‘and in the end, the love you take
is equal to the love you make’

The Beatles ‘The End’

This is going to be The Last Post from me for the foreseeable future and I really want to talk a bit about music again, despite the fact that, yes, I know I’d promised something a little different for my next blog last time, but of course I’m nothing if not unreliable. So, in an effort to soften the blow of my final blathering I asked my friend Skip if he had anything interesting to share. He’s been writing various bits and pieces over the months with a view to putting together a children’s book of cautionary verse, but we all know he never finishes anything so I’ve managed to persuade him to release one poem to an unsuspecting world. Here follows the sad tale of a little chap who stood out from the rest of the little chaps around him. Suitable for children? You decide…

The Sad T(r)ail of Mollusc Boy

Mollusc boy was different from
The other kids in town
He kept his house upon his back
And always wore a frown
He had no legs to speak of
Just an elongated tail
And everywhere this strange boy went
He left a silver trail

He wandered ‘round the neighbourhood
On paving stones and walls
and left his slimy signature
Wherever he would crawl
His friends (of which there were but few)
Would say (to no avail)
‘please do not crawl across our floor
and leave your sticky trail!’

and so he grew and went away
to where the grass was greener
and got a job (surprised? I was!)
as a high-rise window cleaner
as he could stick to brick or wall
with ease, and lean right over
to polish glass with pail and mop -
for now he was in clover!

But nothing in this world can last
and changes they must come…
poor Mollusc Boy, he lost his job
and boy, was that boy glum
he slithered off into the night
and when the dawn appeared
they found him in a garden quiet
drowned in a pint of beer…

©Skip Cormack 2008. All rights of the author reserved. Please don’t copy or use any part of this without asking me or I’ll get upset and cry.

He’s a strange one, that Skip… anyway, back to music. I’ve only relatively recently realised the power of music. That’s a strange acknowledgement to make, I know, but true. I spent the greater part of my adult life involved in selling, producing and playing music, but always had a kind of selfish approach to it, in that it was just for me or my immediate circle of friends to understand how deeply a particular piece could affect an individual or a group. I scoffed at the statement at the time, but that tree-hugging yoghurt knitter Jon Anderson from Yes probably summed it up pretty well when he said in the booklet accompanying ‘Fragile’

‘Music’s chosen colours move the soul –
War music, Peace music, Love music,
We move to it all.’

As I type this I am listening to Cheb Khaled, the Algerian Rai singer, on my I-pod. I’m not really meant to be, as it should actually be John McLaughlin’s Shakti, but the guy from the CD shop put the wrong CD in the sleeve and… I now have to say, that more than twenty years on, Olaf Cowan, you were right. Olaf was a regular customer who was into all kinds of music, particularly folk and world music (though at that time it wasn’t even called world music) and would often try to get me to listen to some of the artists he liked (Khaled being one) to no avail, as I knew what I liked, and it certainly wasn’t some singer from North Africa who didn’t even sing in English… but I was wrong, and my narrow mind has at last expanded to recognise the worth of more than just skinny white kids with guitars (although they probably will always be my major musical influence).
Some final thoughts and recommendations then, before I fade into the sunset…
sunset… hmmm… I can think of two great contemporary songs about sunset… ‘The Consul at Sunset’, by Jack Bruce (which works in so many ways… bit of a genius, Mr. Bruce) and ‘Sunset’ from Roxy Music’s weary masterpiece, Stranded. The most perfect ennui song ever, bar none, with one of the most evocative opening lines of all time ‘oh, look at the sun, it’s all aglow… slow burning orb, sinking low…’. How I wish I could write like that. Sorry, that was a bit stream of consciousness wasn’t it? That’s how my mind is working at the moment, flitting from thought to thought just like a butterfly, alighting for just a moment then spiraling off into the blue.
Calexico’s new album ‘Carried to Dust’ is going to become a favourite; I can feel it in my bones. It’s low-key, and dusty, and hazy, Cormac McCarthy-ish and a real grower methinks. I love a few tracks off Elbow’s ‘The Seldom Seen Kid’, particularly the tracks ‘Mirrorball’ and ‘Grounds for Divorce’ where the album’s title originates. They really remind me of Gabriel-era Genesis, which is no bad thing round my ranch. Epic 45 have been a fixture in my ears for the last couple of months also – their album ‘May Your Heart Be The Map’ is just so evocative of a mythical English summer, all acoustic guitars and hazy samples and church bells and wispy vocals – mind pictures of dappled sunlight through green trees, combined with aural honey for the synapses. The US has responded by bestowing the Gabe Dixon Band, who summon up the ghosts of early Jackson Browne and ‘Madman/Tumbleweed’ era Elton, and wrap it in an album cover that is so 70’s, very American Gothic. I like them a great deal. As usual, there’s oodles (Is that a word? Must ask Skip..) of other stuff out there, but you’re all smart enough to figure that out.

Blogging is pretty much an egocentrical kind of thing, and I suppose I hadn’t thought too much about boredom levels, or levels of possible offence, or other things I should have been thinking of in any audience out there when I write these things. I probably basically just haven’t thought,full stop. I’m afraid I’m totally incapable of writing the diary type of thing that a blog should be, so I’ve decided to knock this on the head for the foreseeable future. For those who are wondering, day to day life is probably pretty much like yours at the moment. We just muddle along, getting things right and wrong and steering a middle path most of the time.

