Here's an old article I wrote that I felt needed to see the light of day again. Every now and again I wonder what happened to the music scene I grew up with, and this is what happened when I went to investigate. Enjoy!

Close your eyes for a moment...

If you’ve done that (aside from not actually being able to read this), what a lot of you will hopefully be more aware of is sound. Whether it be the light sprinkle of conversation as you drink your latte in the cafe, the toneless tread-milling of motor-engines as you sit, motionless, in your car, or just the timeless ticking of your household clock, sound is everywhere. And whilst some sounds can sound very disagreeable or even dissonant to us, others are like summer sunshine on our skin – or the ear-equivalent, at least!

Okay, now I’ll close mine... What can I hear? Well, as it happens, I can hear music: a track recorded at a live gig by my favourite band. I’ve got the studio recording of this song too, but for some reason, the live one is so much better. I don’t know if it’s because of the atmosphere, the crowd singing along, or just because it was a damn good performance, but there is something about live music that the studio just fails to capture on that 12cm circle. For me, live music is the summer sunshine, and I know I am far from unaccompanied in my veneration of this vocation. From the vast venues with the big-hit bands, down to the local lads-and-ladies who belt out a tune in my home town, I can’t get enough of live music, and, having been in a band situation for drawing on a decade now (and having played music for almost two), the whole live music scene is not only something I enjoy, but something I deeply care about too. As a child, I would play my violin at music concerts, and sing in all of the local theatre performances, because, even then, the buzz of live music was dazzlingly apparent to me. As I grew, so too did my musical preference, and, in 2001, I found myself in my first rock band playing my first real gig in a local small-time bar. Granted, it wasn’t Glastonbury, but it certainly shared the same shade of magic I’d witnessed at the gigs I’d been to – albeit in a smaller dose. From that moment on, I was a slave to the stave, and living for my love of ‘Live’. And, back then, I was far from alone in my loving. But lately, I’ve noticed the crowds at the local bars and clubs are diminishing, and it’s disconcerting to say the very least...

What becomes most puzzling about this predicament is the fact that we live in a time when music is so readily available to us no matter who or where we may be and, thus, should have gained popularity and mass-appeal rather than lost it. And I do believe this to be the case: from mp3 players to iPods, mobile phones to in-car stereos, internet-based music to the good, old-fashioned CD, music is forever ‘in the moment’. And now, with the ability to download tracks from virtually any annexe or area on the face of the earth, we need never be more than a small connection charge away from our favourite artist or group. No matter what your taste, or how much music your mind can manage, this readily available catalogue of tunes bodes well for the reputation and vogue of music as a whole...

So why this decline in the number of audience members at local live gigs?

I decided that, to help me understand this anomaly, I’d talk to a few different people who had their eyes, ears and hearts in various local-music venues to see whether or not it was just me who had noticed this saddening state of affairs, and whether this subsiding I’d noticed was, in fact, actually occurring outside of the gigs I had attended. After all, I can’t be at more than one gig at any one time! In my town, the number of live venues has slowly decreased over the years, forcing many of the gig convenors to hang up their air guitars for good. But, luckily for me, two familiar faces refuse to stop rocking and moshing their way through the local talent, and were more than happy to talk – make that ‘shout’ – to me over the music and give me their thoughts.

First up, there’s ‘A.K’, who is aged – and I jest you not – 47.

Yes, read it again. AK47. My first contact in the local rock rodeo has the name of a rifle as her alias. And, yes, I did indeed say ‘her’.

“I know exactly what you mean, kidd’a, and I’ll tell you what’s to blame…”

Having known A.K for the whole ten years that I’ve been involved in the band scene, I knew that, of the people still available to talk to about this topic, she’d certainly have an opinion, and one I could rely on to be of some worth.

“F***in’ society, kidd’a. F***in’ society…”

Ah…

Although I originally disregarded her initial response, she did continue to make quite an interesting statement, which allowed me to forgive the first.

