turnover

Frankly Amazed part 2

2011-11-03T11:04:00.000-07:00

A lively discussion has ensued round here from the considerations touched on in the previous entry. In the drafty outhouse that passes for an office, Shuffling Sid our roving sales clerk was ‘in’, resting between vigorous bouts of recondite sales technique, which, as far as I can tell, seems to involve rather a lot of phlegm-streaked coughing. He assures me that this approach produces quite startling results. Who am I to comment? I just pay the man’s wages.

Sid approached the issue as one of Democracy, which he insisted came with a capital D. He regarded the issue as of one of elitism and the creation of an underclass. He posed his most trenchant observation thus; “Should a sufferer from advanced Knucklum Shufflerosa not also be treated with compassion, be able to find inclusion within the big tent of society? Surely, it’s not asking too much to be included cheek by jowl with those other outcasts of our culture; the uniformed bus conductress, the photographic model, or the pouting topless tractor driver of the month?” He dissolved into a coughing fit induced by the heightened intensity of his engagement with the subject. I think I got his drift, but lost interest in it and sent him on his way with a flea in his ear, which rapidly became lost amongst the teeming multitudes already inhabiting his wretched tweed mackintosh.

Gloria, ever attentive at her desk, tush-tushed, and reminded me that I had failed properly to consider Sid’s line of reasoning. “I didn’t want to”, I said. “Get out of that if you can.” She couldn’t.

Frankly Amazed part 1

2011-11-02T14:14:00.000-07:00

At Turn Up, if the investment stream were larger than the trickle necessary to keep us thirsty, we would probably be at the cutting edge of emergent technology. We would have a gadget for this, a gadget for that, and undoubtedly a gleaming swivel-armed gadget for the other.

I am frankly amazed (part 1), however, at the deep conundra produced for some by the digital age and the reluctance to engage with anything that has not been systematically proven by at least forty years of use. Others leap aboard new ways of doing things without a backward glance, a flick of the scarf and a merry song at their lips. I’m referring to the reaction of some to our new digital products and a refusal to contemplate reading anything that is not in printed form.

I am certainly not anti the printed version of books, but there are certain realities and practicalities that have to be faced (do they?) Shut up, no-one asked you. The truth is that we could not afford to have any books printed as matters now stand. By going down the Kindle route we are able to produce our volumes and keep producing them. They would not exist otherwise. You may consider that not to be any great loss. You would not then be troubling us for a place in our customer base and can unceremoniously be told to bugger off in the most forthright terms.

However, you, if I can distinguish you with such particularity, are to be cosseted upon the sofa of smarm-swathed inducement and complimented for your debonair devotion to cultural exemplars, never mind the method of their delivery.

Also, like it or not, none of us are in a position to divert the march of evolving technology. It will go wherever it finds its niche. I would suggest that if it was unusable or no good, people wouldn’t go for it. The fact is that among the people I know, the ones who have gone for Kindle are those who are the most voracious readers of books. I had thought that they might be the very ones to be leading the resistance, but they have quickly realised that they have more room for more books, usually for less.

I am concerned for the effect these changes may have on printers, bookshops and libraries, but I think there are other larger pressures on them.

Launch

2011-10-30T02:05:00.000-07:00

Autumn has arrived at Turn Up Towers. Russets are sliding in everywhere, like sand on a sun-bathed beach. ‘Tis but gritty reality for the time of year.

Two books are now up and available on Kindle. Searching for ‘The Talking Wall’ will bring that up as the first item. It sells for £5.74. Searching for ‘almost free’, however, brings up a long list of books involving nude models. I’m not unhappy to find myself nestling in amongst them, but if you search for ‘almost free by Nick Alexander’ you can go straight to it rather than scrolling past scanty cladding to reach it. It is for sale at £2.15, which is more that nothing, but will hardly bruise the pocket. I urge you to explore, but I would say that, wouldn’t I?

Among future plans in contemplation at Turn Up are ebook versions of ‘I’ve Already Spent It’ and ‘For Reasons of Space’, a reappraisal of website provision to make things more user friendly, and the great step of audio delivery. Watch this space.

Posters everywhere

2011-10-25T15:25:00.000-07:00

‘The timeless experience of constant change’ has a good positive ring to it as a description of permanent development, bright with possibilities. Such is the picture at Turn Up Towers; the shining faces and happy wagging tongues of self-motivated cadres chattering away, ever generating new twists and turns.

Since my last entry to this august record of the epic doings of all things Turn Up, there have indeed been steps along the road. The posters are still selling. The whole experience has been tremendous, the response better that we could have dreamt. For Turn Up, this has meant red hot commerce.

I have, in my executive capacity, also launched a tie-in, the first ebook from the Turn Up stable. It is also called The Talking Wall, and contains my most recent poems, including all the poster poems. It is available for download from Kindle on Amazon for £5.74. I am pleased with the collection and heartily recommend it.

And, lo and behold, a second ebook is on the way! I wanted to provide a collection of free samples to encourage the wayfaring eye to delve deeper. However, I seem to have to specify a minimum price to load it into Kindle, so the collection will be called ‘almost free’. It’s nearly 100 pages long, so it’s not bad value. It is a mixture of poetry and prose so that readers have the opportunity to consider other elements.

And, once again, last Friday saw the extraordinary spectacles of Los Contrabandos in performance at Lizzie Carless’ 21st party. We were two men down, but we got through it without boos or assaults, so we can chalk it up as a success! We were followed a little later by the sublime Four Tart Harmony in their glistening red shoes and wonderfully appointed lungs. Chris Smith leaned across and tapped me on the shoulder during their performance. ‘See’, he said, ‘your PA system does work’.

Readings

2011-07-08T00:52:00.000-07:00

Where has the last week gone? Sunday was the big day for me. Despite the first reading taking place at 11 am on Sunday I had an impressively well-attended event. I was in the mood and managed to produce the necessary degree of fire in my belly. I started the day with a quote from one of Robert Hunter's poems, 'Three-Legged Mare';

Bridled and brindle,
blinkered and sway,
hobbled and hamstrung,
no more nor less than
a three legged mare,
the horse is yours.
Always was. Ride her
with bells in your heart.

That inspiration was sufficient to dispel the doubts and to enable me to proceed with full commitment. That and my observation of Michael McClure when he came to stay in last year's poetry festival. He was unwaveringly serious about his own work. By that I mean he took his work and himself seriously, not that he was without humour.
I have had some great comments from many quarters since the performances, the second of which I found heavier going (although still acceptable). The posters have been selling and the swifts still chase each other amongst the alleys and roof tops of old Ledbury, screeching with the delight of the free.
On Tuesday we hosted Adam Horovitz who was launching his first collection of poems on publication day. He gave a very affecting and effective reading that evening, followed by the eccenticities of Michael Horovitz, his father, which were delightful.
On Wednesday I joined the circus that is the Ledbury Lyricists at the Prince. Some fine performances, but there seems to be a diminishing number of visiting poets and perhaps too much music. That, coupled with a late start, reduced the scope I think. But, it is always enjoyable and good to be able to spend the evening in the pub without having to worry about getting up for work the next day!

The Preparation Vortex part 5

2011-07-01T03:16:00.000-07:00

Well, the days are slipping by. Only 48 hours to go. Yesterday evening Martin and I, under the expert eyes of Claire and Phoebe, stuck the posters up on the wall at Tinsmiths. They look excellent, even though I say so myself. That is due to Martin's skills rather than mine, and of course includes one each from Mark and Claire de la Torre. The wall has truly become The Talking Wall. It looks as though the weather will hold for Sunday. We are in with a chance of pulling this off!
The posters went on sale on line on Tinsmiths website on Thursday. Martin rang me in great excitement to report that four had been sold by 9.30 am. Once people start to see them on the wall, how will they be able to resist?
Later in the evening I read as one of 4 poets at the Tree Frogs gig at the Retreat. A good evening was had by all. As first poet up at the mic, I believe I had the distinction of being the first poet to read at the venue under the present management. I had a good encouraging response, and liked what I heard of Jai Hill and Amy Rainbow. Mark Stevenson's stuff is well-known to me and as I listened I realised that I knew it better than I thought I did. Familiarity in this case breeds deep appreciation. Nick Trigg suggested from the stage that we should start a fringe festival, which received cheers of approval. I go along with that.
I now need to make sure the microphone is working properly for Sunday and check my list of material. I have chosen my spot to stand so that I am within touching distance of the wall.

The Preparation Vortex Part 4

2011-06-23T13:20:00.000-07:00

The posters are all finished. They look magnificent and are a testament to Martin's skills. One each were done by Mark de la Torre and Claire de la Torre. I visited the print works this evening and was able to stand and appreciate. We will probably be hanging next Tuesday if Phoebe can accommodate us.
I also had the opportunity to run through my proposed programme of readings with Martin. I think he approved and he responded positively to most. I'm sure I will stick with what I've planned. I think the material will hold up - all depends now on my performance on the day. I need to be sure of my introductory pieces for the poems that require it. I seem to have an awful lot going on in the meantime, and as soon as I finish one thing something pops up. I have to go to Cheltenham on Saturday morning which I need like a hole in the head, and the next altered books meeting is next Monday - I haven't even thought about it yet.

