Thursday, 26 November 2009
Tuesday, 24 November 2009
Bowler Hats and Abergavenny
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!”
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!”
Monday, 23 November 2009
Strange Rumblings
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.
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.
Thursday, 19 November 2009
Confusingly...
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.
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.
Tuesday, 17 November 2009
Unexpected Knowledge
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.
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.
Monday, 16 November 2009
The Video Evidence
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.
Sunday, 15 November 2009
Doing It
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.
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.
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