It’s been fun being Lost in Space – maybe one day I’ll fire up the supersonic rocket ship engines and get lost again. Until then, thank you so much for your support, you cyberspace friends out there.

‘ If you have a revolution, do it for fun.’

Goodbye, and may your God go with you.

James

‘Television, come go to my head. ‘
I’ve had a bit of a week health wise, first few days enveloped by a sort of flu that attacked both head and throat with equal ferocity (‘it’s the wind…’ my Cambodian colleagues assure me. The wind runs pretty close to insects and mice as the cause of all ailments round these parts), second part of the week in the vice-like grip of unrelenting and extreme back pain that led to a clinic visit of equal parts hilarity and anguish, doubled over like a rusty penknife and actually completely unable to move on several occasions (‘okay, thank you - please come down from the couch now.’ ‘I’m really sorry, I can’t…) . Hilarity when the cheerily efficient nurse who had watched sympathetically as I shuffled agonizingly into the consulting room and maneuvered myself with extreme difficulty into the chair had finished taking pulse, BP etc. then had turned to me and said ‘so what is the problem today, James?’.
However, every dark cloud has a shiny lining, and my enforced stasis has led to an enhanced level of viewing pleasure which has gone beyond the simple delights of the Cambodian karaoke channel and it’s endless variations on the theme of one man/two women, two men/one woman and a tree (or trees) to furtively lurk behind that impart a Zen-like quality to the domestic tragedies unfolding before our eyes, and into the realms of daytime TV with it’s staggeringly wonderful variations on ancient western concepts such as ‘It’s a Knockout’ , which I swear to whichever god is listening is actually hosted by the Khmer equivalents of Stuart Hall and Eddie Waring and is conducted not only on the cheap, but on the ‘gor-blimey guv, I can do that for you for five quid and still give you enough change for a night out in the Long Beach Navy Beer Garden’ cheap. Yes, sets – who needs ‘em. Throw up a scaffolding stage, a couple of banners strung along the back , and there you go… costumes? Nah… lets gaffa tape some tyre inner tubes together and there we go, costume and safety equipment in one fell swoop. This untrammeled ingenuity also spreads to the games themselves, which appear to utilize whatever resource happens to be around. I never thought I would get so excited over watching individuals attempting to lasso empty Coke bottles lying on their side and lift them into an upright position… The entertainment break is provided by a (presumably) up and coming pop star, who does not even get the dubious accolade of her own dodgy dancers (the dancers who accompany most televised popular music on TV here make Dougie Squires and the Young Generation from ‘Seaside Special’ look like the Bolshoi – ask your mum if you don’t know who I’m talking about. On second thoughts, ask your granny…), no, she has to make do with the multi-tasking crew of the show, who look bewilderingly at each other as they try to figure out should they be putting their right or left leg in/out and shaking it all about at this point or not…
Cambodian TV even has it’s very own ‘Ready, Steady, Cook’, sponsored by a paper towel manufacturer who also provide the prize, which is…. Wait for it… a double pack of kitchen roll! In a sparkly bag! Truly, the excitement engendered by this glittering prize drives the contestants into flights of feverish culinary ingenuity, which in turn cause the judges to effuse apoplectically over the gastronomic ‘coups-de-grace’ administered by the participants.
Well no, sorry. They appear to cook exactly the same very basic shrimp curry, which the judges pull faces over and make (I assume from the expressions of distaste on their faces) sarcastic comments about, before awarding the first prize to… both of them!
I’d love to see that Anthony Worrall-Thompson face them, I have to say…
The highlight of last night, which I have to confess it took me some time to figure out was actually what it was, had to be, wait for it, Miss Bridgestone 2008. I did briefly ponder that perhaps the ‘It’s a Knockout’ crews reliance on inflatable friends had prompted some kind of ongoing rubber mania in the country, as the opening credits were a cornucopia of gratuitous tyre shots and footage of immaculately coiffed feisty women burning rubber as they screeched to a halt on brand new Yamaha motorbikes, but no, it gradually became clear that we were in the presence of one of yer actual beauty contests. Obviously, I thought smugly, no one had told the organizers of this glittering TV event that beauty contests are actually illegal in Cambodia – maybe they thought that the PM would turn his blind eye to the sight of a Khmer beauty proudly wearing an inner tube sash and with a hubcap diamond star halo on her head. Of course it soon became abundantly clear that this was not actually a beauty contest, but for reasons probably as obscure as the national treasure status bestowed on Norman Wisdom in Albania, a tribute contest. And, from what I can gather, a tribute to Dick Emery. Specifically, a tribute to the ‘oooh, you-are-awful…. But-I-like-you!’ character of his that was so much a part of British Saturday evening light entertainment in the 1970’s. The contestants had obviously done their research by scouring the Russian Market for every Dick Emery DVD or videotape extant, and I have to say that they had done that research very well, as almost without exception they had the lurching high-heeled gait and exaggerated arm movements of Mr. Emery’s character off to a tee…