The Preparation Vortex Part 3

2011-06-19T11:05:00.000-07:00

Firstly, let me correct a spelling mistake. Mark and Claire's surname is de la Torre and not as I stated.
I have realised that my second reading coincides with the men's Wimbledon final. I think we all know where our priorities lie, do we not? In our modern era of super-surveillance, I will of course be able to run checks of the whereabouts of all expected audience members through Turn Up's HD Surround-Envelope Bend-O-Scope Pork-U-Zoom Position Detector with updates at 3 minute intervals (and even then we miss significant action). Apart from the need to come up with a snappier name for the gadget, R & D have pretty well ironed out most of the kinks, which may be self-defeating. Never mind - the drawing board isn't going anywhere.
Martin is nearing the end of the production line for the posters, and I realise that he has dedicated many hours of amazing work to this project. He deserves all the recognition he can get and really has worked wonders. Perhaps I should give a little more thought to the consequences of my suggestions, which all seem innocuous over a pint in the Prince.
As I come to consider the minutiae of my readings, the question of the introduction arises. I think Tinsmiths will need to have input for that. Note to self - must chat to them about that.

The Preparation Vortex Part 2

2011-06-16T12:11:00.000-07:00

I said I would say more about Mark’s poster. He tackled the one called Madly, which goes as follows:

We all need a muse
And saviour;
Let me introduce
Miss Behaviour.

You’ll learn Latin,
Love and History,
But her methods
Are a mystery.

She’ll teach you
Intensely, madly,
Teach you
To behave
Badly.

When he’d printed a few copies off, he casually remarked to Martin whilst they were at the print works, “it’s a bit of a strange poem, this one; I mean, ... ‘she’ll teach you /intensely, madly /teach you to behave /baldy.’” Martin did react.
This poem originated in an earlier poem of mine called ‘Hangover’, which was too long to transfer to a poster whole. That can be found in I’ve Already Spent It, copies of which will be available at the readings.
Of course with a sense of humour like that, we’ve whipped Mark onto the drum stool for Echo Road. Lucky boy – well, he’s turned up twice so far. I always feel that the second week is the crucial one.
Back at the printworks, Claire, Mark’s wife, is setting another of the posters. She hasn’t quite finished because Martin was taken ill on Friday. Hopefully, that is under control, but it put her back by a few days. Martin explained that he wants to get the last couple finished now because they can take up to 4 or 5 days to dry.
Claire, of course, is one of the legendary Girls of Tinsmiths, a very important component in the realisation of our conspiracy. Maybe there should be a picture poster, showing triumphant women workers greeting the new dawn, to celebrate their contribution.

The Preparation Vortex part 1

2011-06-14T12:24:00.000-07:00

Here at Turn Up Towers all is clanging, banging, rushes of activity, as we head towards my appearance, nay appearances, in the forthcoming Ledbury Poetry Festival. Crack teams of mental gymnasts are devising ever more recondite preparatory callisthenics to ensure correct attitude and peak performance.
‘Correct altitude?’ did you ask? Oh yes, we’ll be cruising with optimum stratospherocity. I’ll be focused on the drinks trolley, the light in my tunnel, as the end point of my trajectory once the necessity to be seen as presentable has evaporated.
The exhibition is shaping up well. The posters are looking good, and Martin has allowed some input from Tinsmiths and associates, and there are some inspirational results emerging. I saw a great one by Mark de la Tour the other day. More on this next time.
So, if you are interested in the slightest, the readings will be at 11 am and 2.30 pm on Sunday 3rd July at Tinsmiths’ yard in Ledbury High Street. Each will last for 45 minutes, and I intend that there will be some variety between the two.
And you will also have the opportunity to purchase posters and books. The posters are fairly unique, and of limited quantity. When Martin tried to order some more poster paper (which is made from rag to withstand the weather) he was told that it was no longer available. The options seemed to be that they could specially manufacture some for a minimum order of 10 tons, or supplies could be had from India. Fortunately, Martin found a stack in a corner of his workshop to keep the presses rolling. The serious point is that ventures like this may not be so straightforward in future – a reflection of the way in which printing has rapidly become a computer-based art with the attendant collapse of the old ways.
This is not an exhibition or an opportunity that we are likely to be able to repeat. You owe it to yourself to witness it. You really do.
Stay tuned for further tales from the preparation vortex.

Ledbury Poetry Festival

2011-06-06T13:07:00.000-07:00

This year’s festival is rapidly approaching, and apparently ticket sales are looking a bit grim for some of the events. I think one should always look for a late surge.
I am taking part this year in a collaboration with Martin Clark of Tilley Printing. The roots of this go back a couple of years to the exhibition Jeanette McCulloch (another of my very best collaborators with Excavations of Eternity) organised under the title Unsung Heroes. I wanted one of my poems, March, to be exhibited as a poster, looking like a revolutionary broadsheet. Martin laid it out and printed it so well that it garnered a lot of comment. I thought there was scope for some more and he was up for it. We approached Tinsmiths, with whom Martin works quite closely, as they have the perfect wall and yard to produce a good visual exhibition. Phoebe agreed, but wanted to wait for a year as they were already hosting Roger Abbot in the 2010 festival.
So was born The Talking Wall, the name I thought gave a good encompassing concept to include my reading. I will be reading twice on Sunday 3rd July at 11 am and 2.30 pm, for 45 minutes each. I will not exactly reproduce the first reading with the second, although slightly more than half the poems will be repeated. These are official programme events although because they are free I do not have to wonder about ticket sales. We will have up to 12 poems on broadsheets and limited quantities of each for sale in the festival. I have also written some poems to go with this project, and will also weave in others I think work in such a presentation. As the day approaches, I am getting more fired up at the prospect, and I think it will hold its own.
I have also been asked to read at a Tree Frogs gig at the Retreat on 30th June. I am honoured that they should consider me, and I will put my mind to some appropriate material. Maybe one accompanied by some background jazzy music would work. I’d certainly like to have a go at that. I will probably try to use other poems than the Talking Wall ones, but maybe only in respect of the specific Wall material.

Echo Radio

2011-06-05T04:49:00.000-07:00

Well, it's been done; the great Echo Road radio spot, broadcast under the name Pablo Alto, and with a live interview segment with Danny and me. We were charming, the music sang from the speakers, and is now permanently stored on BBC Hereford & Worcester's sessions page along with all the others who have appeared in session.
We weren't as together as we might have been, but that's nit-picking; generally, I think it went ok and is certainly nothing to be ashamed of. I was able to pose the essential question over the airwaves; Where are you, Joolz?
What now for Echo Road? We appear to have lost Joolz which is a shame because he was good and a nice guy. However, we will now be trying out Mark de la Tour who has been playing drums at home for the last three years. He may not like what we do, but we're giving him a go on Wednesday and hopefully he'll bring another flavour to the mix. As far as I'm concerned, it's important that we should all have an equal say in how things go, although as usually happens, the more energetic each individual is in putting in his oar, the louder he'll be heard. It's important that we all keep in mind what we're doing with Echo Road; we're trying to discover our collective persona, and give it reign. Each change of personnel means subtle alterations to that. I'm quite excited about where it all may lead.

Dusting down

2011-05-23T12:28:00.000-07:00

Oh, what's in here, behind this pile of dust? Blimey! It looks like some sort of motor. It must have been pretty sleek once. I bet it gleamed and purred as it ran. A true relic of a bygone age! I wonder if I spent a little time cleaning it whether I could get any life out of it?
Do you know, I think it might just splutter into life again. Why not try to glide around the track a couple more times? What we need is to get it to turn over. There!
Now its flickered back to life things are beginning to move. Two items of news, arrive hot from Turn Up Towers.
Firstly, Echo Road, playing in disguise under the name of Pablo Alto, should be broadcast on the Andrew Marston show on BBC radio Hereford & Worcester at 7 pm on Friday 3rd June. I say 'should be' because we have already been moved once, but the recording is in the can. Frustratingly, we are yet to hear it as well.
Secondly, in conjunction with Martin Clark of Tilley Printing in Ledbury and Tinsmiths of Ledbury, I will be reading at the Talking Wall in Tinsmiths' yard as official events nos. 20 & 24 in Ledbury Poetry Festival. We hope to see a good turn out - indeed, good turns all round. Poster will be available for purchase by clientelle of discernment and wherewithal, and copies of all my books can be signed in your presence for a suitable transfer of ackers. Messages can even be personalised.
And so, we enter the era of hard sell and raw commerce!

Seasoning

2010-09-22T10:06:00.000-07:00

Turn Up Towers above fog, which forms a miasmic pool at the feet of the groaning keep. The greater elevation provided by the situation on a hilltop helps the effect of course. Procrastination being my watchword, I noted that shortly we would move beyond the ripe and into the rot, and that this season I had completely skipped the raw. Inadvertence is a strange bedfellow! Her cousin, Miss Adventure, had even avoided collusion with the raw. I gaze out upon the specially-bred spindle-shanks dahlias, 12 feet tall this year, and admire their orange and red bomb-burst forms above the shifting shroud that hides the ground. They look like a black and white photograph, with one or two brilliantly-coloured highlights, like Ed Mustafic’s famous orange in an otherwise black and white bowl of fruit.

A mysterious call from Orville Quantock, long silent. The urgency in his rasping voice persuaded me to roll out the car and recklessly agree to collect him from a disused railway halt, long abandoned to weeds and the ghosts of weeds.

