Give me that old time religion

As a lapsed Catholic, with a very intense religious education at convent boarding school, church services are not part of my Christmas celebrations. I have a crib on display, I appreciate other people's religious observances, and I don't buy into Christmas as a blatantly commercial time of year. I had bought some DVD box sets for my children as presents at their request,Father Ted and Rev.We all watched Call the Midwife, with its wise and pragmatic nuns. The Sound of Music filled most of yesterday afternoon. We may still get the chance to watch Sister Act, though we have missed The Vicar of Dibley. You can see there's a theme developing here. I am not sure if it's significant or just a coincidence.

Some sort of ghost story

The rain lashed against the window and the trees bowed in the wind. The attic windows creaked, and there were strange knockings, coming from the central heating pipes. It was a gloomy March evening, and my friends and I were in an attic bedroom, high up in an Edwardian family house that came straight off the opening credits of the Addams Family. In reality it was a warm and friendly family home, five brothers and one sister, my friend Marianne. We had met on our first day at school. There were pictures on the walls, guitars in the living room and an Airedale dog in the hallway. Her Irish mother was the most welcoming of hostesses. On this March evening we were both aged eighteen, and our friend Debbie, who lived next door, was sixteen. For some reason we had decided to try a ouija board séance. I am not sure who had the idea, and looking back it was slightly out of character for any of us. Marianne and I had been brought up Catholic, and all three of us were down to earth. It didn’t take long to write out some cards, letters of the alphabet and Yes and No. Sitting round a small table we carefully placed our fingers lightly on the glass. ‘Start with some simple yes or no questions’, suggested Debbie. ‘OK’, said Marianne. ‘Am I a girl?’ The glass swerved to Yes and we all looked at one another. After that it was addictive. We must have asked the most banal of questions, but as our confidence grew, so did our curiousity. Who are you? Thomas Wilson. The glass flew round the table, spelling out the name. When were you born? 1774 Where were you born? Manchester What did you do? Draper Where? Market Stead I am certain we found out more about him and his family, but these were the facts I wrote in my little notebook. I worked at Salford Central Library at the time, and knew about local studies collections. On my next day off work I went to the archives at Central Reference Library in St Peter’s Square. We had no idea where Market Stead was, but it turned out to be the top end of market St, where Piccadilly Gardens are now. I discovered entries in the rolls for Thomas Wilson and his shop. At this point I questioned what we were doing. As friendly and helpful as Tom was, it didn’t seem right to be contacting him from beyond the grave to ask if someone fancied you! As I said to a friend recently, why didn’t we just ask the boy in question?! Why call back a spirit from the eighteenth century to sort out our love lives?I went off to university and gave up the ouija board, though I believe my friends continued to contact Tom occasionally. Debbie became a very successful television playwright. I once asked her if she had ever been tempted to use our ouija board experience in one of her plays. ‘Oh no – it was way too far fetched’, she said.