... and the judges? Well, they must have hot-footed it over from the 'RSC' studio and the shrimp curry, as it seemed to be exactly the same scions of sarcasm present and correct, not even bothering to hide their increasingly arching eyebrows or 'oh-my-god, look at the size of her...' comments from the watching millions (hundreds?).
I have to say that thankfully I cannot actually tell you who rose to the exalted position of Miss Bridgestone 2008, as common sense and little O took over. He took advantage of my restricted mobility and quickly commandeered the remote control, switching over to the vastly improved production values of the Nat Geo channel. Classy, but no fun…
Oh yes. Television. They were a good band. Actually, they were what I meant to write about back at the beginning of this particular blog, but I got a little sidetracked. Tom Verlaine had a rather unique guitar style, and that brings me back to Cambodian television again. The CCTV channel, which shows back to back DVD’s all day (bootleg commercial versions – often you have to sit bemused watching the menu or title screen as the engineer figures out which icon he should click on) went slightly more surreal than normal a day or so ago. If there is a lengthy break between full-length features they will often slot in a short excerpt from a music video, which normally is Britney Spears Live or Westlife or some such thing. The other day we were treated to, in no particular order, live sets from Arthur Lee and Love, Edgar and Johnny Winter, and It’s a Beautiful Day. Like, what is happening, man? Stranger and stranger, dudes. I have to confess to really enjoying this unexpected treat, in particular It’s a Beautiful Day and their rendition of ‘White Bird’ , which had pretty much every late 60’s, early 70’s hippy musical excess all present and correct. Long hair? You got it. Red stage lighting? Yep. Hippy chick singing flat backing vocals and ineffectually waving tambourine? Over here, dude! Cameraman fixated on aforesaid hippy chick’s cleavage? That’s awesome, man. Interminable guitar solo? Yeee-ss! Electric violin solo? Hey, like wow!
David La Flamme was the man responsible for the electric violin solo, and some parts of it really reminded me of the playing of guitarist John Cippolina, who had been in San Francisco band Quicksilver Messenger Service. He had also been a particular favourite of Bruce Murray’s back in my record shop days. Bruce was a music obsessive, a baker who perhaps drank a little too much for his own good after his late shifts, but possessor of a huge record collection and a fairly forthright commentator on all things musical. John Cippolina used to bring him very quickly to a state of yeasty frothing that would often scare other customers off, and I recall that when I was attempting to spread the gospel of Television and ‘Marquee Moon’ and I mistakenly likened Tom Verlaine to, in my view, a more disciplined Cippolina that old BM got particularly upset and dragged me across the counter to emphasise that no scruffy New York hippy could ever come close to the SF master of the guitar. Point taken.
I actually went to see Television on their debut tour of the UK in 1977. I had loved the album, with its spikily glacial guitar interplay between Verlaine and Richard Lloyd, yet its sense of being real and almost intimate in its recording. Most of that was lost in the vastness of the nearly empty Glasgow Apollo, however ,and they struggled to raise any enthusiasm from what little audience there was dotted around the huge auditorium. They also, as I recall, looked terrified in a rabbits-in-the-headlights manner.
There was still that sense of not-sureness in Scotland as regards punk at the time. Were Television punk? Nobody really knew… it wouldn’t have mattered, anyway. You would have to be superhuman to be able to gob accurately onto anything on that ten-foot high stage. The support band were also from New York, but they had bags of attitude and a mouthy female fronting them who continuously cajoled and swore at us in between the short bursts of trebly bubblegum noise that comprised their set. They certainly had something, did that Blondie…
So lets get back to Television and really what this was all about was just to point anyone who liked the spidery metallic style of Verlaine’s playing in the direction of Jesse Sykes and the Sweet Hereafter. Her lead guitarist, Phil Wandscher, ex of Whiskeytown (Ryan Adam’s old band), has evolved into a player of Verlaine-like complexity and ingenuity, and has rapidly become one of my favourite guitarists. Jesse Sykes writes songs that seem to exist in a twilight consciousness, sings them in a sibilant half whisper, yet connects directly with the dark and light sides of the soul in a way that reminds me of Tom Waits at his best. Have a listen, she has her own website and a My Space page.
Last week also saw the loss of Rick Wright of Pink Floyd. Rick’s playing brought an indefinable quality to the work of Pink Floyd, his textural colourings are everywhere throughout that incredible body of work and he was also a very gifted songwriter. I didn’t know him, but I will really miss him. I’ll play ‘Summer of ’68’ and remember him…
Off to take my medication now, next time something different, will ease back on the music, I promise…

