I ought to admit that I'm not really much of a prude when it comes to Public Displays Of Affection. If two people kiss in the street, I'm actually happy that they've found each other amid this sea of bastards and cretins, and that they are not so self-conscious that they feel they have to hide it. Obviously, if they're on the verge of copulating in the street, then they need to get themselves home sharpish.
Even all that business with my previous neighbours this year - I didn't begrudge them their bedroom hi-jinx, it was just uncanny that they managed to get it on whenever I was reading, or going to sleep. I wonder where they are living now? I do hope it's a detached house, or, at the very least, an end terrace.
It is funny how things can shape your year. Up until October, as soon as the headboard started rattling, it would set off an agony of longing, as if someone who you fancy was stroking your neck, and would continue so to do, on the proviso that you didn't react to it. There were times when the sound of them having a funny conversation (the walls really are that thin in this house) was like being forced to experience old memories, ones you hadn't yet reconciled as being part of your past, and ones that, if nudged gently enough, would suddenly feel like part of the present.
(The kissing woman has left the train at Wolverhampton, she's very pretty. Her partner in lip-lock, still on the train, looks like a cross between one of those long-handled retractable brushes you can get to sweep the corner of your ceiling, and an anally-traumatised ferret. Opposites do attract...)
Anyway, the strange thing was when they moved out, it was as if they took my past with them. , and that "agony of longing" went too (but not before I'd written a some reasonably intense songs on the subject). Ever since then, the music got a better foothold on the scheme of things, and I decided that the only way I would ever be happy would be if I kept moving forwards and doing what I love, as closely as possible to how I want to do it (which in itself, now that I think about it, is another "agony of longing").
This makes me think of the piece I wrote yesterday, and also of something I wanted to include in it, but never managed to wrangle the words in that direction...
Last weekend, as I mentioned previously in this blog, I went to Nerina Pallot's Christmas show, and my good friend Michael Linford, whom I have not seen since May (but have kept in digital contact), was there. He has just written a book, 'Music For The End Of The World', and part of his mission, as well as writing the book, getting it published, and into the world, is to stand up for the little-known, independent writers, artists and musicians that don't get heard much outside their own hometown circles. (I have just seen a train platform guard wearing a Santa hat.)
Mike and I were shooting the breeze at The Tabernacle, as we waited for Samuel Taylor to start his support set, and talk turned to Sports Personality Of The Year, and the sporting year that 2012 had been for the UK, generally. He said (and here I wish harder than anything for an eidetic memory, because the amount of detail I could give about this conversation would be very useful) that all the money that gets pumped into achieving 'sporting excellence', and finding Britain's highest-achieving sportspeople (this year's Olympics being a prime example) could, and should, also be directed towards finding Britain's most deserving creative people. I don't think people like Michael & I should be given special treatment, but imagine if, instead of creative pursuits being regarded as a hobby, or something you do in the background to "a proper job", they were more widely recognised as a trade, the creation of a thing. Imagine if people looked as earnestly to find a good band as they did to find the best runner, or swimmer, or cyclist.
I'm not for one minute saying those searches are unworthy, but the thing I find upsetting is that when you say, in my example, that you're a singer-songwriter, the first reaction is "Why don't you go on X-Factor?" I have lost count how many times I have politely rebuffed the notion of this in conversation. Not to knock the good intention behind it, but there is something about these talent shows that I do not trust. With one or two exceptions, it is not the stepping stone to a productive, and creative career. It is a marvellous vehicle for a certain record label, and no doubt a very useful boost to the coffers come Christmas time when the winner's single is released, but is it really celebrating the nation's musical talent? There is so much to this format that could be a positive reinforcement to people for whom music really is the driving force behind their every breath, but until it lays down the foundations of an artist's development, so that they produce interesting work as they get older, and gives the prospect of a career, I could never give the programme a second glance.
That's not to say that if there were something worth trying, I wouldn't enter it, though...
Anyway. I've gone on for ages now, and have even stopped writing this by hand, as I am back home. The last two paragraphs happened on my computer. What started off as questionable handwriting has become normal-sized Hevetica in a text-box on my screen. I feel a little bad that my notebook contains an unfinished blog entry, maybe I will copy the last three paragraphs longhand into it, for closure's sake.
2012 (I may have said this somewhere before) has been quite an exciting year. I've gigged regularly, I've written songs that I really love playing, and I've made new friends, and some of them (combined with old friends) enjoy playing songs with me and launching them into the stratosphere. All in all, it's been quite magical. If you want to read Michael Linford's book, you can order it here or here. Just be sure, once you've finished it, to leave a review on the site where you bought it. I can't wait to do precisely that.
I will sod, as they say, off now, but given all my talk of writing songs, published authors and suchlike, will leave you with this paragraph from a book of essays/a recipe/short stories by the aforementioned Nerina Pallot, which sums things up about creativity rather nicely:
Of course a book, or song, or crocheted bed-jacket, or film, or painting - literally any result of creativity - is like a child. You might help it into being, you might recognise the odd brushstroke or familiar melodic motif as your own, but really, it's as if you had nothing to do with it. It was always there, just waiting for everybody to notice it. Any song is just the sound of 'life's longing for itself'. (Yes. Even the 'Macarena'.) Creativity is a constant quest for true connection, because words are only ever signifiers in the end; and when it's done right, it is the thing itself, the agency of love in action. And it belongs to everybody, but it means only what it means to you. Isn't that wonderful? Doesn't it make you feel less alone? I don't know about you, but creativity keeps me warm at night, and it stops my heart from breaking at five o'clock in the afternoon.If curious, you can find this book here - It really is a wonderful read.
We shall see if another blog entry appears before 2013 - It's about right that I don't blog for weeks on end, then pour out about four or five within a week. Peaks and troughs, always. In the meantime, goodnight, and sleep well.
Merry Christmas,
Love,
John xx
P.S: My gig tonight was fun, and I enjoyed it.
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