Mist almost amounting to fog the last two mornings, a deep, swirling, allegorical fog. The tide of the year is changing. Strange beasts become active at the edges of perception, in defiance of reason itself. The engine seems to stutter as I clatter in the old charabanc across the bridge that leads away from familiarity. The radio falls silent. I catch sudden sight of a phalanx of five leeches moving across the moistened surface of the passenger side window. Is it just my imagination that seizes upon the indescribable horror of their constantly moving mouths? What is it they say?

How Do You Skin A Cube?

2010-09-14T11:00:00.000-07:00

I haven’t worked out yet why I should find this question disturbing. Perhaps the combination of words is in itself strangely unsettling. There is something sinister about the imagery involved, as if the mind is grappling with an alien consciousness.

Talking of which, it wasn’t a bad turnout for the Echo Road performance a few weeks ago. I don’t believe anyone went away feeling short-changed, and we managed to launch a few new songs into existence. What we now need is an evening gig or two.

I ought also to give a mention to Tessa Frith’s beautiful album, Mindscapes, which is simply stunning if you are in the mood for a clear female voice and supremely tasteful instrumentation. It’s introspective and suitable for those quieter, more reflective, moments of the day.

Annals of the Eerie Pt.3

2010-08-27T10:05:00.000-07:00

"This odd new idea that all ideas, no matter how insane, merit equal consideration and that objective fact has ceased to exist."

Irrationality, eh? Surely we shouldn’t give it house room at all. However, I have noticed a strange relationship developing with my alarm clock. I suspect that, although it is an inanimate object, it has telepathic properties. Let me explain.

How often do I awake at night? I turn to the clock, which has an illuminated display which is activated by pressing the button on it’s top. I sometimes guess the time, and when I check more often than not it is within a minute or two of the display, quite frequently dead on. 2.22 is not likely to erupt into reality unless some rather odd mechanisms are at work.

Sometimes, the clock goes further, as if to show off it’s weirder abilities. Last night I had the pleasure of attending a Billy Whizz gig at the Retreat. They were on fine form as usual, as were the Film Extras before them. I saw a number of faces, chatted and smiled and nodded at words I could not hear. Then Billy Whizz re-appeared in my dreams. I call that overstepping the mark actually, but I can find it within myself to forgive. They were playing a magnificent song towards the end of their set which involved repeated chants of ‘Aubergine!’ ‘Aubergine!’ ‘Aubergine!’ ‘Aubergine!’ with a furious riff thundering away behind it. Suddenly, the power went and the song was left in mid air as it became clear that the police had pulled the plug. The band shrugged and started packing up.

Then, and this is the quirk that struck me, without missing a beat my alarm went off. The morning had arrived in a demonstration of alarm clock omnipotence, one that I shall not lightly forget. I was left to writhe in a confusing tangle of “wha happened?” and throbbing aubergine. The dream and the clock were obviously interwoven in some ninth-dimensional matrix somewhere beyond perception.

Is it really inanimate? It IS without the battery – let’s hope it’s sentient enough to remember that!

And, while we’re on the subject, I thought I might invite Rob Clark to guest edit an entry for the blog sometime to provide tips for the dashing man on techniques for ironing shirts. Anyone with half an ounce of fashion élan will be anxious to reproduce the even-ness of his crumple.

The Object

2010-08-24T10:52:00.000-07:00

Menaced by a mystery object
That I could not define or explain
I thought that by changing the subject
I’d never have to face it again

Chorus:
And now I’ve defeated that object
But the victory was always in vain
Because by defeating the object
I’ve defeated the object again

You object whenever I say
We’ve fixed up a meeting tomorrow
But if I were to see you today
The future is passed by Time’s arrow

Chorus

Climbing to the peak is the object
Swinging upwards by hand over hand
But the point of the purpose the aspect
Where the skies kiss goodbye to the land

Bridge:
An object is a subject to some
And you’ve become an object of fun
An object is a subject to some
You’ll always be an object of fun

Chorus

Austerity Measures

2010-08-23T13:52:00.000-07:00

Turn Up Towers is not a military outpost, susceptible to chains of command or other forms of restraint, but even here we are not immune to the mania of the age. It is peddled by the very to-do and arrives in a bundled suite known as ‘Austerity Measures’.

‘Austerity measures what?’ you might ask. So far as I can see it measures the distance across the moat that separates those who have from those who don’t and the depth of said waterway and multiplies the two to produce the ‘Co-efficient of Protection’.

I therefore instigated such a calculation at the Towers and have received the surprising information that our ‘Co-efficient of Protection’ is a minus figure of substantial dimension. I have thrown the dice in all sorts of startlingly original ways, even employing one or two tricks of the conjuring trade, but the result could not be fiddled with, or even strummed along to.

Which brings me to Roger and Bronwen’s barbecue. Hugely enjoyable, old faces, opportunity for a bit of pluck. I was joined by a guy called Neil who was good company and we managed to turn out seven or eight numbers. Throughout we were accompanied by Sophia and (I believe) her elder sister who danced their little legs off, aged from guesswork 4 and about 8. Good times.

And not to forget the approach of Echo Road’s performance next Saturday at 2 pm at Ice Bytes. I am aware that vast swathes of our potential audience will be off on holiday (rather a rush on late bookings I think), so you should be able to get in through the crush.

Audience

2010-08-16T14:04:00.000-07:00

And now, folks, calm your excitement! Echo Road will be playing at Ice Bytes cafe at the Homend in Ledbury on Saturday 28th August 2010 at 2 pm. We’ll play for about an hour and a half. We have a number of new originals to play, together with a few new covers. And we’ll be playing again some of the stuff you may already have heard. We’d love to see you there if you can make it, as it’s always better to have an audience. And you can indulge in coffee, ice cream and all that cafe sort of stuff. Entry is free, so I hope you'll support John and Shoko by indulging yourselves in outrageous gluttony. Feel free to rustle your shopping in appreciation of the music when the mood sweeps over you.

Salve and Salivation

2010-08-12T12:35:00.000-07:00

How often have I referred to the men and women who beaver away behind the scenes at Turn Up Towers? They deserve recognition, albeit of an anonymous nature, for their endeavours. This is not through any desire on my part to detract from the full blossom of their celebrity, but from considerations of due probity. The glare of publicity unfortunately renders their work impotent.

However, I can tell you that one research team, whilst engaged in other studies altogether, has reported a number of digressions into the world of alternative medicine. This is an area frequently derided by the traditional scientific community, amongst whom we would usually proudly take our place, but usually in ignorance of some very interesting phenomena. Take, for example, the healing qualities of magazine articles through the use of nostalgia and the gentle application of pictorial representations of inanimate objects. Inanimate objects? I hear the readers of a particular tractor magazine scream. These are living machines with beautiful and finely balanced souls that reward the operator/owner/keeper the time and effort of salve and salivation.

And isn’t that the nub of the hub of the flywheel of life? Set it in spin upon the oil of choice and smoothly runs the well-adjusted, well-oiled human. It amounts to a philosophy, you know. A name for it, anyone?

The Fabled Return of the Fanciful Wanderer

2010-08-11T14:35:00.000-07:00

It’s been a while as they say, and things have been churning. Stomachs, mainly. Turn Up Towers can be a grim a windswept pile of tottering stonework at times. There are those who take the view that it all depends on how you look at it. I take a different view, suspecting as I do that there are outside agencies at work.

Enough of that old guff! The Ledbury Poetry Festival is a subsiding memory. It was as good as I’d hoped, and in many respects surprisingly better. Michael McClure and his wife Amy stayed at the Towers. Great company. The headline in the Ledbury Reporter was right on the button; ‘Poet Holds Audience Spellbound’. Also staying were Colin Still, the film maker, and his wife Fern. Also good fun. It’s difficult to see how the experience can be topped next year, especially as Chloe is taking a year’s sabbatical.

But Martin Clark and I still have plans for our collaboration to take place at Tinsmith’s during next year’s festival. In fact, Martin has been working on the posters over the last couple of weeks. I am humbled by his skill and the beauty of the finished posters. They should sell; they virtually leap out at you and demand to be taken home. Tinsmiths is undoubtedly our best outlet.

I have to put my hands up to a lack of application on the web development front. Marcus bravely waits for some utterance of direction, some twitch of inclination, but manages to remain good company at the bar of first resort. We’ll get there, I’m sure of it.

Echo Road continues to be an inspiration and a frustration. Frustrating that we don’t get out and play, but when practices click, very productive and positive. We hope to be performing in Ice Bytes cafe one Saturday afternoon very shortly. I’ll return to this when more is known. There are certainly quite a few songs awaiting their first performance, including one in which Michael McClure had sufficient input to warrant a writing credit. Be there.

Annals of the Eerie, pt 2.

2010-05-18T14:10:00.000-07:00

Here’s an entry I unaccountably omitted to post. On the morning of the 16th March, while driving into work, I glanced up through the tinted glass of my sun roof, and saw a faint rainbow halo around the sun, presumably caused by high-level atmospheric ice crystals. I have previously seen this phenomenon around the moon at night, but not the sun. Looking through the front windscreen, which is not noticeably tinted, the effect was almost invisible. What caused me to glance upwards at the moment I did? I don’t usually drive in that posture, of course. Possibly not as eerie in retrospect as I obviously thought at the time.