'human kindness, it's only blindness...and I think it's going to rain today...'
Randy Newman

Tuesday. It has rained for most of the day. Eric Olthwaite would have been in his element in Phnom Penh today. Precipitation has precipitated pretty much from dawn to dusk and beyond. That in itself is a little uncommon. Certainly here in the city the pattern during rainy season is normally one daily tumultuous downpour that lasts at most a couple of hours, not the incessant mise and rain we are currently experiencing. Consequently, everything seemed a little grey and drab and miserable today, despite the proliferation of brightly coloured plastic raincoats favoured by the motodops. There are also many sniffles and coughs doing the rounds at work, many cases of ‘mice in the throat’ (Khmer version of frog, I suppose) and here at home young master O is still suffering from coughing fits and what mummy terms ‘candlesticks’, a frankly overly flattering term for the twin greenish streams emanating from his nasal cavities. He is still young and naïve enough to enjoy the sensation (surely not the taste?) of jutting out his lower jaw and sucking these foul rivulets into his mouth before I can sweep them away with a well-aimed paper tissue. Or indeed The Aspirator. No, not the comeback movie from Governor Schwarzenegger, but rather a fiendish Cambodian device that resembles a small turkey baster and is used to literally siphon the snot from your little ones tiny nostrils. You may well grimace at the thought, but isn’t it slightly more civilized than the approach many rural mums still take, that is, to clamp their mouth firmly over the child’s proboscis and suck hard…?

Post-election Phnom Penh is still strangely quiet, although I sense a distinct but unfathomable difference in the city I left in July to the one I returned to in August. Maybe that’s just me… on the surface things seem to meander by in much the same haphazardly disorganized way as they used to do… prices are still creeping up (22% inflation during July... ulp!), cars are still encroaching more and more upon the formerly two and three wheeled domains (a Rolls Royce was spotted the other day – Saints Alive!!), apartment blocks and estates with names like ‘Happiness City’ are springing fully-formed almost overnight from the toothless gaps in the infrastructure where once wooden houses and family businesses stood… yes, business as usual for the developers. I grumble about these changes at work, but I am politely reminded by my Khmer colleagues that this is what people want, they want a 21st century city with all that that entails. They gaze kindly at me, smile and shake their heads as I launch into yet another rant about the destruction of communities for supposed economic gain, but this is now literally a young nation with a haunting legacy that it is no surprise many want to obliterate from their consciousness.

The recent border dispute with Thailand over the temple in Preah Vihear has also stoked the fires of nationalistic pride in a manner which I must confess shocked me a little at first. However, once again I have come to realize that the failed obliteration of the historical past rings heavy in the reaction of people to what is seen as one more unwanted and unwarranted encroachment by a powerful aggressor.

This all sounds a bit gloomy, doesn’t it? I’m sorry to give that impression, for really things aren’t all ‘trouble at t’ mill’ , oh no. We, the Space Family Orbison, as I shall dub us for the time being, have had a pretty hard time of late, with much unrest in the ranks mainly through the actions of someone with, as Rod Stewart so succinctly paraphrased it, ‘a lot more money than sense’. However, we have come through this particular asteroid belt of challenges and are now looking to the stars again with engines set on warp factor 8, if not hyperdrive. I’m pretty sure the Dilithium crystals will also hold, Mr. Scott.

Way back when the universe began… well, ok, when I commenced this blog, I referenced the title as being lost in the virtual space of the Internet… I’m pretty sure now it was actually a more than subconscious homage to the marvellous Lost in Space TV series of the 1960’s, and its three enduring characters, Will Robinson (whom little O bears an often uncanny resemblance to), the long suffering Robot, and Dr. Zachary Smith. Dr. Smith remains something of an (anti) hero of mine to this day, played on TV with arch camp impeccability and irascibility by the wonderful Jonathan Harris. The good doctor (he is a Colonel in the earlier episodes, and considerably darker a character in those also…) is one of life’s devious shirkers, a conniving, backstabbing, all-round bad egg who somehow manages to embroil both honest but gullible Will and the hapless Robot into one of his cunningly evolved wicked plans on a weekly basis. The weekly show, brainchild of the prescient TV genius Irwin Allen (Time Tunnel, Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea, Land of the Giants), spawned many wonderful catchphrases (‘oh the pain, the pain’, ‘danger, Will Robinson, danger!’) and insults, usually directed at the Robot (‘you nickel plated nincompoop!’, ‘begone, you monstrous metallurgical meddler!’,) and a hideous movie remake in the 1990’s, but the 60’s original is by far the best, and along with Dr. Who was a staple of my formative years (so that’s what’s to blame, I hear you mumble). As I glance somewhat furtively around at the global political scene at the moment, I can only reflect that we really do seem to be Lost in Space… there are far too many Dr. Zachary Smiths out there running countries, and not enough Robots to keep a watchful eye upon all us Will Robinsons…

Wednesday/Thursday. Rained again. It were always raining in Phnom Penh. Even when it were dry it were a bit moist round t’ edges. Average precipitation were around 10mm. Must buy a shovel. Useful things, shovels.

Friday. Aye. Rained again.

But not such a boring day, one way or t’other.

O greeted us in his usual cheery manner but with the added bonus of a cotful of dried vomit this morning. Closer inspection by CSI Phnom Penh deduced that the little chap has been fridge raiding, in particular targeting red grapes which he appears to have been ingesting whole, stalks and seeds included. We presume he is doing this when nanny and mummy and daddy’s collective backs are turned, either that or he is clambering out of his cot and nipping downstairs in the night for a midnight feast. Part of me is inclined toward the latter explanation, for his development seems to be taking place in quantum leaps. He sat on the sofa beside me tonight and asked if I preferred earlier protest-era Dylan, the ‘jagged acoustic troubadour’, as he put it, to the electric and post electric phases of his career. Staggering, eh? I had absolutely no idea that he watched The Magic Roundabout, let alone had an opinion on it.