“Rock N’ Roll was never about being controlled or restricted. Before, you could come to a gig, get p***ed or stoned…whatever…go f***in’ crazy” she waved her arms a bit here “and have a god damn good time. But we let the government f*** us over; bring in the smoking ban, crank up health and safety, turn us down…before it was like a f***in’ orgy, but we got lazy and now it’s like anywhere else, and you can’t just let go, can you?”

I looked around as she was saying this, and I could see the effect of exactly what she was saying. Congregating outside were a huge group of smokers, bottle in hand, having a good time – but freezing half to death. At the door, a seven-storey security guard stood in watch, waiting to dive in should things get a little too ‘rowdy’. Admittedly, the music didn’t seem any quieter than it ever had, but I understood her meaning: the whole essence of what made Rock music ‘Rock music’ had slowly been drained out of the scene, and the more I considered that idea, the more apparent it became.

A few summers back, I went with a friend to a gig called Projekt Revolution at the Milton Keynes National Bowl. An amalgamation of rock and rap bands and artists, the annual ‘Projekt’ aims to bridge the gap between these two often disparate genres by ‘mashing them up’ – mixing them together. This was the Projekt’s first time in the UK, and in the headlining spot were none other than my favourite band, Linkin Park, and alongside them, hip-hop icon Jay-Z. The day was phenomenal, but, looking back, what A.K said to me really rung true. Crowd-surfing, a commonplace occurrence at rock concerts, could and did lead to people being ejected from the bowl, and anyone being overly boisterous in the open-field areas were warned against it. At a venue that can hold 65,000 though, this really made very little difference to the atmosphere. But when you consider the same rules and regulations being enforced in a local venue that can hold no more than 200, it is obvious that interest was soon to wane.

Following my conversation with A.K, she decided to get up onto the stage herself, and make a speech to the people who had come to watch. She spoke of how the local gig was being suffocated, and that we – “the next generation of metalheads”, as she put it - shouldn’t let that happen. “After all”, she continued, “where will the up-and-coming kids get their first break? Their chance to kick ass in the name of music?” She told us to drink, to rock out, to invite our friends. She even told us to “f*** the system”, and lit a cigarette on stage before taking a puff to the sound of applause. After that, some of the audience did ‘spark up’ inside again, but it wasn’t long before big-man bouncer came and extinguished their fire, and threw them out for underage drinking…

A few weeks later, my band were playing at a venue a little further afield, though still relatively local. Before our set, I spoke to the guy who organises gigs for the club, Dylan, and asked him how he saw the scenario. Dylan had helped organise a couple of charity events throughout the year in which my band had played, all of which were to help fund the local music scene – donating money to local radio station and the club he hired, to name but two. And this played a big part in what he believed to be the truth of the matter.

“Tonight” he said, gesturing to the fairly empty room, “Tonight is a prime example really. It’s a Saturday night, four great bands on, £3 on the door…and where is everyone?”

I didn’t know the answer, and I was hoping the question was rhetorical. We paused. He stared at me, willing me to answer with the answer I didn’t have. I said they were quite probably somewhere else…

“Exactly.”

…I thought that was fairly obvious?

“Look at it this way. The nights we get the busiest are the ones that have a point. The charity gigs for example, always packed. And that’s because there’s a reason to be here, aside from the music. Most youngsters these days just want to go and grab themselves some action, so they go to a nightclub – they don’t go to listen to the music, not really. The music is by the by. The main focus is the ‘skirt’…”

He cupped his hands about his chest, synthesising breasts, and pulled his best-perverted face. This involved sticking his tongue out, which both amused and disturbed...

“I suppose there’s just less people who genuinely want to listen to the music these days.”

At this, the first band started to play, so we watched them before continuing - they had good harmonies; you don’t get that a lot these days. When they finished their set, I told him that I didn’t agree with what he’d said; after all, if people weren’t as into music suddenly, how could downloads be explained? He thought for a moment, downed half a pint of beer, burped loudly, then said (with ale-stale breath…)

“Maybe it’s making people lazy?”

