The Smartphone Zombie Apocalypse Is Nigh

  Back in the heady days of the year 2000, these as-yet unkissed lips belonged to an eager 20 year-old, who fell in love, became a fiancee, spent a further year finishing a university degree in Drama & Creative Writing to get a 2:2 (which I occasionally wear to parties), and went out into the big wide world to work libraries (six months) and a shop (five years). Partway into this retailistic sojourn, the lad got a promotion to management staff, and the engagement sadly evaporated. Never having experienced this sort of emotional trauma before, it was undoubtedly a bad time to be plunged headlong into a retail-based Christmas Nightmare at shop-management level. If you're reeling from the dissolution of a four-year relationship, you don't want to be running a late-shift in a shopping centre, with 30 boxes of stock deliveries, three members of staff, and an army of moronic shoppers asking for refunds and trying to buy non-existent DVDs featuring the Churchill Insurance dog.

  Nevertheless, this was the situation in which I found myself, age 24, surrounded by stock with no hope of getting it all done before the centre shut, queries coming from all sides, Muse on the shop stereo, and Bing Crosby being piped in through the rear corridors (audible from our stock/staff room). Borderline madness. Then I knocked a pile of DVDs over, and my fuse blew.

  I do make it a rule not to lose my temper with people. If I have ever done this to anyone reading, it was a rare incident, and I would have apologised to you at the time. So, in my frustration and anguish (not to mention eagerness to not bellow at the staff in my charge), I did what any rational human being would do. I abandoned any pretence of booking on deliveries, and proceeded to welly the plastic boxes of stock with a broom handle (I even removed the brush-head so that it wouldn't fly off and hurt anyone). Those on the tills, serving customers, would have heard "SPINK! SPINK! SPINK! SPENK! SPERNK! SKENK! SCHENCHK!" until eventually, the broom handle broke. (I imagine the stereo was turned up a little at this point.) After I achieved this feat of strength, I took a permanent marker and wrote "FUCK CHRISTMAS TO FUCK!" on the side of a cupboard.

  The following day, my manager and I had a little chat about my feelings.

  This incident was affectionately referred to as "John's little breakdown", and the cupboard bearing my Festive inscription was henceforth used as a place to blu-tac newspaper articles of note, photos or posters. Pretty much anything that covered up the evidence of my blip, really.

  And it has to be said, in this age of mobile communications via multimedia, photos of the evidence from my outburst would have gone down a storm on Facebook & Twitter. Equally, though, they would almost certainly have scored me the sack. Had I a smartphone back in those days, utterance after utterance (either by customer or by colleague - both hilarious, but the former unintentionally so) would have been turned into social media comedy gold. I took photographs prolifically back in those days, and the sort of stuff that fills up that photo album would have been crammed onto Twitter in the blink of an eye, courtesy of a handheld link to the interwebs.

  I find it amazing the way social media is so accessible these days. My phone is not just a lifeline to my friends and family as it was in those days (my aunt once called my mobile to congratulate me on my aforementioned promotion while I was on the work toilet), it is also a window on everything. I talk often about how media such as Twitter, Facebook, Bandcamp, and more besides, have revolutionised the way I conduct my music affairs. The other thing I mention alongside it is the sheer number of people (and this is primarily via Twitter) that have been brought into my life via series of 140-character vignettes. People that I have, over the last sixteen months, come to care about a great deal.

  Now, sometimes, the question I have to ask myself is "Is this a problem?" I present unto you this small quote from an interview with Conor Oberst, of the band Bright Eyes:
"To walk into a room and it's a bunch of people going like this [pretends to type on a cell phone] it's so depressing. I do it too, so I'm not pointing fingers. But when you project into the future and you think, 'Well, this is eventually going to be archaic. We're not going to need the keyboard anymore. We're just going to be connected.' It'll all just be information-ideas space."


