long term consequences for polititions. Armed with this knowledge, polititions let loose with more flying fibs than gratuitous bullets in an action movie.

What is it about the president job that people can lie and cheat their way into power and get away with it. Imagine lying to get a brain surgeon job when you'd never held a scalpel in your life. Suddenly you find yourself in the operating room with a patient on the table. Do you just continue as if you know what you're doing? Or do you end your lie right there and admit your incompetence. Surgeons study for years but why isn't there a President School? The most powerful job in the world is literally for sale to the best liar backed by the richest silent partner.
I don't enjoy lies as political tactics. Playground name callers shouldn't be running for president. If they're already lying to us pre-election, what will they be up to after it?
Perhaps they are afraid to face the truth.

If wannabee presidents have to lie in their campaigns, then I guess the truth can't be good enough.

I saw a recent article that claimed that traffic at roundabouts caused 42% less carbon emissions than traffic waiting at traffic lights.

Imagine a simple white line was painted across the lanes on busy intersections, perhaps 10 car lengths back from the traffic lights. Imagine that any car after that line was obliged to shut off its engine until the light was green. Could this help reduce carbon emissions at least within city limits?
A simple idea. A bit of white paint.

Well we all went out to Charlie's place over on Gooseberry Point and laid down some basic tracks for a Muddy Boots CD. It could be a while before it's finished but the bones are now in place.

My Wash Tub CD is just about ready to go. I'm just waiting for one more song to materialize to complete it. It is so close to being finished. I'm looking for that little piece of magic that can turn a decent CD into a great CD. (Aren't we all?)
There are actually too many songs. I'm whittling them down. Pruning. Yet still one song short. It'll come. Every Orchid has it's Moth.