Today also brought us the unexpected, and, if truth be told, unwanted, bonus of a free fireworks display when the power cables outside our house exploded at 1.00pm, sending flames dancing into the sky and sparks showering over the vast crowd of gawping onlookers who quickly assembled below. As usual, many people stood around and did nothing but watch others do nothing. Attempts to call the electricity company were met by baffled expressions, then explanations that 1) it was still lunchtime, so no-one would be around until at least 2.00pm. 2) it was threatening more rain, so no-one would come out if that was the case 3) they shut for the weekend at 4.00pm anyway, so we might as well forget it until Monday. Resigned to a powerless (and waterless – the pumps also ceased to operate, so… ) weekend, I headed back to work. 3.00pm, Bang! The electricity ceased to flow. Not only at work, but also throughout the entire district of Chamkarmon. After about an hour of sitting around and giggling a great deal, it was clear that power was not going to return in the near future, so everyone trickled home. A is away for a few days, so I am in sole charge of little O. I have to admit to struggling more than a little to cook dinner on the gas stove under the febrile glow of tea lights whilst keeping a more than watchful eye on Fridge Raider, but mid flow I was interrupted by Chairman Mao who asked if I was willing to pay $10 to have electricity restored. Oh yes, said I, more than willing… so O and I went out in the fast fading light, and joined the crowd of watchers observing a man shinning up the electricity pole, then perching precariously at the top armed only with a pair of wire strippers and conducting a miraculous repair job under non-existent lighting conditions. He shinned back down, then had a big discussion with all our new friends in the crowd about who could speak English and who might ask me to cough up the tenner prior to the restoration of power. Eventually one woman pressed forward and shyly relayed the request, I paid the guy and a muffled cheer and lots of ‘Arkun Charans’ rose from the crowd. O and I went back in to the house and waited. And waited. And waited. Then, just as I was becoming resigned to the loss of power, water and $10, the lights came on! Then went off again. Then about five minutes later, came back on again… and so far, it’s holding up. And we also have water again. What a Friday! I can only wonder in a kind of wondrous manner what the rest of the weekend holds in store for the dynamic yet feckless duo of dad and O… lumme!!

On the stereo – Edwyn Collins and Orange Juice, Epic45, Elbow, James Blackshaw, Death Cab for Cutie and Jesse Sykes and the Sweet Hereafter. On DVD, The Outer Limits (1960’s season one - in French…Encore? Pretentious? Moi?) Looking forward to the new Calexico, and enjoying Josh Rouse Bedroom Classics podcast. Hello to Tosh, good to hear from you… and when I think about it, I’m sure you gave me my Pink Fairies album back as a birthday present a few years ago… or maybe I dreamed that?

‘One is a lonely number…'
not, as you may be thinking, another half-baked philosophical statement from yours truly, but actually the title of the first track on the latest Edwyn Collins album ‘Home Again’. I purchased the aforesaid CD when I was back in the UK in the summer, and… no, lets save it for later. I promise we will return to Edwyn shortly, but let us first catch up on the second part of our summer holiday adventures. After the minor hell of our return journey to the UK we had a week or so more of enjoying the English summer. Prior to the U.S.A trip we had enjoyed some quintessentially English moments, visiting summer fetes, watching cricket on the green, feeding ducks in the mill pond, that sort of thing. As a Scotsman, and coming from a family who have its fair share of intensely patriotic members I do find it strange how I am inexorably drawn to a particular notion, or sense, of ‘Englishness’. I blame this on an inordinate fondness for the Kinks, early Pink Floyd, Kevin Ayers, Robert Wyatt and many others who jumped into the spaces created by those very significant footprints. Records on the Harvest label seemed to imbue this character almost naturally. I recall many a chilly northern night spent lying with my head between the speakers (my primitive version of headphones) of my portable stereo listening to ‘Grantchester Meadows’ off ‘Ummagumma’, or ‘Fat Old Sun’ from ‘Atom Heart Mother’, or ‘Whatevershebringswesing’ and immersing myself in the hazy warmth of the sounds emanating from the straining speaker cones…

In the middle distance, the muffled murmuring of the traffic gave way to the sonorous clang of the church bells and the gentle rustling of the leaves in the honey-thick breeze. The world was revolving slowly and lazily in the sticky warmth of this sunny afternoon.
‘More tea, Vicar?’
“Oh, splendid, Miss Jones,a capital idea, I must say. My goodness, your muffins are extraordinary…’
'Oh Vicar, you are such a card...'
Sorry. Drifting off again. Let me get back on track.