  Now, you know what this is like, and so do I. Like Oberst, I do not point the finger because I do this all the time, when time allows. My weekends are like marathons for my phone's battery, because I am catching up with Twitter, and sharing my life with it. I want to communicate with people, I want to know that Claire is okay! How did Max's meeting go? Is Kai having a better day today? I just heard/saw/thought of something funny that I bet will get a laugh!


The other weekend I went to my parents' house, and we watched the Wimbledon final. I was livetweeting it. It made me laugh, perhaps it got a few chuckles in Internetland as well, but I was in company. Part of me is a little bit sorry that I did it. But it is exciting to be so connected to everything, and the capacity to see something clever or funny and show them to your friends is overwhelming, which is why we do it. You don't want to miss your moment to catch someone's attention (especially if you follow someone who makes work you love) for that magic re-tweet or 'like'. And I play that game. I want to be noticed by people for being a witty and nice chap, because the chap that you see in that smiley avatar is the same chap that's sitting in a chair, in a music room full of fading sunlight, typing this.

  But sometimes I need to know when to put the smartphone down and look at the world with my eyes open. Last night I went to town to use a cash machine, and as I walked back along my street, I visibly and audibly jumped because someone two doors down from my house was standing in his front doorway, smoking a cigarette. I didn't see him from the far end of my road, because I was staring at my phone. That, to me, says "John, they will be okay if you don't look at them for half an hour or so. Put the phone down for a bit."

  But that doesn't mean I don't love you, okay? You get me through the quiet nights when there's no one in the vicinity but me and two bonking neighbours. You make me laugh when I'm having a down moment. When I make a thing, you're there straight away to tell me whether or not you like it, and the fact that you pay any attention at all (right down to reading this) means everything to me. And egotism aside, I am glad that I can be there for people who aren't having a great time themselves. It always makes me happy to know that I've cheered someone up or made them feel better.

  I'd say that overall, by and large, if you're having a hard time, it's better to reach for a smartphone than a metal broom handle.

Lots of love, speak soon.
John xxx

P.S: I know I called this "The Smartphone Zombie Apocalypse Is Nigh" - I don't even think it is, but if scaremongering works for the Daily Mail, what the hell!

I WANT TO PLAY SONGS FOR YOU

My bathroom always feels rather small.  This morning I closed the door and it seemed much larger, and I realised that I rarely did that and as such, the door acted as a kind of partition.


  That may seem an odd thing to start a blog entry with, but then it's been that long since I have written one of the blessed things that I should just go with the first thing that came into my head, so here we are.  It's mid-evening Saturday, the sun has shown its face once or twice, and there is a surreal piece of radio happening on Radio 4 Extra, in a collection of documentaries and pieces created by the BBC Radiophonic Workshop.  Currently, it's a lengthy piece called 'The Dream', which attempts to recreate the feeling of dreaming.  The workshop sampled descriptions by different people talking about their dreams, and edited different abstract parts of their descriptions together, with synthesised sounds reflecting the moods and feel of their recollections.  It is a piece that can render one quite soporific in a matter of seconds, and it currently feels as if I am typing with weights tied to my wrists and face.  I am going to make a cup of tea before carrying on.


Do please talk amongst yourselves.


  I'm back.  The sun has reappeared for the third time this afternoon, and now an episode of The Goon Show is getting an airing to demonstrate the Radiophonic Workshop's oeuvre.  Of course, having just gotten stuck on the next sentence, the Goons have finished, and an audio representation of Einstein's Theory of Relativity has just started, which frankly so unlistenable, I have turned the radio off altogether.


That's better.