…with that, he stumbled to the bar.

Finally, I spoke to the people at the root of both the solution and the problem: the crowd. Some of the people I knew well, others, I’d never seen before in my life – probably. I asked them what they thought of the gigging scene, and whether they thought it was getting old, being replaced, or just facing some form of winter which would soon pass. And, as expected, the reviews were assorted. Some said they loved to come and support, and that they could think of nothing better to do with their weekend nights. Others said that it was an issue of money, and that they needed to save up and that gigs weren’t worth it every week. But they all agreed on one thing: that it would be a sad day to see the local music scene in small towns disappear. And, while I know that as long as there is emotion, there will be music, and where there is music, there will be someone fighting to keep it pumping from every speaker, I can’t help but feel sad that things are getting the way they are.

After all of this discussion, I’m not sure there is a sole reason for the falling numbers at local gigs. I think, in fact, it is a mixture of all of the things mentioned, and no doubt others too. Be it the smoking ban, the uptight nature of today’s legal system, the ease of online downloading, the expense in a critical time economically, or just a change in the zeitgeist, Rock music is still the freedom to not just say how you feel, but to scream and shout it for everyone to hear. And I asked you to close your eyes before, but now, I want you to open them, and not just to the music scene. No matter which scene it is you feel passionately about, be it art, poetry, sport, charity - whatever - open your eyes and support it in your local area; help it to grow, to thrive. Because our freedom to express ourselves, to enjoy ourselves, to be ourselves is always at risk, but if enough people break away from the crowd and work to make a difference, maybe just maybe…we will.

My Winning Streak

I was driving home late last night in my racing green Mini Cooper, when it occurred to me that I was wearing an unbuttoned plaid shirt - and nothing else. No shoes or socks, no jeans or t-shirt, and no pants. And, whilst the shirt I had on was a fetching one, I suddenly felt very aware that it probably wasn't quite eye-catching enough to distract onlookers from the absence of the remainder of my attire. I tried to remember just exactly where I'd left my outfit, but in the panic that was now brewing, I couldn't even recall where I was travelling from, let alone where I'd made the transition from dressed to undressed. However, I was heading home, and it was late, so I could probably sneak from my car to my door without too much attention - even if I do live on a main road...

As I neared my road, it began to rain. And, as with all situations of escalating peril and drama, it wasn't just a fine drizzle caressing my car and the concrete - no no! It was a devilish downpour, pummeling and purging the pavements and panels of my Mini. Even with the windscreen wipers on their fastest setting, I was struggling to see the road. I considered stopping for a while, but worried that doing so may lead to some passerby also stopping to see if I needed any help - sure, it doesn't happen when you want it to, but you could guarantee that when you didn't...
I decided to brave it. I knew the roads well enough, and I could slow the car right down if I needed to; there was never much traffic at this hour. The occasional guy working nights, taxis on their last fare...

...a police car. And I couldn't tell for sure straight away - the rain made it difficult to make out anything but the encroaching headlights - but as it neared the rear of my snailing vehicle, it was unmistakable. Like the shadow of the school bully, it loomed over me and suddenly I remembered my situation. And, last time I checked, if asked to 'step outside the vehicle, please sir' you refused due to AWOL Calvin Kleins, claiming to be the modern day Lady Godiva, it was more likely you who'd be struck down than these uniformed 'Peeping Toms' who'd be struck blind. Whether I wanted to or not, I had to start driving at the speed limit, or I'd definitely be a cause of suspicion. I pushed my bare foot down on the cold accelerator, and continued towards home.