Moving away from the eerie, I should introduce you to Tinsmiths, which has rapidly established itself within the Ledbury demimonde. They are purveyors of exquisite manifestations of quality fabrics, materials, and some art prints and a few books, each selected for its singular appeal. They have agreed to take the limited edition book of Excavations of Eternity, by Jeanette McCulloch and me. Hopefully, a more accessible outlet will mean that the rarefied exclusivity of the Turn Up site need not be such an impediment to sales. Apart from my understandable desire to get your feet through their door, I believe you would benefit from the experience in any event. Look for their sign near Boots in Ledbury High Street.

The 2010 Ledbury Poetry Festival starts on 2nd July. I am barely able to contain my delight that Michael McClure is event number one! The beat poets were one of the major forces in my version of post war culture, and were the major inspiration I needed to attack an innocent page with a nib. You may or may not regard that as a good thing. Then there’s Billy Collins and some local input, such as Jeanette’s collaboration with Graham Hartill, which I am itching to see. And the town party is back. How anyone was allowed to shut that down in past years is beyond me. I suppose salsa-dancing poetry aficionados are regarded as subversive in some quarters. I am planning to partake in the Ledbury Lyricists evening at the Prince of Wales on the Wednesday. I aim to have a few new ones to try out, accompanied by one or two refreshments. If noting else, I shall take the opportunity to raise a glass to Chloe Garner, the festival director, who has surpassed herself with this year’s programme.

Billy Button's Back Story

2010-05-16T01:13:00.000-07:00

Are the truly doomed afflicted with an inescapable foreboding from birth? Is it a genetic imperative, or a self-fulfilling prophesy? In retrospect, I suspect that Billy wrestled with these notions throughout his formative years, so that by the time he was ready to launch himself upon the world, he took with him an impediment that could only possibly have been removed by vast forces independent of and beyond his control.

This is not to say that he did not have moments when a shaft of light might appear, when perhaps he was able to sense the illusory nature of his perceptions. Sometimes such an episode was sufficient to fuel a surge of enthusiasm. I believe it was in just such a lather of excitement that he approached me with the proposal that Turn Up would benefit from a Dick department. I confess that my initial reaction was to remain silent, a silence that was hidden behind my question, “what do you mean?”

“I see it as a natural home for Richards,” came the reply.

Well, I reasoned, we didn’t get where we are today by turning our back on the adventurous. I offered the man terms on the strength of his audacity.

“I will provide a ceremonial launch, and if you can find and establish your office, you’re on.” I waved my arm vaguely in the direction of the green labyrinth, where dim corridors snake off into the miasmic archaeology of the East Tower.

We searched for a suitable celebrity for our event. Cliff was attending to his seagull, and Keith had fallen from a coconut tree. I couldn’t see that that should have been a problem as he was only required to sit there. In the end And Judy was able to favour us with his undoubted charm on the proviso that we gave the event no publicity while allowing him to drain the colour from our corporate wallet.

All went as planned, but the shadows were forming around Billy’s eye sockets even as he set off to search for a departmental office. I even tried to dissuade him at the eleventh hour, but to no avail. He was off to a new life with all the enthusiasm of a scalded sloth.

Corporate Structure

2010-05-14T15:01:00.000-07:00

Every now and again it is necessary to go through the process of realignment and shake-up, hopefully to arrive at another stage of development. It is easy, frankly, in the arcane corridors of Turn Up Towers, to set up whole departments and lose them, perhaps years later stumbling across a lost patrol trying to find an exit.

Of course, these things are always launched with the best of intentions and to the accompaniment of suitably well-fuelled and star-studded send-offs. A private view works wonders in the establishment of the correct frisson of interest to initiate the venture. Sometimes, even amidst all the fluff and bubbles, one catches the doomed depths of sub-conscious awareness of the futility of the endeavour, the anticipation of abandonment, in an unguarded eye or listless smile, usually of the senior appointee involved. It is a moment to bring pause and shudder, but a bright light on a glittering earring will usually do enough to ameliorate the full horror.

Only last week, I was on a nocturnal foray into the green section, which glows with adipose malevolence, when I found myself ducking behind a pillar to avoid detection as I witnessed the strangely meandering manifestation of Billy Button’s shadow as it crossed the main passage. Wilted, stumbling, crowed to a point almost to stretch the recognition, it was certainly the umbrage of the man who had been appointed Head of Dick only three short years ago. The warts gave him away.

That’s the trouble with giveaway warts; they in cyst on situating themselves within the curtilage of observability.

Politics

2010-05-05T12:48:00.000-07:00

Never, they say, discuss politics or religion in decent company. Well, quite, and, then again, the room sometimes becomes so stuffed full of elephantine flesh that comment is necessary.

Someone in Turn Up’s crack team of observers has mentioned that an election is imminent, if not already well and truly afoot. The natural inclination of at least 50% of the population is to recoil in deep apathy. We are told that former generations died to obtain the vote, probably not as an ironic gesture. Indeed, we have a system whereby the ballot box is used in preference – to what?

We’re good at self-deprecation, keeping our heads beneath the parapet, dodging the question, lying low, irony, fast-food, beer, and pontificating in the UK. We call it humour.

Turn Up’s policy is not to seek to influence those who believe in liberal democracy, on the paradoxical basis that that is the one system that would allow us to do so. Is it an act of perversity to mention in passing that we are suspicious of special interests, fat-trousered benefactors, or the sound that licked lips make when they freshly emerge from the trough? And what of the financiers, generals and theocratic mumblers who remain well-hidden?

Maybe you want to give these folks free run of the levers that direct the parameters within which you have no choice to live. Maybe it’s raining and it’ll be difficult to park anyway.

Jus’ sayin’.

Imagine

2010-05-04T14:25:00.000-07:00

Yes, imagine my surprise at running into a dishevelled Orville Quantock at the bar of an hotel in Neath. Yes, Neath, not Nice, where pleasant climes approximate.

Not having seen the man for months now, my natural inclination was to enquire after his wellbeing. A certain cast of eye and wind stopped me in the tracks from advancing along that avenue of re-introduction. There was a deal of swivelling into lackadaisical position and bracing of the shoulder before he could bring himself to acknowledge my presence. I hadn’t previously clocked him as a man given to action for effect, but he seemed to have undergone a personality change. Rapidly, we arranged another meeting to be taken under less observation. I sensed there was something to disclose, about which he displayed a marked reluctance. I’m sure we’ve all met the type of cove for whom each approaching slice of life will arrive enigmatically and with a fanfare of overweening self-importance. Orville, mate, get out a bit more.

It was only after I’d reached home that I discovered that he had slipped a note into my pocket whilst I was engaged in the above studies, and that his whole display had merely been a distraction. The man had outsmarted me again! More of this anon.

Ash

2010-04-22T00:23:00.000-07:00

Sweden, the cold chatter of birdsong as it echoes through silent skies. Elliott's first birthday party, the reason for our trip, is now a distant memory, and he grows in size and ability by the hour. He must be a Midwich Cuckoo. I built a section of stone wall from the coloured volcanic rocks that is everywhere present, and have been able to observe jays and a woodpecker up close.

I have also managed to complete the revisions to the book, thanks to the magic of memory sticks. Now to print the copies for my volunteer readers. And then to seek a publisher, the blockbuster nature of the project being of bank-busting proportions for an outfit like Turn Up.

Sun shines on the righteous today, but we've had snow.

I should record that this is the first 'field entry' I have yet managed for the blog. Contemplate that one if you will.

Boot/Foot Displacement Massacre Memorial Moan

2010-03-18T14:57:00.000-07:00

Who’d be a Viking
On St Brice’s Day?
When the striking starts
It smarts,
Whatever they may say.

‘Unready’ they said
He’d be, that Bastard
King, Ethelred; Danes
At pains
To dodge the deeds he fostered.

To our counsels kept
We took our down time
While in they crept, and swords,
Not words,
Were used to draw the line.

Coincidence

2010-03-15T15:48:00.000-07:00

Last Friday morning over the first cup of tea of the day, I was reading The Oxford History of England volume about Anglo-Saxon England and reached the part that described Aethelred the Unready's order to massacre Danes on St Brice's Day in 1002. They'd obviously got up his nose. Later in the day I read in The Independent an article describing an archeological find in Dorset in which the bodies of a band of Vikings had been found. The report made it clear that they had been killed in that massacre on St Brice's Day 1002.

Funding

2010-03-02T14:18:00.001-08:00

It is with some reluctance that I must report that this site is not funded in any way by offshore funds that should otherwise have gone to the UK taxpayer. More’s the pity, say I. Do I really? No, more would be very acceptable, thank you.

So, you ask, what’s been afoot in the topsy turvey world of Turn Up? I received a very wonderful comment from my friend Fran about Winter Dance on the Santa’s Twin EP. That’s what makes all these endeavours worthwhile, fran-kly.

My brain seems to have more unresponsive soft tissue than most, so the planned improvements to the website are still moving forward, but very slowly. Marcus continues to be a great support, and I will get myself geared up and together soon.

Mostly, I have been spending my time writing my novel. I thought it was time to produce one, and a story has emerged in the telling. It is called ‘Treatment’ and is a satirical comedy thriller. What I do with it, or myself, when it is finished remains to be seen. If you are a rival publisher with a yen for publicity and a monumental advance burning a hole in your pocket, don’t be afraid to make contact, toot sweet!