Yes, summer holiday memories. Many of them from this year involve the continually evolving wonder that is our son. Little O attempting to adapt his funky Khmer style of dance to the strains of a brass band performing Abba songs; his joy at visiting a country park …very wide open spaces where he could simply run and run and run with what must have seemed to him as no boundaries; feeding ducks and swans with O doing his ‘one for you, one for me’ routine; a miniature train journey, O and Granddad together – who was most excited by that…? I wonder…; blowing bubbles in the garden, sheer naked enjoyment, O running around and around in circles laughing gleefully; feeding times, characterised by the infinite patience of Nana, with accompaniment from Iggle Piggle and Upsy Daisy; a visit to Swindon Mela, with so many familiar colours, shapes, sounds, smells and tastes - and time for some more O-type dancing, this time to familiar rhythms…; having the time and space to see the wonderful bond between O and mummy growing every day…
These are just some of the memories I have of this summer, there are many, many others that will come to me in the future, to make the good times better and to help me to smile during the hard times… summers are wonderful, magical things that re-awaken the child within us all, and we should cherish each and every moment of them…

My goodness, that was a bit Sunday Post-ish, wasn’t it? What has happened to my tireless cynicism? I confess I really don’t know, I’m sure it was here a minute ago… I must have temporarily mislaid it…

The other night, performing the increasingly difficult wrestling match that is getting O into his ‘jammies’ at bedtime I got to thinking about how much the vintage cowboy print thereon reminded me of the old Postcard Records label design. Ah, ‘The Sound of Young Scotland’… memories swept into my synapses, of those mysterious cardboard boxes from Fast Distribution that would arrive in Thurso Music Shop on a Saturday afternoon or Monday morning and be eagerly ripped upon to reveal their contents… would the eagerly awaited ‘1 only cat no PC-80-6 Orange Juice ‘Simply Thrilled, Honey’ 7” single’ in its cowboy bedecked sleeve be in there? Yes!! In stock! Mine! Those were exciting times, and many of us (hello Messrs Gavin Duncan and Ian Begg – where are you now?) felt such musical affinity with Orange Juice in particular, as their melodic gifts were really, really strong but tempered with some willfully unkempt, ragged yet glorious performances. I only knew (and if truth be told, still do) three chords, and hadn’t really mastered any of that barré chord stuff, so it was a joy to have it reinforced that traditional skill wasn’t necessarily a prerequisite of making exciting, clamorous, glamorous music. The Fire Engines were another band who shared that rowdy charabanc to pop success, music that sounded all over the place, spiky and fuzzy, but absolutely imbued with a total sense of fun. ‘Candyskin’ comes on like a Scottish Salvation Army playgroup that has had just a wee drop too much acid in their Irn Bru… wonderful stuff which even now brings a smile to my face as I type this.

‘Englishness’, ‘Scottishness’… I’m not sure how I got here, but the moving fingers type, and having typed, move on… or rather back, back to Edwyn Collins. He’s grown up now, has Edwyn. Life has dealt him some pretty bad cards in the last couple of years – he’s suffered two strokes, but has fought back and has been on tour, performing again this summer in a few festivals. I finally got round to listening to ‘Home Again’ a few nights ago, and I am so happy to tell you that it is an absolutely magnificent album, his best since ‘Gorgeous George’. He’s still wry, still sonically adventurous, still making records that sound like ‘records’, but his recent brushes with the fragility of existence seem to permeate his music (although amazingly, given some of the lyrics, most of this was written before he suffered his successive strokes) and give it a strikingly unusual cast, that of the man-child facing the enormity of life and the natural and un-natural challenges it throws against us all. The title track is quite simply awesome, a meditation on the redemptive and healing power of music that is almost overwhelmingly emotional in its evocation of that feeling of being truly at ‘home’ that music can bring. The Bearsden Blues, no less. As the late, great, Stuart Henry would have said, ‘I can’t recommend this album highly enough, my friends.’

Oh well, I’m off now to slip into my sandals and fringed buckskin jacket and nip round to Roddy’s house to see if he can show me how to play that augmented 7th chord… you coming? No? OK, catch you later, man…

Next episode – the return to a post-election Phnom Penh and all that entailed.
This episode was brought to you borne on the angel wings of Edwyn Collins ‘Home Again’ on Heavenly Records, remembrances of Postcard Records - the Sound of Young Scotland, ‘ Long Way Down’ on BBC DVD (Ben, it’s the same two guys, McGregor and Boorman, biking from John ‘o’ Groats in Scotland to Capetown, South Africa. Let me know if you want me to get you a copy my friend), and is dedicated to all those who hung around on a Friday, Saturday or Monday in the Music Shop, Thurso, waiting for the boxes of new releases…’there’s only one copy… and it’s mine!!’

Has it really been three months since I last inflicted my meandering musings on an unsuspecting world? ‘Not long enough!’ comes a cry from the back. Excuse me whilst I summarily eject that malevolent thought made manifest and get down to… to what, exactly?
Being the kind of person who is continually plagued by self-doubt, I had pondered for some time on just giving up this blogging malarkey and simply getting on with life in all its myriad forms… you don’t really need my cod philosophical ramblings to enrich your already full and fulfilling lives, do you?
‘Damn right!’
I thought I’d thrown you out… Come here you troublesome id… now, OUT you go!
There now, that’s better. Now where was I …?

Yes. Blogging. On reflection, and being purely selfish here, I think it’s good for me to put this stuff somewhere, so why not out into the eternal ether, to buzz around in a blissful binary state until somebody’s search for ‘Slim Whitman’ or ‘Commé a la Maison’ or ‘Tinariwen’ drags them here….