  Of course, I didn't expect this to be a blog entry about writing a blog entry.  I had been getting rather good at it in May, having had what I can only refer to as a blog-splurge (for the only reason that I can't think of a better, not to mention less messy, term).  I have had some rather nice gigs since May, playing once again in Leeds, and also The Old Brown Jug.  August promises to be a fun month, with a gig in my hometown for a local event, Oatcake Day, which Stoke DJ Terry Bossons has been doing since 2010.  I am not, sadly, taking part in the actual Oatcake Day shenanigans, but another related event the day after.  Two days later I am proud to say I'll be playing at The Sugarmill for local music group Stoke Sounds.  Stoke Sounds run a blog and host at least one radio show in the area, promoting and reviewing the bands and musicians from around these parts.  I have done a session on their 6 Towns radio show recently, and am very glad to get the chance to not only play at The Sugarmill, but to represent Stoke's musical side, and support Stoke Sounds themselves.  It goes without saying that if you can come to this event (Saturday, August 11th, 4pm onwards), you really, really must.


  That brings me on to something I would actually like to blog about.  Gigs.  To be more specific, attendance of gigs.  This could get quite involved, so I promise I will put a video at the end of this post, that you will enjoy.  Right - I am going to quote from my friend Andrew Tranter, who writes songs and sings in acoustic duo Headsticks.  I had the pleasure of playing at one of his Song club evenings last week.  The following day, he wrote on Facebook:


  "After around 13 years of gigging, probably nearing 1000 gigs with Jugopunch, The Clay Faces and now Headsticks, I can honestly say that last nights Song Club at The The Old Brown Jug was one of, if not THE most enjoyable event I have been a part of! I don't know what it was about the night....but I'm still buzzing! Elly Kingdon was as ever a delight, John MacLeod his usual loveable self, Giro Junkie Rich Bloor was, I don't know how to explain, but he was so true to his music and delivered it with such passion... and I can't find words for how good Shaun and the Special Sauce were...and as for Headsticks, well we were alright for a couple of miserable duffers.....


 Only disappointment was a very average turn out for the show and this is a worry....how to get people off their backsides and down to a venue these days! Soon venues will start to question the viability of these events (if they are not already doing so), and the fact is that they don't add up and business is business....so gigs get pulled and maybe venues get shut and what then for local music,for local bands? It is really important that the local music scene receives your support....many acts deserve to be playing on a bigger stage to bigger audiences and are actually at least as good as the acts being played mainstream, many are better but just need exposure.....that's where you lot come in!!!! Please support the local venues/bands/events before it is too late!!!! If you have never been to see a local gig give it a try...you may just enjoy it!"


  There's not a great deal extra I can add to that.  I will be the first to admit that I am not out every night seeing bands, but when I can - I do.  Often, I am writing or working on new material, and because I am holding down a full-time job at the same time as making music work, sometimes I just need to stop and make sure that I'm not burning the candle at both ends - I have been there, and as a consequence didn't play for two years.

  But the point is that folk like myself need your support.  The concert that Andy's talking about in that post was a wonderful evening.  It even started early enough for people to see the whole thing, but as the night crept on, by the time the headlining act were playing, the audience were somewhat diminished,  and one or two pockets of the people there were noisy enough for the whole bar.

  So - my plea to you is threefold.

1:  If your friend is a support act and you come to watch, don't just disappear after their set - stay for the whole night.  You could suddenly discover your new favourite band in the space of an evening.  And just think - the headlining band have been seeing how many people are in the crowd and actively looking forward to playing to you.  Yes, YOU!

2:  If you're a support act, or playing in a lineup of several acts in a showcase, don't just turn up for your set and sod off after it unless you have a darned good reason!  The only excuse for this, in my opinion, is transport.  I recently played in Stafford for an evening of music in celebration of the Olympic torch having passed through town.  Not only did I get caught in standstill traffic on the way there (forcing me to miss my first set), but I had a stupidly early last bus out of town, and so couldn't stay for the whole night.  You can bet your life I did a circuit of the bar and apologised to everyone for that, though.

3:  If you're going to a music event, try and listen.  Trust me, I know what pubs are generally for.  They are for meeting up with your friends (that perhaps you don't see as often as you'd like to), and catching up, being funny, making each other laugh, maybe even talking through things that are troubling you.  And, at an outside guess, getting a bit pissed and falling off your chair.  I know this.  Sometimes, though, I find it hard to reconcile when a pub is putting a gig on.  At my very core, on those nights, I am a music appreciator.  I can concentrate on little else when someone is playing, because I want to see them play.  Similarly, when I am performing, there's a level of ambient noise over which I can easily play, but there's also a level of ambient noise which grates on my nerves.

