Hangin’ on (the telephone)

You sit there, in your favourite chair, eyes fastened to the telephone apparatus, waiting in the lowering dark for the call to come.

The shadows lengthen, deepen and die. Darkness fills the room, seeping through the west window and flooding the space with night.


They said they’d call.


The committee would meet, sounds like a great idea, I’m sure they’ll go for it: we’ll call to arrange a date and a fee.

And so you sit.

And so you shall, my small Acoustic Chum. And wait you shall too, for we have discovered that promises like that you can get any day. What you need, is a light, beacon, guide if you will. Not to get the booking, but just to lighten the week of the Acoustic Muso who will, for ever, be waiting for that call.

Wherefrom shall such a little light shine?

Be Welcome, Gentle Reader and read on…

Lest you think I am starting to develop a Complex Christus with all this talk of guiding lights, let me tell you that this week has been pretty dark for us too. Not that there has been anything wrong, just that the road to recovery has had more roadworks in it than I might have hoped, and we have been stuck on the B Route diversions for a bit while my flu finally dissipated. We had to cancel going to The Seahorse in Blyth to see Dave Cowan and his happy band as I discovered that yes, I could play, and yes I could sing[1], but only for about ten minutes until the world swirled, anti-clockwise down a plughole of tiredness. I have some advice however, that will make enduring this strain of winter flu better for you – shoot yourself.

So this week has been another of not going out, but we have used the time as well as we could to get back on the bus, as it were. Even a week of not playing seems to have slowed me up, but with a few gigs coming up, we decided to take a trip down memory lane and work through the book, revisiting stuff we haven’t done for ages. So, One Day, The Voice, Don’t Ask Me and a few hundred others have been dusted off and are in the frame for our outings this week. We have gigs coming up, but aim to break back in by going to three clubs this week, so we hope to be able to visit The Ship in Middlestone (Sunday), The North Britton (Monday) and a much threatened visit to The Cutty Wren in Skelton; and that should be a busy week.

I have also been much de la busy with the recordings, inasmuch as I managed to get a tally of all the stuff we have recorded; not finished, mixed and mastered, just recorded, and it comes in total to sixteen tracks. If they all make the cut, it will make a few mini CD’s which is what we want. Expect new songs and reworkings of the old ones, and even the odd traditional song thrown in. So in addition to the above gigage, it’s the mixing desk for me. Parallel processing anyone?

Acoustic Chum ‘Turkish’ Chris Milner pointed out that a link from last week’s blog was broken. It’s not really broke, just that the page it goes to has black text on a dark grey background. Not sure what Turkish is up to, we must catch up with the Legend that lives where Four Fields Meet and see what he’s been up to, but the point of this excursion is that the link was to a page about Tommy Ferens, the beggar who is the subject of the latest FG epic entitled, er, Tommy Ferens. I am happy to report to the serried phalanx of worried readers, that this song is settling nicely and starting to develop a bit of the old FG ‘feel’ as we work out who sings which line, and how it all sits together. This song will be a useful addition to the set when we do our U3A gigs later in the year, as the story of the song is to be as important as the song itself.

The gallery this week is a sort of ‘best of 2012’. Many images of course are the work of the Pensionable Paprazzi known as The Wrinkly Wroadies, who will be back on the Wroad with us this week. If you recognise all the clubs and folks in the pictures, a you win a coconut. As is traditional in such matters.

The Kings’ Head and Washerwomans’ Legs Folk Club has been going through troubled times of late. Sadly punterage is down and the standard of the floor is, just as sadly, about the same as it was before. That means that some club nights, there is a revolving Carousel[2] of keen and determined souls for whom a guitar is a tool with which to demonstrate to the world, that some things are not quite as easy as they look. However, this is just as it should be, and Chairman Dave is indefatigable[3]. He has decided that a local talent night is the answer as this will bring in the yoof and rejuvenate the club. Unaccompanied versions of ‘Smells Like Team Spirit’, Nylon strung interpretations of ‘Enter Sandman’ and even a misguided soul or two who believe that self penned compositions are a good idea will be to the fore.

Hang on, that sounds like us; where’s that application form?

And so as the lonely folkie of fate waits for the phone call of destiny and receives instead a cheery invitation to have his windows ripped out, kitchen redesigned and a virus removed from a computer he hasn’t got, I realise that it is, the end of this blog.

Until next time Acoustic Chums,

Keep Strummin’

[1] Which is a bloomin’ miracle, as I couldn’t before.

[2] Other carousel types are presumably available, but can’t be anywhere near as much fun.

[3] Especially after a curry, when I’d leave it a few minutes, if I were you.


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