Guitar Doodle

Inspired by Acoustic Guitar magazine I doodled my guitar yesterday, outside in the garden decorated with a few leaves.

That’s it – I’m hopelessly in love with trees

I had a favourite tree to play on as a young boy. In fact I had more than one. They became great friends – faithful and places of refuge . My first packet of cigarettes (5 Park Drive!) was concealed under a bush there in a hole dug out with the precise purpose of being my “fag den”. I couldn’t help wondering why it took so long to light the blasted things, not appreciating that they were damp and sodden of course. I explored these tress like foreign lands – mapping my course round and up them as I ventured forth. Their contours were tactile and living proof of growth and experience. Jumping off the thickest branches onto the heads of imaginary passing badmen in true Robin Hood or Lone Ranger style. Always there, rooted solid and dependable. In later days I loved songs about trees – Mike Heron from the Incredible String Band’s own “The Tree” and Michael Chapman’s elegaic “Among the Trees”. And now – how beautiful they are on their lonely fellside outposts or cosy moorings in household gardens. Just to appreciate them is enough. There is a tree in Setmurphy woods just outside Cockermouth that I call my meditation tree. It has a special vibe – and its where I can go for spiritual nourishment. In many ways they are easy to draw or paint, because they don’t move too quickly, but actually capturing the spirit of tree through art isn’t easy, possibly because they are so aesthetic and solidly real in themselve standing like nature’s own sculptures. Who needs a picture of a tree – when you can go and see the tree itself. Anyway this year there’s an opportunity for me to try and draw/paint more. As Mike Heron says “Oh lord – how happy I am!”

A little stick of Blackpool rock

sketch by keith fitton

It was like a dream, illuminated by the purple lights of The Tower, pointing into the cold November air, like a shameless phallus reaching toward the heavens. For this is a shameless town. The Golden Mile for the golden smile. The backstreet strip joints, massage parlours, show bars, kiss-me-quick hats,  pink candy floss acting as an elaborate stage for sensory bombardment and tacky over-indulgence.  Come and ride me she says with a wink in her eye and an open crotch whilst she tells your fortune, pockets your cash and then asks for more. She’s insatiable. Her loyalty is to the smile.

Yet there is a sad beauty that lies beneath her decaying Victorian facade. A two fingers up to the virtual world of faked indifference. She deals in real flesh. The stories of humanity in all its sordid yet vulnerable revealed nature.  The release of cotton mill workers frustration into the endless beach, riding the trams to a better future, a mirage of a better life waymarked by exotic lights, animals, sights, smells, tastes and hopes.

It was here I came as a young boy on an odd day trip from my home in the Rossendale valley, the heartland of the Lancashire cotton weaving industry. I was warned of the “catchpenny” stalls and the gypsy fortune tellers that would pinch your soul if you looked into their eyes. Nevertheless, with fringed cowboy hat, I was romanced by the old whore so that fifty years later I’m entranced by the idea of hero Bob Dylan choosing to play three nights at the Winter Gardens on his current UK tour. Now this is a big deal for Blackpool. After struggling to get a ticket with my usual source on vacation when the tour is announced I manage to secure an official ticket at cost price and it proves to be a good ‘un, giving fine views in the intimate wonderful old theatre of his Bobness and band lit in sepia light, playing out of the shadows to an audience made up of a mix of hardened Bobheads and first timers. Amongst the latter there was a little after show disappointment because they expected him to sound like he did in the sixties (they haven’t been paying attention in class then!) As for me, I was transported by the music in a way that hasn’t happened at previous gigs. I found myself lifted by the circling power of the notes as they rose through the hall. Like the swirl of a Wurlitzer the sound reverberated through the body and upwards. Dylan himself was on fine singing form, moving from harmonica and keyboard with well practised ease. Many of the songs were from the latest album “Tempest” with songs of regret, leaving, foretelling, longing, redemption confirming we were in the presence of a prophet, not just an artist. My state of mind may have been partly attributable to the pints of Spitfire consumed in The Galleon listening to the very excellent Simply Dylan at a pre-gig gathering. But I like to think it was also the ethereal power of the music.

So, another Dylan gig, another in the county of my birth, in the town of my unravished youth. As I wandered back to my B&B I was sure I caught the glance of a young boy I recognised, walking with wonder in his eyes, clutching a stick of rock thinking what life might be like in fifty years time. And as I passed, I’m sure he winked at me.

An act of kindness revisited

Most of the time we live our lives in a bubble of self, thinking about what we want to do and how we would like to spend our time, days and money.  Just occasionally something happens to remind you that we are all in this little adventure together, chugging our way through an increasingly fragile existence, down an increasingly narrow channel. And we all could sometimes do with a helping hand. Wind the clock back to the autumn of 1974 when I was living back in Haslingden, Lancashire when I had just lost my mum at a tragically early age. I was feeling lonely and pretty broken-up. At that time I was mating out with a group of friends from Ramsbottom, just down the road. These friends included Alan Fletcher, Bryan Johnson (now sadly gone), Brian French and his girl Angela and Pete Whiteside. Out of the blue they called me to say they wanted to treat me. Now at the time I was on the dole, spending time doing the housework and cooking for my dad. In other words – I was broke. What they did was to buy me a ticket for the what-was-to-become historic first rock concert at Wembley  stadium featuring The Band, Joni Mitchell and Crosby Stills Nash and Young. Not only that, they bought me the return train ticket so I could go down with them. It was a never to be forgotten act of kindness that I’ll always treasure. Winding back to 2013, there are reports that CSNY are preparing to release a live album of that concert in August. See here. If you can’t wait, then here is the entire set from this supercharged set of space cowboys. A flawed, yet glorious happening.