  If you're reading this, I WANT TO PLAY SONGS FOR YOU.  So does pretty much every musician I know (and so do the ones I don't know, if I really think about it).  Be a good egg and come to some gigs.  You will be welcomed with cuddles, songs, and, one day, some high quality merchandise.

  In the meantime, as promised, here is a nice song from a musician I have just started listening to.  I hope you enjoy it.

Thank you for reading,
Love,
John xx

Return Of the Fat Ankle

  I would like you to imagine that I am typing this in the most obscene opulence.  I am in a palatial gazebo, reclining upon a chaise longue, while being wafted by giant feather, er, wafters in this oppressive heat (honestly, it's like Duncan Goodhew here - airless).  Whatever you do, don't picture the reality - which is me sitting in a hot lounge, having just eaten a Chinese takeaway, and listening to the radio on the internet. 

  Life is full of mysteries, folks.  Why do electricians finally turn up just at the exact moment you sat on the toilet?  How can mobile phone signal just disappear when you haven't moved, leaving you waving the damned thing in the air like a tricorder?  How on Earth is it possible to only have a bit of chocolate & leave the rest of the slab in the fridge?  There is one prevalent mystery in my life, Blogwatchers, and now it is the most perfect of timings to introduce you to my Fat Ankle.

  It was Summer, 2006.  One week in July, I got a small pain in my ankle, which felt like a bruise.  Within a couple of days, my ankle-bone was rather hard to discern among the swelling.  What was worse was being unable to put any weight on it.  On my way to work one Sunday (which at that point involved a train journey), my foot gave way and I fell over.  This, coupled with my already-slow pace, meant that I missed my train, and when I finally did get to work, I spent most of the day sweating profusely in an un-air-conditioned shop, lying down with my foot atop a box.

  Naturally (and this is another of life's mysteries), the pain had subsided by the time I went to see a doctor with it, the following day.  She was baffled, and said the only thing my ankle put her in mind of (apart from a grapefruit) was gout.  Seeing as I don't drink much alcohol, and do drink a pretty good amount of water, and I don't eat a massive amount of rich food, it was hard to know what could be causing it.  Blood tests didn't show much to help either.  (As an aside, I informed a manager about the falling-over-with-swollen-ankle that caused me to be late, and when I then told her that my doctor reckoned it might be gout, she said "You can't get gout from falling over!", which is true, but reversing that logic for a moment, you can fall over from gout.)

  Now it's 2012, and it has reoccurred about twice, missing out a year or two, which makes me forget that it happened, until now.  You can now picture me sitting at my computer if you wish, but now imagine me putting my foot up on a drumstool.  The pain bit has started, and I'm hoping it doesn't go to drastic swelling, otherwise I will be hauling myself to my gigs this week with a walking stick (a rather nice deep blue wooden stick, if you're curious).

  So, Blogwatchers, this is where I am.  Elevated and listening to the radio.  If any of you have a feathery wafting thing, make your way here post-haste!

Ta-ta,

John xx

Presenting...Yesterday I Was

Hello Blogwatchers.


I've managed to keep my blogsplurging to minimum, but now that work has started on my next EP of songs, I am rather proud of my results this weekend, as some of you may have noticed by way of my throwing it at almost every internet portal I can think of - this blog is no exception.  Of course, it would be rather sad if I just bunged it on this blog and left it at that, so I thought I would share with you one or two observations based on my experience of recording this particular song.