Christmas Past

It's almost 2 years to the day that I last posted on this blog, in response to the news of the death of Captain Beefheart. In turn, that inspired my most prolific blog - a Historic Gig Guide, but it feels time to go back to this one. Maybe it's because I go to see less live music in the winter months, but I also consider and write about other subjects - I just haven't been sharing them in a blog. So Christmas is a time for reconnecting and reflecting. There are many ways to spend Christmas and I have had more than my fair share. In the tropics with my parents, back in the late 60s, we sweltered in equatorial heat as we recreated a traditional Christmas dinner in a house on stilts. In the early 70s I took home an unsuitable older boyfriend who wore a kaftan and a greatcoat through the Christmas meal. He did take off his hippy hat though. By the mid 70s I was married and I started many years of a two centre Christmas, travelling across the Pennines between my parents in Sheffield, and my in laws in Chester. Sometimes I was ill, coming down with the seasonal Christmas cold, and we would stay over. Other times we made a late journey home, fingers crossed that the old Ford Capri, Morris Traveller or Velocette motorbike, whatever the vehicle of the year was, would make it home. Late 70s and I was divorced. My boyfriend was Dutch and we celebrated St Nicholas on December 6th, leaving our shoes out for Saint Nick, his white horse and Black Peter. 1980 came and I was teaching English in Casablanca. My flat mate and I took off to the Canaries for Christmas. We were offered the use a town centre apartment in Santa Cruz de Tenerife by one of her former colleagues. Somewhere along the way, perhaps at the airport in Las Palmas, or on the ferry from Gran Canaria to Tenerife we met up with an American teacher. He joined us and organised a quick trip round the market, purchasing the last available chicken on Christmas Eve. We went to Midnight Mass in a beautiful Spanish cathedral. We drank absinthe cocktails in lively bars. We spent Christmas Day on a nudist beach, just outside the main port. The plump German tourists, slick with sun tan oil and breaded by sand, reminded us to go home and put the chicken on. Marriage and children followed, and once more I found myself travelling back and forth across the Pennines between parents and in laws. This time the car was a reliable Subaru estate. Sometimes the dog was carsick, and the children were home sick. Occasionally their roles reversed. Christmas only comes but once a year, and if I put my thinking cap on I can remember something of each one. Over recent years, and especially since I have been single, a lovely informality has developed, as my children gather round the kitchen table for our now traditional vegetarian Christmas dinner. Except it’s not quite as informal as I imagine. My easy going Christmas has become a tradition they cling to and expect! I still have an unfulfilled ambition for Christmas Day, inspired by a teenage friend who was the daughter of a Bishop in Manchester. As a family they spent Christmas Day serving dinners in the Salvation Army Hostel, and I fully intend to do something similar one Christmas Day soon.

Gimme dat harp boy

Sad to hear of the death of Captain Beefheart. It feels like my past is fast disappearing from this world.
In spite of his acknowledged influence, he was never a mainstream performer. Back in 1973 you were part of a elite minority if you liked him. Female fans were an even rarer breed. I was one of them. I had just joined Drive in Rock as a Rockette. Our manager Roger Eagle was a friend of Beefheart's - two men of similar age ( and build) united by their passion for the blues.
When Beefheart and the Magic Band came over to tour Clear Spot a group of us went over to Liverpool to see them with Roger. One thing led to another and after a night with Rockette Morton ( different days, different ways) the two of us went off to explore Liverpool, taking the ferry across the Mersey. As he saw me off on the train back to Manchester from Liverpool Lime Street he announced that his girlfriend was coming over from California that week, so that was the end of that.
However, thanks to Roger, my friend, fellow Rockette and fan Cathy and I still had reserved seats on the tour bus. I struck up a friendship with the tour manager Bill Shumow, and spent the rest of that English leg of the tour meeting up with him and the band.He was older than me , married with a family, and a really lovely companion. I knew he was someone special at the time, and many years later I read a tribute to him in Bill Harkleroad's (aka Zoot Horn Rollo) book about his Magic Band Days, so it wasn't just me who loved him! He came to visit On the 8th Day, where I worked then. We explored antique and junk shops wherever the tour went, and I had a beautiful enamelled butterfly brooch he bought me for many years. I had met the Broughton brothers and their families through another 8th Day contact, Brian Livingstone, and the Edgar Broughton Band were huge fans of Beefheart. I took Bill round to meet them, and he took a cassette of theirs back to Beefheart. We spent a great couple of days chasing round the Suffolk countryside trying to get hold of Honeyrose Special herbal cigarettes and John Peel. We managed to find the Honeyrose Special factory, and bought a supply for Beefheart. His wife Jan ( and they were still married when he died) was travelling with him - Art Tripp, Roy Estrada, a great crowd to be around - legends then and legends now. Beefheart gave Cathy a drawing, which she gave away in her rush to rid herself of material possessions when she joined an ashram! One of life's regrets. One of mine is that I never saw Bill Shumow again - I kept in touch with some friends of his from Leeds for a short time, when I went to University there later that year.
Amazing times - I can say I went on tour with Captain Beefheart. I still have my copy of Clear Spot, given to me then.
We will not see his like again.