So how have you all been, my virtual friends? Well, I hope. The familial ‘we’ have also been well (but also unwell), happy (but also unhappy) and generally just stumbling hopefully where possible through the intricate maze of life with occasional diversions onto the rollercoaster and helter skelter to break up the monotony.

Some highlights of the missing months? Holidays!
Yippee! Visits to England, Scotland and the U.S.A. were wonderful. England to see my mum-and-dad-in-laws, Scotland to catch up with my family there, and my first visit to the U.S.A, to attend a celebration event in New Jersey organised by my wife’s family which brought together nearly 100 people from all over the globe whose roots were in a small village in India. It was an astonishing, and for me a humbling, experience to be part of, and accepted into, such a close-knit family gathering. Little O thoroughly enjoyed himself, pottering about in his kilt amongst the adoring Sari-clad women and snacking heartily on the many delights on offer. I wore my white suit (feeling a little more like a Cambodian bridegroom than a Mafioso hitman, I have to say) and made an unexpected and wholly impromptu speech (ten minutes notice – luckily I’ve worked long enough in development now to be able to spout mumbo-jumbo at the drop of a hat) which left nary a dry eye in the house. Personally, I think the exquisitely spicy somosas were to blame for the red-rimmed eyes…!

After three days of being bathed in the warmth of the family, of wonderful experiences shared, entertainment, music and food being enjoyed, and a real sense of generations not only coming together but strengthening their sense of family pride and duty, it was time to decant into the stretch limo (I’m not kidding. You wear a white suit, you gotta have style to match.) and to quaff champagne on the drive into New York City. Brother-in-law Paul and I were inordinately excited by the cultural delicacies on offer during that drive, which mainly consisted of Paul recognizing the locations of multifarious ‘hits’ from ‘The Sopranos’ or my spotting the actual ‘Fountains of Wayne’ store that great little band took their moniker from.

Soon, through the late July summer’s haze and the tinted glass of the limo, I glimpsed for the first time the distinctive skyline of Manhattan. It was one of those magical moments when I actually saw something that as a small child in far away Northern Scotland I could only have dreamed about, and strangely yet appropriately enough the words that crowded my brain were remembered from those long gone days, the immortal lines allegedly uttered by a quintessential son of New York,
‘Yonda lies da castle of my faddah....’
Thank you, Tony Curtis…

New York City was three days of full-on New Yorking – sightseeing, eating, more sightseeing, more eating… edited highlights would have to include the following… O in Central Park, swinging happily against a backdrop of dazzling skyscrapers; a horse drawn carriage ride around the park – thank you, Charlie Brown; breakfast at the Empire State deli, feeling slightly vertiginous gazing up at the sight of King Kong’s last stand; a moment of sadness in the doorway of the Dakota Building, on the spot where Lennon died; a touch of cynicism at the Strawberry Fields memorial – the world is full of bloody hippies now; the Hotel Pennsylvania with its ‘Shining’ like corridors and reverse Tardis rooms; Madison Square Gardens – I don’t see no flowers here!; open top bussing around downtown Manhattan with a selection of outrageously stereotypical tour guides; a nighttime jaunt across the river to Brooklyn, soaring through the mist over the Brooklyn bridge on the top deck of the bus, then gazing at a hazy Manhattan from across the river… magical; the neon overkill of Times Square; ferry cross the Hudson – sailing around Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty as O marveled at the helicopters buzzing like prehistoric dragonflies all around us; dinner in the diner – nothing could be finer… except maybe the ENORMOUS sandwiches of the Carnegie Deli; O’s burgeoning interest in all things wheeled, primarily taxi cabs and fire engines… Broom! Broom!; the MOMA… O gazing enraptured at a huge picture of Dali, and him being very excited both by the Jackson Pollock’s on view and the acoustic possibilities of screaming in the gallery; Schwarz’s Toystore, and O listening intently to a story from a man dressed as a toy soldier who namechecked ‘In-a-Gadda-da-Vida’; a brief but amusing audience with the legendary Bleeker Bob in his record store in Greenwich Village; hot dogs with everything in the Village; seeing Radio City Music Hall (at last!), Electric Lady studios, Joey Ramone Street and other equally iconic places…. there was so much more, we did so much in three days that looking back now I am amazed at the stamina we had!