• It only takes my setting up of recording equipment, and the opening of some windows (as it is currently very hot & I would rather not suffocate while unravelling cables - more on that shortly), for my neighbourhood to spring into life.  I started work at about 3pm, and within seconds of my 8-track being laid out, a couple four gardens away decided to have a blazing row, and next door started, well, doing what they apparently do best.  At least I wasn't doing vocals at that point (forever my biggest worry about recording at home).
• I still hate wires & leads.  The best way to get me into a sullen & grumpy silence is to put me in a room filled with the darned things.
• I have indestructible fingers.  The lead break you hear in the below track was an accidental piece of marvellousness, and I am not terribly confident in the electric guitar department.  If we were in a studio and you asked me to "riff a bit" or something that involved improvised guitar-soloing, I would be tremendously stuck and play you one note in a rhythmic manner.  I have to work these things out, find something that fits, and that hopefully doesn't sound like a six year old wiping his nose on the strings.  (That said, it's possible that there are six year olds that can play better lead guitar than me.  Please don't find any on Youtube & show me, I'll cry.)  In any case, I happened upon the idea for this lead break, practised for an hour, and then took at least ten attempts to record it.  Twice I thought I'd done it right, but deleted them and had another go an hour later.
• I also now understand why drummers often go without shirts.  Dave Grohl and Joey Castillo must be superhuman, and how they can do an entire gig's worth of drumming is utterly beyond me.

So there it is.  I present to you, my newborn friend, 'Yesterday I Was'.  I hope you enjoy it.

 Yesterday I Was by mrjohnmacleod

Love,
John xxx

"A funny thing happened on the way here tonight..."

"So much pleasure," said Vic and Bob, during their brief stint advertising yoghurt, "but where's the pain?"


  For some reason, this question has lingered in my mind ever since those adverts were on the telly.  I am not, strictly speaking, an astrologically minded fellow, but every so often I wonder whether my Libran roots are at the centre of my tendency to sit on the fence, see both sides of an argument, and not be too hasty to pass judgement. I have heard it said that we live in a dualistic universe and I rather believe it, and so during moments of supreme happiness & contentment, I am often waiting for the other shoe to drop.


  So it was with the weather today.  OHMYSWEETLORDTHERE'SSUNANDWARMTHANDEVERYTHING! is pretty much what my brain has been doing this week.  Especially after the weekend, where I went to Manchester to see Gemma Hayes play at St. Ann's Church.  For the time I wandered the streets of Manchester, carrying an umbrella just in case it chucked it down (much as it had been doing the entire previous week), a sharp wind and general chill dogged my every waking movement, and it felt more akin to March than May.  It's as if someone has been blindly slapping their hand across the wall and finally found the light switch.


  With all this loveliness abound in the atmosphere, there has to be a downside somewhere, right?


  Right.


  Admittedly, it was brief, but the effect on my retina will be some time in healing.  I was walking home from the day-job today, laden with two carrier-bags of shopping & my rucksack, earphones in & playing some Gemma Hayes, and I was enjoying the warmth and the sunshine, the way you do when you've got music on and are unencumbered by coats, gloves & scarves.  (Those moments can be more life-affirming than being kissed, sometimes, can't they?  I think because you aren't huddling & praying not to be rendered too cold, nor are you battling fierce, numbing winds, or hiding from the rain, it's a very freeing experience, walking in a bright, warm sun.  Even if your arms are dropping off with shopping bags.)  "What," I thought, "could possibly spoil this perfect afternoon?" 


  Then I rounded a corner to walk the footpath under a bridge, and was treated to the spectacle of a giggling, tipsy woman, um, relieving herself against the bridge wall, while her equally tipsy boyfriend looked on, supping from a can of beer and also laughing.  I walked past, looking fixedly at the opposite wall, when the bloke said to me (I made this out through my earphones) "Nothin' you've not seen before, eh?"  I was determined to keep walking, so uncomfortably exhaled in the style of a "laugh", and then really motored on as soon as I was past them.  (For those of you who like  appropriate songs, the Gemma Hayes track that was playing in my ears during this was 'Easy On The Eye'.)


  So there is our prime example of cosmic balance - I enjoy the sun and warmth, life presents me with a grim tableau of public urination and voyeurism.  So much pleasure, and there's the pain.