Bridestones Revisited

On Saturday I visited the Bridestones near Congleton. A group of us met there, representing ( more or less) England, Ireland, Scotland and nearly Wales based on where we are living at the moment. It's an amazing place. An ancient burial place for a significant person. Linked with Ireland, Scotland, Anglesey and the Isle of Man in its structure and form. Pillaged by the Victorians for gothic rockeries in the garden of the adjoining house and in Tunstall Park. I hadn't visited since 1982, and as I arrived I could picture the photo taken there that day. When I got home I rummaged in the laundry basket full of random photos, literally hundreds of snaps, and of course found the one I could visualise.
As amazing as the stones are, the view on that crisp clear November day was stunning. We could see across Cheshire and Staffordshire, through the Midlands and over to Shropshire and Wales. When we climbed The Cloud, the beautifully named hill behind the stones we could see from Winter Hill, across the city centre of Manchester, picking out the Hilton Hotel tower, to Jodrell Bank, Alderley Edge,Mow Cop, Axe Edge, Hen Cloud,the Roaches, right across to Fiddlers Ferry power station and down to the Wrekin and the Shropshire Hills. A kingdom. A panorama in space and time for me - my past, present and no doubt future life in one view. From childhood memories of visits to Rivington Pike, to my old home, Manchester. Links to the book I had re-read this week - Alan Garner's Red Shift. My sister's house in Anglesey. My life on the day I visited in 1982, contrasted with my life now. Family trips to the Green Man festival, driving along the borders of England and Wales.
Quite a day and quite an experience for all of us - a sense of place. Far horizons. Who am I? Who was I? Why am I here?
I will never feel trapped in the Midlands again!

On The 8th Day 40th birthday celebration

On Saturday 4th September a group of people with 8th Day connections in common gathered together to celebrate 40 years of the shop. From the early days of New Brown St - now buried under the Arndale Centre in Manchester - through to the recently developed new building on Oxford Rd. Old friends, new friends, absent friends - in the end probably quite a random mix of those involved who had been in touch and could come to the party. It was wonderful for me to see some friends I haven't seen for many years - more than 30 in some cases - but who were such an important part of my teenage life and beyond. A few mysteries solved - who thought of the name for one. A first viewing of a piece of film from Granada's archives taken at New Brown St - all fake psychedelic camera effects! Lovely old photos from the 70s of lovely young people working there at the time. A real sense of pride, friendship, love for the ideals that created it and the people who continue to keep it going. Three of the five originals were there - the fourth has sadly died and the fifth lives abroad, so three out of five was great.A real affirmation of a different way of doing business, created by a crazy mix of luck and judgement over the decades. Long may it continue.

Green Man

I can't believe I haven't written for so long. A lot of water has flowed down the river since June. To bring things up to date I have spent some of today talking about my Hacienda days and the potential for music tourism in Manchester. It was great to have a chance to consider the possibilities.I was interviewed by someone I met on C.P.Lee's musical heritage guided walk there a few weeks ago. I have just got back from the Green Man festival in the Brecon Beacons - my family holiday with my 3 children. It's the fourth time we have been in 5 years. Glanusk Park in Crickhowell is a stunningly beautiful setting. It rained incessantly for most of the festival but there were some real highlights and inspirations in spite of the weather. We spent more time in the literature and cinema tents than sitting around on the grassy banks listening to music. Special moments included Trevor Lock dealing with child hecklers in the comedy tent, John Cooper Clarke, Lone Wolf, First Aid Kit, the spectacular Flaming Lips, Billy Bragg talking and singing, Laura Marling, and the magical Joanna Newsom. There was a real sense of a relationship between performers and audience - Billy Bragg, Wayne Coyne and Joanna Newsom all referred to the magic of the place and the people for them. I came away inspired to look for unusual books in charity shops ( Robin Ince), and to consider a list of songs to break your heart - Billy Bragg was asked for his and he came up with Tracks of my Tears and Little Feat's Long Distance Love.
And autumn seems to have arrived in Derbyshire.....