Thankfully, the police car turned off just as soon as it had arrived, and I made it to the home stretch without issue. Though, as I turned onto my road, everything felt all of a sudden darker. I noticed as I drove that the lampposts were all off, and there were no lights coming from inside any windows either. I could only assume there was some kind of mass power cut, perhaps bought about by the storm? Either way, this blackout boded well for my current condition: the dimmer the light to illuminate my 'naturism' the better! I pulled up outside my house, switched the engine off and was startled by the interior light switching itself on. I quickly clicked it off, eyeing my surroundings for any surreptitious souls who may have caught a glimpse of my guise. All seemed safe as I reached into my pocket for my house key...

...I was, of course, no longer wearing my trousers. And, with only the front door between me and safety, this posed a rather big problem. I couldn't possibly ring the bell! What would my parents say? What would they do?!

I looked up towards my house, when I noticed my neighbours dotted about around my door. Both panic and possibility stabbed at my stomach: two teenage girls and their father from one side, and an elderly gent from the other. The panic was that this was more people I had to hide from. The possibility was that someone would now have to come and answer the door, which gave me an opening - a very slight one, admittedly, but an opening nonetheless. If I could somehow sneak in alongside this gaggle, I could make it upstairs to my room (and to clothes! Sweet, sweet boxer shorts!) and no-one would be any the wiser.

I had to try. I recalled I had a large bag in my boot; a 'bag for life' full of microphones and cables from a gig I'd played at the weekend. I could wander up to the door using that to shield and shelter my shame, and hopefully the presence of my shirt would be enough, in this light, to limit any suspicions. I fastened my shirt and made my move, feeling the rainwater on my bare body as I heaved the bag from the boot and began up the driveway. As I pattered through the puddles towards my door, it flung open and my neighbours dashed in, only the eldest sister giving me a swift glance as she stepped in: she noticed nothing. I waited momentarily for them to clear the entrance and step further into my hallway, then I took a sly peek inside. They were at the kitchen door at the other end of the room, and so I made for the staircase. As I ascended, I threw the bag to my side and ran, knowing now that, if anyone were to see, all they'd catch in this muted lighting was a flash of bare leg, which was the least of my worries. I opened my bedroom door and jumped straight into some shorts: my ordeal was very much over!

The power must have come back on during my dressing, as when I crossed into the next room my friend was sitting there, printing something off with my computer. He'd been texting this girl for a few weeks now, and was printing off the messages for further analysis. He wasn't really sure if she was as serious about beginning a relationship as he was, and felt if he looked over the language used and amount of kisses per text, he'd get a better, more general idea of whether or not his endeavours were falling flat on their face. We spoke for a while about the whole situation: I was convinced he was definitely the one doing all the chasing, and that, if anything, she wasn't entirely convinced this was anything more than a bit of fun. But, I couldn't convince him of this, so decided to head out - I'd been invited to the house-warming of a friend of a friend.

The house was beautiful, and had a very Spanish feel to it. The weather was warming up nicely too, and I was very much looking forward to the forthcoming festivities. I tried the front door but it was bolted shut, so I grabbed the vines that were hanging harmlessly from the balcony and began my climb to the top. I flung my leg over the ornate fencing that bordered the balcony, and heaved myself over. I stood and dusted myself down, seeing the party had already started: there were people drinking, chatting, sharing a glass of champagne in the hot tub. I soon found my friend amongst the medley of minglers and we tried to speak, but the music was suddenly overbearing, so he took me to one side. I asked him who the house belonged to, and he hollered to a man who was, at this point, surrounded by scantily-clad women. He slided his way over to us, and we shook hands. He had a very strong handshake, and as we exchanged greetings I could feel his eyes making decisions about me, as if his initial interpretation of me was the work of long years researching and studying my behaviour. He placed his arms around our shoulders and led us outside again to the balcony.