  It was a similar state of affairs just before this weekend when I went to see Miss Hayes, (albeit the other way around with pain followed by pleasure) when I had a slump in self-belief and lost my ability to find a way forwards.  (If you haven't read, I had a big confidence lapse on Friday and wrote a blog about how I was feeling, whereupon lots of lovely readers, tweeters and friends got in touch and bucked my spirits up.)  What your responses and support made me think was that all I needed to do was keep going.  That sounds terribly simple, and in some ways maybe it is, but the main thing I wasn't doing was playing.  I have a stock six songs that I know awfully well, and anything else I have to run through a few times before a gig, so as soon as I got back from Manchester, I went to my list of songs and drafted out four short(ish) setlists, and I have spent every night so far this week practising each one in turn.  It is going nicely so far, only fumbling a couple of chords or dropping one or two lyrics here and there, but it's turning out that I know these songs better than I thought I did.  And once I've gone through these sets a few times each, I will know them intimately, and feel confident & happy enough in the material to pick a setlist and run with it.  I reckon that will improve my musical state of mind no end, don't you?  Never underestimate self-discipline.


  Also, if you see me slacking, just remind me of what happened on the way home this afternoon.  That should scare me into any form of distracting activity.


  Speak soon folks,
John xxx

Ode to a long, hot shower (and THANK YOU)

Hello again!


  I know, I'm barely giving you chance to keep up with my head (nor am I, if it comes to it), but I just wanted to spout forth some praise about a nice hot shower.  They are amazing and beautiful things, aren't they?  On the slowest of slow mornings, as soon as I clamber, blank-eyed into the shower, I start to wake up.  (You would think, after thirty-two years on this blessed planet, I would learn to crawl out of bed on a weekend morning, early, and have a shower, and, y'know, wake up.  Sadly, this is not always the case, and so many a weekend has seen me ludicrously recumbent.  Last week, when staying with my sister & her family, I had more early nights & mornings than I generally have when I'm not on holiday.)


  The other odd thing about showers is that they get my imagination going (not like that).  I could point to songs on my list and tell you how many of them have been finished there.  I tend to zone out a bit once the jets kick in, and while my practical brain de-focuses and starts thinking about "Ooh, this is warm," my creative brain starts to mull over that missing line in the third verse, or it will hum a bass-line at me, and then whisper an opening lyric.  (So far, thankfully, I have not reached the point where I get so stuck on a song that I have to dash into the bathroom at 11:30pm and dunk my head under the shower to finish off a pesky middle-eight.)  While I often enjoy the way that this seems to work, I can't help but feel it slightly unfair that of all the ways of loosening my brain up enough to write things down on paper, or play them on guitar, I seem to have chosen one that involves hot running water.


  Anyway.  The real reason I am writing this is to say THANK YOU.  Those of you who responded to my previous blog entry via Twitter (plus a text message and an attempt to leave a comment on the entry itself but couldn't, thanks to a pesky internet blip), you are lovely, lovely people (I do use the word 'lovely' a lot, but no other word does it, really) and you all cheered me up and popped a bit of fight back into me.  It's a funny old game, wanting to be a musician and songwriter, and to be able to reach people with your songs, there are peaks and troughs where your confidence can just let in a few doubts and worries.  Before you know it, you're wandering the house at midnight, trying to think of a "game-plan" that seems feasible without having to be a millionaire.  (I don't have to be a millionaire of course, I just need my guitar and my hands and some time, but then the thoughts you have at midnight aren't always the most lucid, are they?)  But it's so good to know that you are out there, being supportive and telling me to keep going.  It makes me happy and it means everything.  And of course, I shall obey.


So, thank you.


I am off for the weekend now, to watch Gemma Hayes, so I bid you adieu and have a jolly weekend.