I sense the competition will be fierce, and I fully expect to be submerged by the bidding war I have just set in motion.

Ultimately

2010-02-01T14:07:00.000-08:00

Ultimately, matey,
When you walk along the road
Twice as much returns
As half the stuff that goes.

Persons So Disposed

2010-01-26T10:36:00.000-08:00

Upon re-reading my entry for 18th January, I am concerned to note that I may have received a sly visit from Miss Interpretation. A suggestion may have crept in that I was less than tolerant of specific individuals.

Nothing could be further from intention. I was directing the comment to General Reader, that over-promoted militaristic type who lurks in murky quarters.

I hesitate to speculate what sort of offspring would result were Miss Interpretation and General Reader ever to meet under circumstances of tumescence!

Dragon Tattoos

2010-01-22T14:27:00.000-08:00

Now and again Turn Up likes to give pointers to our cultural or otherwise thinking, influences, recommendations even. You make your own mind up about them.

It’s not often that I find myself reading the current number one bestseller in the book charts. But, a couple of weeks ago that’s exactly what happened. I gradually became aware during last year of the stir created by Stieg Larsson’s Millennium trilogy and asked for them for Christmas. I thoroughly recommend you do the same next year if you haven’t succumbed before then. Well-written, tightly plotted, and gripping. You don’t need a Swedish connection to appreciate them, but it adds to the interest. You need to read them in sequence, so start with The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, and take her from there.

And, depending on your interest in sound system hardware, take a look at this short interview to be found at www.audiojunkies.com/blog/730/an-insiders-look-at-the-grateful-deads-wall-of-sound - now, that would have been amazing to use. Perhaps Echo Road should be thinking along these lines.

To return to a vaguely Scandinavian theme, have a look at this: www.youtube.com/watch?v=OinrOnjzh_4 - I think you’ll enjoy that one.

Definition

2010-01-19T10:12:00.000-08:00

Definition

Are we defined by what we write, by what we say? To a certain extent, I suppose, we must be. But, surely, also by our actions. For a great many people, the two do not always knit comfortably together, which possibly was the original thrust of a certain infamous Club alluded to in a previous entry. It is neither the time nor place now to revisit that ignoble institution. However, that does not mean that I am not prepared to comment upon events in the outside world, whatever their degree of reality, surreality, or otherwise.

Perhaps inevitably in a situation such as Haiti there is utter chaos, and words of assistance cannot always be matched to deeds. It is often the simplest expressions of disenfranchised hope that speak the most clearly. Oddly, it seems to me, religion has little of value to say at these times. It is a time for doing. The Pat Robertsons of this world are quick to define nothing but themselves. I’m not sure that you turn up here for theological observation, but certain questions of omnipotence raise their heads; you decide how satisfactorily they are answered by those with an interest in doing so.

Cadbury; the case for simple company law reform. Give the Board of companies the power to veto hostile take over bids. It is a choice between the way things are done in the States and the way they are done in Europe. At present we adopt the US model. In Europe the people who are passionate about what a company does (generally the people who have got it going and operate it) rather than purely the shareholders can take the decision. That is why in Italy a company like Ferrarri is still independent (I’m not sure that this still true, by the way, but the principle holds good). How was it Oscar Wilde defined it? “A cynic is someone who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.”

May You Live In Interesting Times

2010-01-18T13:28:00.000-08:00

Life recently feels as though it has taken a sidestep into the path of this Chinese curse. It has developed a habit of interrupting the normal flow of output at Turnup with diversions and irrelevancies.

Someone has had the temerity to suggest that we inhabit a fantasy world here at the Towers. Possibly there are unusual elements to it, but fantasy? I can tell you without any shadow of contradiction that everything recorded here is as solid as you are, and twice as likely. And that’s the only reason you’re tolerated.

But back to business. Plans are afoot. The website needs action of a specialised nature. The virtual spanners are being polished in the secret laboratory as we speak. Sprockets are newly machined and lying on the workbench. The hum of imminent assembly is in the air. I have sworn myself to reticence and cannot pass beyond this point unscathed.

Wait and ye shall be rewarded.

Returns

2010-01-14T13:54:00.000-08:00

Frozen while still fresh
Old dog turds are now returned
By the melting slush

The Curse of The Extreme Knitting Club

2010-01-12T13:58:00.000-08:00

In his more unguarded moments Orville Quantock sometimes reveals incidents from his past that, one quickly suspects, he would rather have forgotten. Of course, like most of us, once he touches upon a subject it is difficult not to say more.

We were watching the whirling snowflakes pass the partially steamed window of the snug bar during a lull in conversation when Orville mentioned his encounters with the Extreme Knitting Club. A shudder ran through his frame as he spoke.

“Aye, it was on a night just like this when I first came across the Extreme Knitting Club,” he said. “The weather was unexpectedly ferocious and cold with it. I was frankly threadbare. My companion said he could recommend someone who might be able to help me. I was at a low ebb and accepted his offer. He took me to the dark end of a backstreet unfamiliar to me. He told me to knock twice and took his leave immediately. He didn’t want to linger, which I thought odd at the time but which I now thoroughly understand. The door opened with a creak and a bony hand whisked me in through the door.

“I was dragged into a dimly-lit parlour; all I could hear was the rhythmic clacking of massed knitting needles and the odd cackle. Every now and then a flare would shoot out from the fire that burned in the grate, sometimes singeing one of the knitters. Whenever that happened a great hoot of appreciation reverberated around the room. I could not fully make out the mechanism by which the catalyst for these flares, presumably some chemical compound, operated.

“A voice like cracked leather started at my ear. ‘We can’t always join the away teams for the really extreme environments, so we’ve created a little entertainment here at our headquarters.’ I turned to be confronted by a crone whose one eye swivelled wildly as she spoke.

“ ‘But what are you knitting?’ I asked, unsure whether such banality was permitted. By way of reply a brown paper bag was thrust into my hand. Before I had a chance to inspect the contents my visit was terminated and I found myself tossed back out into the alley.

“Not quite sure whether I had really been in the realm of the normal, I hurried home as rapidly as I decently could and as fast as the inclemency of the night would allow. Once there, door safely closed behind me, I inspected my package. I had been given a set of beautifully knitted pairs of woollen socks. There were seven altogether, each having had a different day of the week sewn into them. My initial reaction was that it was a useful idea.

“However, I have come to view the gift as a specially designed curse of peculiar potency upon those of us inclined in the slightest towards superstition. When folded, the particular day of the week is hidden so that it cannot be seen when one is looking at one’s sock drawer in order to dress each morning. Of course, on the odd occasion that the correct day is selected, there is a brightness and purpose to one’s endeavours during the day. If, which is more likely, the wrong day is selected, one trawls one’s way through the hours always waiting for the worst to appear at any moment. Thus, am I cursed.”

Orville fell to quiet contemplation. It was impossible to find any words of comfort that did not sound empty and insincere. I allowed him to buy me one more drink before leaving him to his thoughts.

New Year, New Style

2010-01-06T02:14:00.000-08:00

Count me amongst the ranks of the strange if you must, but things have turned unusual for 2010 already at Turnup Towers. Are we situated on the outskirts of Vladivostock or up in the Urals or in even in deepest Transylvania, the mention of which reminds me of someone you’d like to meet who reminds you of yet another person?

No, we’re in other climes, other regions altogether, but we share the snow. A haiku arrived, as follows.

Coral bark; thick snow,
The garden quiet beyond;
There is no message.

Point

2009-12-31T09:46:00.001-08:00

Now we’re here upon
That point in time that’s plucked
To signify the fulcrum,
Not by sound nor silence bucked;

All in solstice set,
Wallow in the syrup of the year
Where old days, spent,
Compost to dream, and disappear;

But then witness birth,
Minted, glints novation of the New!
Gleams blinking fish-head
Was this the dreaming boy we drew?

He stands fresh and strong!
He cavorts with every sense;
Catch ahold his coat-tail
Gather up what he’ll dispense.

Will you glance behind,
Taking pause and stop, stock and store?
Did you bid farewell
To all that ran and runs no more?

Will you be seduced
By that whirling piper, pied,
Who leaps off up ahead?
He’s never caught, though most have tried.

Or do you circulate,
Stepping steps you’ll step again?
Shall we meet to greet
The wondrous ways of twenty-ten?

Come, let the matter lie;
The King is dead, a curious thing;
John Barleycorn must die;
He’ll come again; long live the King!

Snowstorm Expectations

2009-12-29T01:53:00.000-08:00

The prediction was for raging snowstorms centred on the lower park here at Turnup Towers. The view as I type would have been magnificent, engendering a complete alteration of perspective. Now and again, such a shift of emphasis, purpose, and appreciation is necessary for the maintenance of forward motion.

All media are agape with the date; the end of the ‘noughties’. Wow. Well, what do you remember? Was it a decade of liberation? Was great art created?

Many years ago I came across a piece from Alexander Solzhenitsyn, which I have always borne in mind as a good starting point when one feels the urge to indulge in self-satisfaction, as follows:

“There is a law that governs all artistic creation. This law said that no previous work of his carried any weight, that it could not be counted to the artist’s credit.”