David Bowie

Sketch by Keith Fitton

So David Bowie is back at number one. His first album for a decade, “The Next Day” has galloped to the top of the charts, and the musical innovator and fashion icon is once again hot property. It takes me back to a cold February night in 1969 and the historic (now sold to a private developer and made into a hotel!) Free Trade Hall in Manchester. Together with a few of my pals from the Rossendale valley we were really there to see Tyrannasourus Rex, whom had just released “Prophets Seers and Sages…. .. the Angels of the Ages”, their second LP. At that time they were an acoustic duo feted by John Peel, with Marc Bolan on guitar and Steve Peregrine Took on bongos. Peel was present at the concert, there to spin records and host the show. The opening act we had never heard of. Introduced by Peel, he entered the stage accompanied by the loudest music I have ever heard at any gig, bar none. It was a wall of deafening white noise. Dressed in a tutu suit, David Bowie then delivered a stunning mime performance. Whilst he uttered not a word, his theatricality was undeniable. An unforgettable first impression. Then the records; the classic “Hunky Dory” filled with mythical storytelling, fantastic musicianship, sensitivity and craft, it was a record to listen to in a darkened room, or in the back room of a pub, drinking beer and playing darts with your mates. And on and on through the Berlin trilogy, the concept albums, the dance music inspired pieces, the art-nouveau creations and so on to “The Next Day”. Here we have a graceful artist, actor, musician, actor who sails above the ordinary, beyond cliche, or trend. He is a one-off, quintessential English gem. A true national treasure. Let’s dance.

Sweet sweet revenge

Here is my latest short soundscape, composed for the Soundshoots project. This time the theme was “Revenge”.

Metropolis247

Here’s my latest short musical piece for the Soundshoots project. It’s a soundscape for the future based on the “Metropolis” theme. I hope you like it.

The power of giving

1971 seems a long time ago. The pre-digital age when we all bought vinyl LP’s in a cardboard sleeve. Our musical heros would speak to us through the etchings made in a plastic disc, rediscovered by a needle following the contoured groove round and around. And the music was really really groovy. But, mixed with our love of the music was a collective shared vision in the promise of a new world order, one based on the humanitarian principles that enlightened the sixties sub-cultures. One founded on love, and peace. Of course, accompanying the mind expansion, came the excesses of liberation. Freed from the cultural stranglehold that was the post war western world and fuelled by the drugs that had now become generally available, some of our musical heroes burnt themselves out – Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix to name just the  better known. But yet, there was always the hope that someone might rise above the ashes of self-glorification – and do something practical to help. Use their fame to  highlight someone’s plight, draw attention to universal suffering and shame the cynics. Well someone did. Answering the call of Ravi Shanker, George Harrison pulled on many a string to arrange a benefit concert, to be filmed and recorded, the proceeds of which would go to alleviate the hardship being endured by the people of Bangla Desh. And what a concert. Fellow Beatle Ringo Starr, southern rocker Leon Russell, gospel soulster Billy Preston, guitar god Eric Clapton and topping it all, – the cream on the dream – in strides Bob Dylan doing his first live gig since his motorcycle accident of 1966, nervous as heck, but lured by the thought of supporting his close buddy George.

The accompanying film portrays the heightened emotion of this pre-LiveAid, pre-Geldorf event. The quiet Beatle, George Harrison had pulled it off – and helped to salve the conscience of a generation. Yes – we could all feel the power of giving.

 

Soundcloud gets a facelift

Friend of musicians, composers and general creators, Soundcloud has given itself a facelift. Loads of music you would never hear on mainstream radio (excepting wonderful BBC Radio 6) made by people who simply love making it. Have a listen.

Birthdays and radio ………….

They come and go do birthdays. One day you’re so old, the next you’re not. Yesterday my birthday came and went. Filled with love, presents, great food, company and Glenmorangie. Excellent!

I was lucky to share my birthday with the BBC, celebrating 90 years of public broadcasting. To mark this auspicious event they broadcast a special ‘soundscape’ produced by Damon Albam broadcast simultaneously at 17.33 by all BBC radio channels. The piece, entitled “Radio Reunited” mapped out the history of BBC radio since 1922 in an abstract composition designed to emphasise the unique bond between the BBC and the great British public.  How ironic that this comes at a time when the Beeb is under sustaned attack. Make no mistake, the BBC is the greatest broadcasting institution in the world, but it is run in an antiquated way by a inflated structure. It’s easy to see how errors could be made. A paternalistic culture protects the status quo and deters challenge. Having tasted this as a brief employee of dear ole auntie during the 1970’s, I still feel enormous affection for her. Like that other great British institution, the NHS, it faces a great veiled threat as the  puppetmakers strive to strip our national assets from the people’s ownership into the hands of the privateers circling round our island like greedy blood crazed sharks.

So let’s all support the BBC and celebrate our wonderful radio. I spent much of my early childhood entranched by our magic valve driven box and my teenage years listening to sport or John Peel on my tranny. These days we have at least ten radios in the house, including an old Roberts transistor, a couple of PURE digital radios, some acquired from the local auction and ones with wheels. Every day, without exception the BBC enriches our lives immeasurably.
Treat yourself – tune in and turn on.