Lots of love,
J xxxx

A Bedtime Story

  Somewhere, not now, but then, there is a little boy that wants to be a comedian.  If you asked him why he wanted to be a comedian, he might not be able to tell you.  He would probably shrug and mention that he likes Morecambe and Wise because they seem so terribly happy (he would probably be at a loss to understand you if you tried to tell him that Morecambe & Wise were probably  an exception to the rule with comedians in those days, and if you further boggled his little mind about the crippling depression that wracked the other humourists that he is enjoying as he grows up, he would politely nod in a vacant nonchalance he has since perfected - this is a child who, when told the facts of life, naively misunderstood, and for several years believed that you had to do put, erm, that, erm, there in the hospital, immediately before or during the birth, which seemed a little too intimate for his liking in front of all those doctors) and that he likes making people laugh (he has yet to grow out of this simple pleasure).


  It is very easy to have dreams.  It is astonishingly easy.  You just need to think them.  When they are depicted on the telly, the protagonist looks into the middle-distance and we see them with a fancy hairdo, spraytan, whitened teeth, and dressed in brightly-coloured, tight clothing, waving at a screaming audience in a glimmering television studio.  Those are the sorts of daydreams I used to have at school.


  Time plods on, and somewhere, the little boy becomes a boy and then a teenager and then discovers music.  He takes it to his heart and learns to express himself in scribbled lyrics.  If you asked him why he buried himself in music all of a sudden, he might not be able to tell you why.  He would probably shrug and mention that he likes Crowded House because they seem so terribly happy (although if you tell him that the reality behind their outward hilarity was sometimes strained, and that tension and depression weren't always far away from the Crowded House camp, he would probably listen, interested) and songs seem to be a way of channelling feelings that he hadn't realised was possible.


  When you connect with something that really reaches you, something that gets into your head and tickles your brain, your dreams start to become more grounded.  Instead of that strange, vapid idea of "fame", you start to think more in terms of what it would mean to do something.  Of what it would mean to you to do something.


  Not much later, the teenager goes to see his favourite musician in concert.  It's a bit of a jaunt, and along the way he gets his wallet stolen as a result of his own naivete, then avoids getting skinned & beaten in what was one of the roughest neighbourhoods in the city, whilst looking for the people who nicked it.  He enjoys the concert and is inspired by it, and emerges with a fresh wave of ambition.  If you asked him why he wanted to play guitar and sing all of a sudden, he would look you in the eye and say "Because I want to do it, because I believe I could do it."  Within a few weeks, he learns a variety of chords from the back catalogue of his favourite band, and is not only playing their songs, but using chord structures to make his own.


  You can see where this is going, no doubt, for as a reader, you are renowned for your skill with spotting a narrative.  Chords were learned, songs were (very slowly) written, and eventually concerts were played.  As he does these things, the "Because I want to do it, because I believe I could do it," is transformed, and he finds himself through his songwriting - he brings meaning to the songs in the same way that they bring meaning to him.  He expresses himself.  There were even a couple of bands and some appearances on local BBC radio.    Then he rests.  He is tired and has lost the spark for a time.  After a period of stopping almost completely, he comes back, realises how much he misses writing and playing, and finds avenues now open to him to broadcast to more people than before.


  The strange thing about the journey from there to here is that now, the need to be able to live has the ability to kick the music to one side where it sees fit.  At a point where the man in this story has finally grown in maturity and experience, and has what he feels are some of the best ideas that he has ever had, and potentially has a bigger audience than he has ever had, every day brings with it a necessary distraction of duties to keep him from turning his thoughts and ideas into some sort of tangible thing.  And he doesn't just want to do it for the people who are willing to listen, he wants to do it for himself, to prove he can do it, and because he will find it tremendously satisfying.


  He doesn't know where to start, which is confusing, but there is also a fear now that wasn't there before.  There is a cold, hard stone in his gut that makes him worry that he will always be an idiot, in a house, with the only company being that of his dreams, dreams no longer of brightly lit television studios and whitened teeth, but dreams of recording studios, musicians, new songs, playing with sound, quiet attentive music venues, and the love of it all.  


  He hopes against hope, and, drinking the last of his tea, goes to bed.