Back to the snow; naturally, it has now started raining. Maybe the snow will materialise later, but I’m not holding my breath. We may have to put the Automated Snowball Distributor back in it’s safety cage, although I’m hopeful of deployment later.

Hang on, was that a nip in the air, or am I imagining things?

Bowled Over

2009-12-21T12:59:00.000-08:00

I fear that Marcus has been somewhat less than entirely forthcoming concerning the actuality of his deepening relationship with the bowler hatted community that has sprung up locally. I had formed the impression that he was a disinterested observer, retaining the degree of independence in his sartorial proclivities necessary for the proper discharge of that responsibility.

Alas, no longer. It seems that he has burst the bubble of objectivity. He has been outed, as I was able to verify for myself when recently glancing at the Ledbury Portal. There, as large as life, is a photograph of the man himself manhandling his bass guitar onstage with the Fylthe. I thought at first that a trick of the light must have been involved, but, on closer inspection, there is no mistaking the bowler hat he is wearing with such cavalier abandon. Indeed, if anything, it swallows light, producing a sort of anti-halo effect. It seems to fit well, which unavoidably leads me to speculate that perhaps he has been indulging in this perversion of headgear for many months, to the extent that the contours of his cranium have adjusted themselves for its accommodation, it being well-known that the human head is not naturally so disposed.

You see, a bowler hat is not constructed of a ‘giving’ material. It is of a ‘take, take, take’ disposition, all the way. No wonder Stanley Kubrick turned in its direction when signifying the nihilistic conformity of his little droogies.

The Imaginary Turn Up Album Awards

2009-12-13T04:01:00.000-08:00

Generally, at Turn Up we are not producers of lists. You know the sort of thing; The Top 100 Greatest Guitarists Who Have Ever Lived or some such thing. They never include Mark Dawson and since Jimi is always number one (and rightly so) there seems little point in the exercise.

However, we thought you might be interested to contemplate a list of albums we have enjoyed this year. As we weren’t here last year, as a special festive bonus we’ll give you our rundown for 2008 as well. Let’s limit each list to 5 albums. We’ll ignore reissues, and concentrate mainly on studio albums, but not exclusively.

There are no specific categories, just a list. There's not really even a winner; they're all winners, or they wouldn't be mentioned. There is no awards ceremony, although that need not prevent you from indulging in one in your imaginary head. You are sat at a table at the far corner of the sumptuous ballroom between Lady Gaga and Florence Machine. I mean you’re hot, with the hottest people in your immediate vicinity. This means you must also be extremely cool. But it don’t mean you’re going to cut any ice round here, Sunshine. We’re not necessarily au courant.

A constant susurration of excited chatter floats across from neighbouring tables where the likes of Jimmy Page fend off Them Crooked Vultures as they circle the hors d’ouvres. An endless bottle of vintage St Emilion is available for your personal consumption as you contemplate the nominations. Knees are rubbed as if by accident. A drum roll.

2008.

Lookout Mountain, Lookout Sea by Silver Jews. Wonderfully suggestive songwriting, bursting with strange wit and wide-open skies.

Flight of the Conchords. Fabbo and funny in one package.

Sun Giant EP by Fleet Foxes. If you like your harmony on the wholesome side, this is for you.

Emma Forever Ago by Bon Iver. Introspective, but in a good way. Getting a grip, effectively.

22 Dreams by Paul Weller. For some of us, our first Weller album. A torrent of ideas, cohesive, professional, magnificently jobbed.

2009.

The Liberty of Norton Folgate by Madness. Possibly their finest, a cavalcade of London character, pinpoint observation, serious intent, and a great knees-up. (Florence, behave yourself!)

Where I Come From by New Riders of the Purple Sage. Whoda thunk it? NRPS come up with one of their best ever albums of entirely new originals after regrouping a couple of years ago following many years out of the saddle. Some great jamming songs. Quality of the Nelson/ Hunter songs unimpeachable. A great album to drive to. Sadly, John Dawson was too ill to participate and died earlier this year.

Together Through Life by Bob Dylan. Robert Hunter made a significant lyrical contribution to this one as well. A good muscular album that grows on you. Song titles don’t come much better than ‘Hell Is My Wife’s Home Town’, although on checking, it’s actually called ‘My Wife’s Home Town.’

We Used To Think The Freeway Was A River by Richmond Fontaine. I have previously mentioned the extensive Turn Up library. It also houses a large canyon of musical recordings. However, Richmond Fontaine had previously avoided our notice. This is subtle, beautifully crafted music with some unexpectedly sharp twists to the tail.

Let It Rock: The Jerry Garcia Collection Volume 2 by The Jerry Garcia Band. A live recording from 1975, but released recently. Luminous quality and amazing rapport between Garcia and Nicky Hopkins, whose guitar and piano entwine endlessly throughout. One of the greatest ever Garcia releases.

You sit at your table in disbelief at the antics going on around you. Your disbelief is tweaked on two accounts; unaccountably, you have won nothing, and neither has Mark Dawson. Frankly, the bugger would stand a better chance if he got off his arse and recorded something.

We are now entering the festive season proper, something that has not escaped the notice of the powers that be at Turn Up Towers. Jollity is creeping like a miasma into all aspects of our operations. At this rate we’ll be like helium balloons ready for the bursting by Boxing Day.

Inflatable Guinea Pigs

2009-12-10T15:39:00.000-08:00

“I would like to know how in all my 50 years, guinea pigs alone stand unravaged by inflation.”

Public houses are becoming increasingly strange places. I had just been approached by a seedy-looking cove who introduced himself as David Smith (likely story) and offered to pay me for my exhaled gas. I gave him a quizzical eyebrow while he elaborated; hugely complicated schemes of client-specific introductions, carbon sharing, gathering tubes and mobile storage facilities. I was still unclear where the money would be coming from, when he mentioned the word ‘investment’. He was reeling from the knuckle-tapping to his forehead I used to drive my repost home, when the above enquiry wafted through the fug from the deeper recesses of the squitter bar.

I diverted my attention to this knotty confluence of imponderables. Orville Quantock arrived, swiftly staking a claim to his customary length of bar top by the deft manoeuvrability of his right elbow at the unfortunate Mr Smith’s expense. Mr Smith was a man certainly unravaged by inflation.

Orville was immediately interested. “Is the period of 50 years significant? Is such a period only measured by reference to the questioner? Aren’t guinea pigs quite social creatures? By what criteria is a guinea pig ravaged? Are there any circumstances in which they become inflatable? Were there any other known instances amongst other creatures of unravagement by inflation?”

These were words of reason, I felt. Parameters had been left sadly askew by the originator of the query. We were on the cusp of abandonment of the search for meaning. Beside us, Mr Smith leant across the bar and asked for a vodka and tomato juice and wide-bore straw.

“Perhaps they deflate so rapidly that it is impossible to detect whether inflation has occurred, such effect being triggered by a sixth sense that reacts to observation, but in the millisecond before the observer is aware.”

“Not bad, I’ll allow, but I can’t help feeling suspicious (Mr Smith shifted uneasily) when milliseconds and undetectable effects are brought into play. You’ll instantly lose your scientific rigour if you follow that route.”

Orville studied his pint, then glanced at Mr Smith’s dull red concoction. “Straws! That’s it! Guinea pigs pathologically back away from straws. Well known, that is.”

Mixing It With Mister Phones

2009-12-06T08:16:00.000-08:00

Having just returned from the second mixing session with the deftly-fingered and bat-eared Mister Phones at Shabbey Road studio, I thought I’d bring you up to date. We have been working to massage the lumps and bumps out of the Santa’s Twin recording of Christmas Presence, soon to be winging its way to the four corners of the globe.

Mister Phones swivels many a lugubrious glance toward my end of the control room whenever I interject with yet another suggested layer of impracticality. I sense that he would prefer to work within the bounds of possibility and that my outbursts merely serve to highlight the gulf between initial aspiration and final destination.

Nevertheless, we persist. We bear down on those tricky little curlicues of notational waywardness and suck the volume from them. Sometimes, less truly is more.

The first mix on Thursday turned out to be less than perfect. How could it have happened? The quality control department put her foot down and vetoed the product. This was a major setback. Dejection, worthlessness; you know the score (particularly you three from the left in the purple shirt – yes, you!) and so on Friday the drawing board was whipped out again. Mister Phones applied his considerable patience to the problem, and we remixed it all. We lost the verse I cocked up in one song, in a seamless transition. That’s when I allowed the first glimmer of possibility to return. We attacked glutinous vocals and raised the profile of some good effect.

Finally, we emerged with as good a mix as we could manage. The Christmas EP is now ready and will be distributed to the select few in the run up to Christmas. Quality Control has given it a fervent thumbs up. Shona the guinea pig was overwhelmed with surprise, er, admiration. We will see what we will see. If anyone reading this would like a copy they may apply by email and obtain one for free.

Here at Turn Up we hope that you will all enjoy Christmas Presence from Santa’s Twin as our gift to you.

Full

2009-12-02T00:30:00.000-08:00

Well, the office blind is rattling away in the wind in counterpoint to the rhythm of my fingers as they bring you this report. The rattle is hardly surprising in this turret thrust up into the jet stream, combined with the cracked window that not only lets an icy blast through but emits a perfect B flat as it whistles. At first I thought it may have been an effect of the slipstream created by the speed with which I type, until I managed to divert an optic nerve and a brain cell to consider the matter properly.