It was empty now, and the sun was setting. Everything was a golden river. He reached into his back pocket, removing a small bag of powder, and began divvying it out on the tabletop. I'd never snorted drugs before, and as he passed my a rolled up £50 note, I hesitated. He looked at me again, and I looked to my friend. He was already nostril-deep in the drug, and I felt inclined to follow suit. As I inhaled the substance, all the golds and glistening gimcracks surrounding me began to surf in and out of focus, and all my worries wormed around inside my eyelids when I blinked. I could hear the music growing louder, growing more mellow, getting closer, and as I laughed and smiled to my friend...

I woke up. It was 10:04 and the wind outside was walloping my window.

I apologise if a) you thought this was a real story, or b) you thought it was a fictitious one that I ended in the worst way possible, but it's been such a long time since I had a very vivid dream, and I decided to get it down on paper (albeit the virtual kind). Dreams are so interesting and wonderful, and I do fully intend on trying to understand just what made me have this one this morning. I wonder how long I was dreaming for - the dream's time-frame itself is, as always, convoluted and dissolved, but it felt like it lasted so much longer than it does when I'm remembering it. Almost as if each event has the same kind of weight to it as a real-life event; alive with all the thoughts, feelings, senses, worries, pleasures and pains we encounter every second of every day.

And I've read Freud. I've read Broks. I've read Borges. I've watched documentaries, read articles, listened to psychologists and scientists. And, no matter how much you think you know about dreaming...you don't really 'know' anything. Sure, it could be coded events from my recent life replaying and rewinding, unwinding in my unconscious and dealing with my regressions and repressions. And, sure, it could just be misfiring electronic signals and sparks in my brain, which I attempt to give birth to using the everyday images and thoughts that it just so happens to trigger. Hell, it could even be an alternate version of me in an alternate world, and just one (or several) of those forking paths merging into the current path I'm walking on. Or, better yet, it could be real-life, and in my dream I'm writing this blog about it. But I'm not so sure about that...

...though, if that is the case, if anyone does know where I left my clothes and you happen to be sharing this dream with me, do let me know.

So, what about you guys? Any dreams lately? Any theories about dreaming?

Do share!

Hard of Hairing

This morning, after the rigorous routine that results in my hair looking like a wilderbeast's backside, I found lots of tiny fallen hairs about my shoulders and clothes, which isn't an uncommon event to be honest. But today, it seemed to stick in my mind even as I drove. Then, at work, I served five bald people in a row, all of which I assumed to have had a full head of hair before they went all 'Edward Scissorhands' on it...

And this got me thinking. I wonder if people who have their head shaved decide to do so just in case they upset someone who happens to be adept in casting curses and forces them to forever live upside-down; nothing would alter, they’d still move their legs to walk and up would still be up, and down down, but they’d be flipped the wrong way so that what touched the ground was the top of their heads. And, therefore, in having their head shaved, they wouldn’t have to worry quite so much about dirtying their hair.

Though, some people who have shaved heads decide on growing large beards, which, presuming the curse didn’t directly affect gravity, would dangle about their faces and become quite the nuisance I should think.

Maybe they haven’t thought of that; I’ll give them the head’s up.

Haha…‘head’s up’…

I did think once that the large beard was a kind of compensation for their decision to have a shaved head, but I have sometimes seen people with a full head of hear grow equally large beards, and the reason for that is something that plagues me to this day.

…unless it’s an act of defiance?

If they became upside-downed, perhaps the beard would act very much like head-hair, and maybe one day someone will notice this trend and open a very lucrative specialist barbers that pays particular interest in upside-down beard hair grooming.

Perhaps they’ll name the salon ‘Chin Up!’…

I refer to this business opportunity as a 'barbers' solely based on the fact that I rarely see women with shaved heads, and rarer still is the day when I encounter a large beard-wearing woman. I would imagine such a woman’s face would face severe ridicule, and would perhaps even cause young children to weep uncontrollably - understandably even!

Though…that prospect does make me wonder…

Say a woman, who at conception happened upon the genes in which there was a predisposition towards female beard-growth, decided, in case of the chance encounter with the adept curse-caster, to shave her head, and then was, in a coincidental twist of fate, made to exist in an entirely upside-down manner…would she not be the single most sought after woman of the upside-down, male demographic?

