It's all going in the predictable family way; the inevitable decline of the young bachelor continues. Man gets married then his wife has children whom she prefers to him. Then the man buys a kitten which the children prefer to him too.
Went out to see Joe Jackson this week in a smallish venue in Islington. Very packed and at times the air conditioning was louder than Joe, which summed up a fairly middle aged experience all round. Lots of middle aged white couples - not yer average rock n roll night out all told. But when I say packed I mean it. There was a very large bloke standing in front of me, who would have needed planning permission if he'd been standing in front of a house.
Joe Jackson, for those who don't know, is an English musical serial eccentric who has never settled to anything much, except writing remarkable and mould-breaking songs. (Mine are more in the tradition of mould-gathering ones.) He played a lot of material I didn't know but which astonished with its rhyme schemes alone. Never a pretty man, he sings over a very wide range with a voice which cannot be described as pretty either. And like many veteran performers he could rely on his audience to sing his better known songs for him. Sweaty but mind expanding, as evenings go.
Did another song for fun. I started out wanting it to be something like the Carter Family, then decided I was heading more towards Bryan Adams. In the end I got the mixture about right and it came out something like the Addams Family.
(* For the many googlers coming here for "oh yeah, life goes on" the answer is John 'Cougar' Mellencamp, Jack and Diane - 1982, and a bit overblown. Hope that's helpful.)
Cute stuff has been happening here and I have been enjoying it rather more than writing it down. I particularly liked Jake's warning to Lizzie a couple of nights back: "Come out with your paws up!"
I have been silent for a while, employing my creativity elsewhere and otherwise. I have been well, but with odd developments in the throat area.
For this week I have mostly been being AC/DC.
That it should ever have come to this has been a bit of a surprise to me, but I am getting used to it.
So, there has been a great deal of screeching and yelling form the Mad Room as I wrestle with the outer limits of my vocal range.
A few years back I tried to pass myself off as James Brown to enhance a funky piece I had written. I knew I wasn't up to doing whole lines of chitlin' soulfulness, so I restricted myself to interjectory and hortatory intrusions across the music. Well, I went huh! a lot.
The results were not quite as inspiring as I had imagined so I kept at it for a few takes, pushing at the boundaries, hoping to hit that muthalode of groove, that magical moment when I found my Inna Soul Man. Sad to say, it didn't really happen and I sank back exhausted and shamed, confronted inescapably by the unfunkiness of my interior psychic landscape. Despite my serious and well meaning efforts I was forced to realise I would never get the comfort of a minion to drape a Cold Sweat Cape over my wracked body.
What I did get was a little knock on the door followed by the entry of two very alarmed little children, who had clearly been waiting outside, imagining the worst as a stream of 'huh's, 'ow's, 'eek's and 'good gawd's had poured forth.
"Are you all right Daddy," they asked with the sweetest concern, slightly surprised to find me still alive and not locked in mortal combat with five Power Rangers or an army of alien cockroaches.
"I'm fine," I replied. "And so is my bad self," I continued and then wished I hadn't. Jake was keen to hear more about this bad self. I had to explain funkiness, which was quite a tricky concept for a (then) six year old. So I fell back on a quotation from Mr Brown himself. I said: "It is not possible to be funky, and still make sense".
I stand by that.