Research is an important component of what we do here at Turn Up. I regard it as fuel. One suspends reality with the deepest of breaths and enters a twilit realm peopled by laughing, leering faces, clattering noise and unremitting ribaldry, as if the world was steam-driven and operated by half-human circus performers, tinkers and pickpockets. It is a world of wooden floors, leathery beer, and endless echo. Worlds of nether knowledge become apparent, freshly-minted truths briefly shine like the creation of micro-universes. Wits are necessary in a slippery environment in which they are liable to go clattering off on any one of the many tangents that slant across the view.

Sometimes, of course, it is the tangent that holds the revelation. Borough Market on a Friday, a bustling, hustling, barrage of humanity. The Victorian ironwork of the railway viaducts, riveted pillars, encloses the melange of stalls. Brickwork, reflecting hundreds of years of passing trade of every sort, stands solid. Far older dust blows about our feet, in the very air we breathe.

Suddenly, across the market, we catch sight of a possibility. We’re off! Pelting after shadows down cobbled alleyways, echoes fading behind us. Up East; the swaying carriages, all thrown into normality by the lights, but glimpses through to the next car as the train wends the bends. Plunging into an avalanche, I can only go with the indivertible currents of the day, until, exhausted, I make my only real mistake; a chicken tikka pastie. Sometimes we should be protected from ourselves. Low on Mr Rennie’s elixir of balm, it is an error I would come to regret.

Tirelessly we experienced the flavours of the day. I’m not certain at the end of it whether one could say that there is anything that can be catalogued, but there remains a layer of accumulated essence for the mulling.

Such is my report.

Off

2009-11-26T22:00:00.000-08:00

Off to London...emergency research responsibilities...report later...

Bowler Hats and Abergavenny

2009-11-24T11:59:00.000-08:00

I am asked by Marcus whether bowler hats are ever acceptable in Abergavenny. I immediately despatched a research team to the more recondite end of the dank corridor that runs the entire length of the east wing of the Turn Up library. There, behind a rusty doorknob, lies the expanse of archive room twelve, containing the as-yet uncatalogued delights of the Ramjollock Collection, which has been held in strict scuggery for decades. I have a notion that the team may be able to ferret out something useful from the piles of papers that gather dust there, and I anticipate their report as we speak. Until they reappear we may have time for speculation.

What sort these days wears a bowler hat? There was a time, of course, when the average High Street seen from above would be a river of jostling bowlers surging in from the gasworks end. Bank Managers and the like felt naked without them, which may have contributed to their demise in the nineteen sixties as laxer morals and more frequent displays of public nudity took hold in the more august of our financial institutions. I’m sure most of us well remember those heady days when bankers and chandeliers went inevitably hand in hand.

But what of Abergavenny? Did any of this social turmoil impinge upon the timeless splendour of the town that nestles innocently in its beautiful surroundings? Crispin St Peters found his way there of course and I once saw him perform in a pub in Sidcup, so Abergavenny’s innocence may only be a facade. If only we could find a peg on which to hang these theorems and suppositions.

!

Pegs may be the answer. Bowler hats sit beautifully upon a peg behind an old ornate wooden door because the entire rim can lie neatly against the grain, and there’s a good few suitable doors in Abergavenny. So perhaps the answer to Marcus’ enquiry is yes, but only when removed from the head and hung up out of harm’s way.

Ah! I hear the thunder of rapidly approaching footsteps. The footfall of a team of researchers is unmistakeable with their long coats flapping like runaway tongues through a light morning mist. They suddenly burst into view, rheumy-eyed and damp with exertion.

“Well, did you find anything useful?”

“That we did! A bowler hat is not a sausage!”

Strange Rumblings

2009-11-23T14:43:00.000-08:00

Here at Turn Up we like to keep our eyes to the ground. No, eyes are all over the place; ears are to the ground. We have a number of shadow departments, in fact, all of which operate in the background to keep the bit you see running smoothly, rather like the below-water portion of an iceberg. One such department is Surveillance. No, we don’t waste our time in clandestine operations watching people, not unless it’s absolutely necessary.

Anyway, I was on duty last week when it came to my attention that unusual movements were due to occur on Saturday near Burford in Oxfordshire. I seconded my dearest into the subterfuge and she drove us out to a small hamlet where the swollen River Windrush swept beneath a Cotswold stone bridge. A swan bobbed beside a rustling reedbed. The sky was slate grey and bursts of rain raked our cheeks like shrapnel as we left the shelter of the car. As is often the case in these situations, a hostelry happened to occupy the nearest building so we went in to see what we could see. All was alarmingly normal, that is if the Daily Telegraph food writer signing copies of her latest book is to be regarded as normal. We approached the bar with assumed names and found that a table had been booked in those very names. The world waited for something to happen. We joined it, sure that we had picked up a trail of some sort.

It wasn’t long before our quarry showed themselves, darting for cover in out of the surrounding inclemency. Well, you can’t go anywhere these days without crossing paths with someone or other from the depths of time’s hinterland. Fragrant Mary was taken quite by surprise. Why that should have been so, accompanied as she was by that operator sine qua non, Mister Richardson, he himself a shadowy figure, is beyond the scope of our present abilities to answer. Things soon settled down, however, and she was to be observed cutting capers all afternoon, accompanied by an eager soundtrack of intense mastication.

We chewed the fat, we sucked the bones, we batted the breeze. We chased tails up hill and down dale, and round the houses. We had sorties, lunges, coughs and tea. Seeds for the future tumbled in profusion. We may have been no nearer to a conclusion, but the satisfaction is always to be had in the journey.

Confusingly...

2009-11-19T14:44:00.000-08:00

I don’t know whether anyone else is having trouble signing on to comment on the blog. Judging by the lack of comments either you are or you are waiting for a relevant topic to emerge or there is no-one out there. I tried to mention to Sunny a couple of weeks ago that I appreciated her comments, and found that I could only approach from certain well-defined directions, definitions I was not immediately prepared to adopt. But don’t be afraid to email my fridge.

I also notice that the time indicated on my blogs is always incorrect, so there may be a conspiracy afoot. I’ll take the matter up with our crack team of experts, who will shortly swing into action.

I think the payment arrangements for sales will be up and running shortly. A Turn Up Recordings page will also be available. The Pig’s Eye View retrospective is compiled and has undergone some remastering. The artwork will be completed when the camera battery is recharged. It’s quite a package, I can tell you.

Fragrant Mary has suggested that web space could be made for unusual snacks (reference the idea I mentioned for the distribution of edible samples a few posts back). Food is clearly uppermost for some, and we are here to pander to the full range of your outlandish desires. Our modus operandi is to anticipate what you may require before you know it yourself, and have the blind faith to deliver on the basis that you will be too polite to reject something so well-intentioned. As a method it can be hit and miss, although, for some of our more discerning clientele, the experience remains exquisite.

Talking of Blind Faith, I just gave ‘I Had To Cry Today’ a quick spin. It’s still amazing after all these years.

Unexpected Knowledge

2009-11-17T14:27:00.000-08:00

If life was predictable we could never experience discovery. If things remained constant and changeless, there would be nothing unusual. One of the important characteristics of knowledge is that before it is known it is unknown. I speak from the individual perspective rather than collectively, and after some personal confrontation with the subject.

Of course there are those for whom the capacity for surprise has been stifled or has completely atrophied through lack of use, usually self-inflicted. It is possible to so arrange one’s own environment that anything not already catalogued is excluded, so that only the already trodden path is trodden again. And again.

Fortunately, there are those who thirst for the odd, the strange, the quirky, who long to hear the mighty crack of the unexpected. Explorers of the long way home, such as Orville Quantock, have waged a campaign on behalf of the obtuse for many years. In order to facilitate his endeavours, he applied for charitable status. This has been refused him, however, on the spurious ground that his object is subject to a lack of definition. And this, despite his apoplectic attempt at quantum justification. His avowed intention to orchestrate a mass revelationary moment has thereby been undermined, at least for the time being. But, time being what it is, he regroups every evening with the assistance of the amber filter and three or four stout companions. Plans are always afoot.

It is a campaign with which Turn Up has a great deal of sympathy. Whilst we would never advocate wholesale absorption of the man and his peculiarities, even if such a thing were possible, we are prepared to extend an acknowledgment in his direction.

Indeed, Turn Up would itself be virtually pointless in the absence of the full panoply of the Laws of Uncertainty, Digression and Pop-Up, in all their majesty and extent.

The Video Evidence

2009-11-16T13:11:00.001-08:00

It is always a moment of quiet contemplation when a Turn Up artist such as Echo Road receives independent notice. If you would care to proceed to www.ledburyportal.co.uk you will find a special few moments captured in a magic lantern show of rare dimension.

Doing It

2009-11-15T13:34:00.001-08:00

Well, an Echo Road performance finally happened. We played six songs acoustically, with the help of the PA of course, and had a good reception. It appears we’re not just whistling in the wind. I felt that the two acoustic guitars worked well with each other and the vocals came across clearly. Possibly a bit too heavy on the reverb in one or two spots, but that can be trimmed next time. We did one cover (Dead Flowers) and the rest were originals.