The upside-down lesbian demographic also – why be close-minded about it?

In fact, for all I know, for all I really know about upside-down people, women with chins aswim with hair might just be the most fashionable females of them all.

Or perhaps the most flagrant? Maybe upside-down juvvies and jails are jam-packed with these females, all a part of the rotated-revolution of Feminists fighting for their freedom to grow grotesque goatees and defending their right to garb their faces with gristly, prickly hairs, all in the name of equality and liberation!

And yes, you could argue with them that sexual equality in the Western World has, in most part, been attained…but there’s no need to split hairs.

After careful deliberation, I can only conclude that, out there somewhere, a wizard / witch / mage / deity who, through scriptures of old (and tales of older still), has threatened the possibility of an upside-down existence. And, as a result of this, some of us feel the need to shorn our scalps, perhaps even unconsciously, with some distant, dark memory of magick and mischief, making mayhem of our minds (and merkins of our mullets!).

Or maybe, like me, they just got fed up of finding stray hairs clinging to their clothes. Though, I think I might risk keeping my hair as it is.

For now, at least.

What a Wonderful, Wacky, Wampy World #1

I'm going to try and make these kinds of posts a bit more regular, as every day I seem to come across something that either amuses me, or sends me into a state of awe. The world is wonderful, and you don't actually have to look too hard to find proof of this. On the flipside of that, the world is also incredibly wacky... This is mostly a result of our creativity as humans bleeding into boredom; the whole process giving birth to ludicrous, often brilliant nuggets of knowledge or nonsense.

Today, I spent the day recruiting students at my old college for my new creative writing group (read more about that here), and I found two prime examples of such behaviour...all on one miniature whiteboard-rubber!

Excuse the language on the second picture; try instead to see this as a fine example of the empty-headed, hormone-heavy human condition a 17 year old must deal with each and every day, culminating in this fine piece of prose.........

...as my old English teacher muttered upon reading this: "Oh, for f***'s sake..."

And, I suppose, she's quite right.

When I got home, I also found out where The Incredible Hulk deposits his used toilet roll tubes after he's done with them: right outside my house, apparently...

...would have thought I'd have noticed this before now. Obviously not.

Anyway, that's all for now. I'll be back with more of these soon no doubt.

Adam's Back! (Located just around the corner from his front...)

Well...

Given my last official post on here was in January, and that was, in fact, my only post...I think we should put a line under it and just say this, right here, is where I start writing.

I mean, still read my previous post. It's not bad! Just...let's not talk about the absent period. If you want to see where I've been, check here - that's my other blog, dedicated to my writing. So that makes this one my personal blog. Welcome, I hope you enjoy everything I have to say...

...I'm sure I will!

I watched a programme recently written by the irreplaceable Stephen Fry called 'Fry's Planet Word', which is a look into language and how it became, how it evolved, how we learn and develop it, and how it differentiates us from every other species known to man. I've only seen the first episode, and it's a five-parter, but so far I'm very interested indeed. Admittedly, the introductory episode 'Babel' did cover a lot of ground I was already familiar with, but we get given too few television programmes about language these days, so when they come around I think they deserve to be shouted about...

...or at least blogged about.

On the topic of language-based television beauties, did anyone used to watch Balderdash & Piffle? Loved that one too.

So, for all you lovers of lingo* out there, please do take a look and let me know if you enjoyed it thoroughly too. Episode 1 is available until the end of October, so don't dillydally.

If I find episode 2 as good, I'll probably have to plug it again, just to forewarn you!

Anyway, hopefully you'll be seeing a lot more of me in the coming days and weeks, but for now, I'm going to go and walk my dog Taz and try to avoid being blown away by the wind...

It's good to be back.

*That does say 'lovers of lingo' and, sadly, isn't a typing error for 'lovers of limbo'...sorry to disappoint...