The Angie Hughes Band also played. They sounded good. Marcus’ mandolin and Adrian’s percussion augment Angie very tastefully, achieving a good blend.

And the photo exhibition is well worth seeing. It’s all inspired by music, and there’s quite a variety of styles. As always, Ice Bytes is ready to welcome punters and the exhibition is certain to run for a while, so get on down there.

Echo Road

2009-11-12T13:41:00.000-08:00

Friday the Thirteenth and Echo Road will be playing at the Snapzology exhibition at Ice Bytes, along with The Angie Hughes Band. Do come; you’ll have the opportunity to hear ‘White’, the lyrics to which I put up here yesterday, and which were exactly one year old. John Rose already had the tune and the two melded together the instant they were introduced.

Armistice Day

2009-11-11T10:58:00.001-08:00

White

If my words took flight
They would find your ear
No distance too far
No whisper too near

You may not recall
You’ll never forget
Every step of the way
Will get you there yet

White on the water
On river on sea
Something that caught ya
Reminds you of me

A flash of a lens
A trick of the light
Signals in colours
Gradations of white

When nothing is the same
And happens despite
I climb from my knees
And try as I might

White on the water
On river on sea
Something that caught ya
Reminds you of me

An Introduction

2009-11-10T13:43:00.000-08:00

Ready or not, ready or not, I am reminded by Mr Quantock that we live in times of flux. The balance of the spheres alters, levers spin, lines of communication are cut. Strange realignments ensue and in turn will become contemptible through familiarity.

You may not have been introduced to Orville Quantock. The man is an enigma, has the constitution of an ox and processes thought at light speed through a quicksilver mind. Yes, he has blind spots, a tendency towards the pedantic and unopened correspondence, but these are mere diversions. He is able to formulate theories on most subjects, sometimes even in areas in which he has not previously dabbled.

I am able to speak with authority about the man and his doings from two impeccable sources; my own observation, and, more thoroughly, his own explanatory utterances. I believe that I have been privileged in the latter arena probably through the application of my interpretive skills.

Nevertheless, he is not a man with whom one could be said to stand constantly eye to eye. For example, on hearing of this side gate into cyber-space, Orville immediately assumed that its sole purpose was for the dissemination of his peculiar views. “Don’t be foolish,” I was swift to respond, “opinions are like arseholes; everyone’s got one!”

Well, he’s a man of the last word, as you’ll have guessed by now, and was equally quick to point out the unoriginality of my observation.

“Notwithstanding,” said I, “it still resonates in the pith.”

A Visitation

2009-11-09T10:45:00.000-08:00

The sun had withdrawn from its daily duty. The temperature dropped and a keen breeze picked up. I went out to shuffle the cars on the driveway. An old familiar voice sang out, “Oi, Knickers!” from down the road, causing me to look up. The unmistakeable outline of Nick Matthews (yes, the infamous sculptor himself) lurched into the circle of light beneath a streetlamp. Serena and he had arrived in a vehicle that could have quite comfortably encircled the Moon.

Well, we’re a little bit older and a little bit wiser now, but from a sense of unrestrained humanity we decided to put all that aside. Claire joined the party and the five of us embarked upon the business of the evening. What was this transaction, you enquire? Hah! The research would be pointless if I could tell you that. Hard-won nuggets of knowledge should not be so lightly relinquished, I can tell you.

One thing is for certain. Caroline’s curries were the stuff of legend. I’m not sufficiently equipped to divulge recipes hereabouts, but I recommend you keep a weather eye out for the chance of a taster. Unrealistic, you may think. However, I think there may be some mileage in the addition of a new culinary division to the Turn Up empire, specifically to deal with the demand for mail order samples of particular recipes. Or maybe for a short-lived promotion. Just a mouthful, reheated with care, popped in the gob for a truly succulent experience. Bob really could become your uncle. A slogan begins to form, something about Bob a Gob week.

A Package Arrives

2009-11-06T10:11:00.000-08:00

A package arrives. I open it. Nestling amongst the swaddling bubblewrap is a compact disc. It is by and from my friend Stuart Mills. Blessed with the gift of a golden voice, Stuart has sung in bands ever since I first met him too long ago for human beings to be able to properly recall. Now he has finally recorded an album of well-chosen covers. It has a good warm feel to it, and I particularly like the original song on it, Time Goes By. I’m not sure whether it is generally available, but enquiries can be made if anyone wants to explore.

MPs demand answers over Nutt sacking screams the headline. You couldn’t make it up, could you?

I see Marcus has managed to channel the late Stanley Unwin on the home page. This ability must be encouraged, fostered, nurtured, teased out and displayed wherever possible. It is the duty of all who encounter Marcus to put a pint of cider in front of him and talk nonsense to him, since this seems to be the fuel on which he operates. I only have a few opportunities per week to do so and others must shoulder some of the responsibility. It is for the greater good. You know it makes ninsense.

And there’s a fine example of a typo, which has led to the dictionary, originally christened the Typorific Dictionary, now given a corporate makeover as the Turn Up Dictionary. You will hear (I mean read) more on this subject. Assume the position and brace yourselves.

Jessi's Birthday

2009-11-04T11:54:00.001-08:00

It’s Jessie’s birthday today. Hoorah! I spoke to her in Australia on the dog ‘n’ mobile. She had to shout very loud and speak slowly. Ah, kids keep you young.

Sweet Caroline’s at botanical drawing after which we’ll meet at the Feathers. It’s a good arrangement I find. Frankly, I get a piece of peace and quiet and then some just desserts to soothe my loneliness. If anyone reads this quickly enough to join us we’d love to see you, and I’ll even forego my spot at the bar to allow you prior access.

I should mention, probably not for the last time, that Echo Road, or at least the bit containing John, Claire and I, will be having an outing to the Snapzology (is that right?) exhibition at Ice Bytes on Friday 13th November. We’ll be playing half a dozen tunes at the acoustical end of the spectrum. If you’re at loose ends, slide along for a gander. The Angie Hughes Band are also performing. Mind you, you’ll have to move a bit sharpish – it kicks off at 6.30.

November Swoops In

2009-11-03T14:03:00.000-08:00

November swoops in. Things to do, always things to do.

I said I would mention other projects as they arise. A while ago I suggested to my friend Ed that we should collaborate on a book of haiku and photographs. I have written (and revised) a sequence of haikus and he has been assembling the appropriate photos to accompany each one. Some we had to put on a back burner because they were seasonal in nature. One required a blustery autumnal day. The perfect conditions arrived on Sunday, so I persuaded him to accompany me down to the river. Hey, let’s not beat about the bush; this is the haiku in question;

Windswept, middle-aged,
And sitting by a river;
Current position.

So, we needed to get my dishevelled self in there with the suggestion of wind and the ripples in the river. I used myself from the opposite consideration to vanity – how could I ask someone else to take it on? It was wet down there as it had been raining hard overnight. Anyone watching may have wondered what was going on. Strangely, there weren’t many other people about.

Setting up a Turn Up Recordings page has me thinking about other possibilities. In particular, a collection of Pig’s Eye View material over the years seems to be in order. I’ve had a listen to some of the stuff in the vaults. I’m still standing – just. Having whittled down the selection on the criteria of at least listenable recording quality, songs I am happy with and performance, I have come up with a collection. I may tinker with it a bit, but Ed can help me in levelling out the volume levels.

I’ve included Happy Valley as part of the PEV story, as we were the same people under a different guise for a while. I regard Los Contrabandos as separate, as it was decidedly before with a substantially different line up. Over the years we had quite a number of members, quite apart from guests who helped out at one time or another. I was lucky enough to work with a succession of good singers; Pim, Darren, Ed, Claire and Natalie. Was there a reason they all moved on, one by one? Was it the same reason? We’ll get as many of them into the collection as possible.

Start

2009-10-30T11:54:00.000-07:00

Welcome to Nick’s Turn Up News interface/blog/dissemination of unexpected information. This is news of a different stripe. Make of it what you will.

From now on, I will continue in the first person. I have enough difficulty managing one personality without grappling with the plural. Not that I ‘manage’ very well. I just am, and that’s the way I intend to continue to be.

Having set up this site, what to do with it? What’s it for? Firstly, I wanted an outlet for my various projects. Over the years I’ve been involved in a number of bands, and there are a few recordings floating about. I’ve also published a few books of poetry. It seems daft to have these sitting around at home when there might be people who would like copies.

So it’s a bit of an experiment as well, to see what feedback I get. I also want to try and develop a bit of dialogue, to try and get some communication going. Who knows where that sort of thing might lead?

Then there are the future projects. More recordings are planned. Certainly, my current band, Echo Road, want to start recording soon. We have a pool of original songs, which we think are strong, and it would be good to get them down.

I’ll let you know about other ideas as they come closer to the surface. I may also want to comment on other things as I go along. I intend to make regular entries to this. I welcome any responses.

I want to thank Marcus Morris for his input into the website. His is all the technical skill, and I hope to persuade him to continue to be involved. I recommend you visit his blog pages – they are superb.

I also want to express my appreciation to Jeanette. Her artwork speaks for itself, but more than that, she has been a great person to collaborate with. I love collaborations, the heady atmosphere as ideas start to move. Of course, that is the nature of playing in a band and I have been fortunate to have played with a lot of people who have been selfless in the generosity of their help to me. I’m sure more reference to all of that will seep out as we go along.