… and so it was time to return to England, courtesy of Delta Airlines. Well, actually it was time to spend the night sleeping on the stickily uncomfortable floor of JFK airport, courtesy of Delta airlines. A variety of excuses for a no-flight scenario were provided after we had been decanted from our settled positions on the aeroplane to spend several hours hectoring a lone Delta rep who appeared to know less about the situation than either we or the scary LED screen beside him did. Basically, a combination of no-show co-pilot and inclement weather were blamed for our predicament, an ATC decision, which, we were informed, meant Delta were not obliged to provide us with either accommodation or food. Even as Delta rep informed us to be patient, that he fully expected the flight to reboard soon, the screen beside him broadcast the news of its cancellation. Tempers were frayed, all the stores in the airport were closed, Delta rep reassured us however that vending machines were available. Great. You can buy an I-Pod and docking system from a vending machine in JFK, but try as you might you cannot buy a bottle of water or anything remotely edible, unless of course, you are a goat… I snuck back onto the plane to steal blankets and pillows from business class, resisting the easy temptation to slip onto the open flight deck and fly the plane to Cuba, and we settled (!) down for the night. After a deeply surreal and uncomfortable night on the floor we eventually got back onboard the next morning. We joked with the cabin staff about the pilot situation. Oh dear. No joke. We may have got back on board, but we were going nowhere until a co-pilot showed up. Several hours later one did, we finally took off and actually had a reasonably pleasant flight through the attentive ministrations of the cabin crew, who obviously thought that giving us copious amounts of ‘ sedation’ was the way to win back our hearts. Thank you, cabin crew, screw you, Delta Airlines.

I’ve blathered enough for the moment, tune in next time for the unbelievable excitement that will comprise…

English Village Fetes!
Bubbles!
A Grand Day Out!
Swindon Mela!
Return to Post-Election Phnom Penh!!

Can you bear to wait…..????

Musically, I’m currently grooving (am I allowed to at my age?) to The Black Keys, 22-20’s, Ry Cooder ‘I , Flathead’ (genius!!), Richmond Fontaine EP, Fleet Foxes, Midlake and wishing I had some Robert Gordon and Link Wray with me. Reading Michael Palin ‘New Europe’ and watching ‘Long Way Down’ and Sigur Ros on DVD. But you don’t really need (or want) to know that, do you?

...don't just watch the skies...
watch this space...

normal service will be resumed as soon as possible

... in the meantime, dear readers,

...take care

J

Surrealism.

Hmmm, nice.

A bit like Jazz.

Delicious hot, disgusting cold.

Paul Simon has a beautiful and elegantly understated song on the subject, ‘Rene and Georgette Magritte with their dog, after the war.’ which nimbly evokes in its musical structure and lyrics the strangely calm yet disquieting effect that much of the masters work has upon the observer. Sometimes our life in Phnom Penh echoes that song (although we have never come home to find our personal possessions inextricably entwined) as on occasion, dear reader, we encounter what to us is deeply surreal, yet to others is presumably the normal. One such encounter took place last Saturday morning. Before I get to that, however, do please allow me to get out my (virtual) Rolf Harris paintbrush and tin of paint and just fill in a little – um diddah dah – background – oom chickah wah – for you here. Can you guess what it is yet? Let me just splash a bit – ooh chuckah doo doo – of colour over there, and a couple of lines… yes, that’s absolutely right, it’s a group of people setting up a pre-school… let me grab my wobble board and sing you a little ditty about that… you can join in if you like… ‘oom diddy dum doo… oh if you go down, in Phnom Penh town, I really ought to warn you, where ‘ere you go, well don’t you know, there’s a pre-school on every corner…’

O’s future is of course very important to us, but we are generally very happy for him to meander along for a bit just being, well, just being what he is – a beautiful, mischievous, gregarious, happy little boy child. However, the Modern World, and particularly this Modern virtual expat World (try singing that, Paul Weller…) which exists in Phnom Penh and which we engage with from time to time seems to delight in pushing all parents towards getting their young chap or chapette signed up for teeny boot camp, sorry, that should have read pre-school, almost before they have had their cord snipped and bottom smacked by the midwife (oh, I know they don’t do that anymore, I’m being metaphorically facetious. They don’t hang them upside down by the ankles either any more, do they? Never did me any harm, though… just ask my therapist…). There are multifarious groups of parents out there to be targeted, mainly dripping with expat cash (or if Cambodian, the spoils of you-know-what…) and the desire to get the small ones signed up and into... well, something, that will ensure they are adequately prepared for, em, something else seems to run rampant through their ranks. There are, of course, many lovely and well-meaning parent-type-people out there (stand up and be counted!), but they are balanced out by such as the self righteous crazies who believe that ending up like the David Walliams ‘bitty’ obsessed adult from ‘Little Britain’ is actually the way to go in positive parenting. Come to think of it, maybe they have a point… or two…

So, in a blizzard of virtual publicity along came the latest expensive option to get the little blighters out from under the feet of the overworked and underpaid domestics and into some kind of pre-education, following on from the horrendously overpriced ‘turn them into Mini-Mozart’s’ scheme which we had forced O to endure for one session. If he could have strung a coherent sentence or two in English together at the time I’m sure he would have said ‘Why is this woman shoving a tuning fork in my earhole? I only want to sing ‘head, shoulders, knees and toes.’… oh, I wish I was back in Mhate’s Room…’ (Mhate’s Room is actually a really good playgroup (can I still call it that?) run by a lovely Thai man who takes the time-honoured Brian Cant/Ralph McTell ‘Playschool’ approach to children and music. O loves going there. Wonderful stuff, and highly recommended. All together now, ‘row,row,row your boat…’) The pre-school mentioned above, which is not actually open yet, although premises appear to be ‘promised’ for August (how virtual can one get), has an arboreal theme going on in its nomenclature. I suppose I have a subconscious fear of litigation which prevents me from naming them directly, although having said that, litigation in Cambodia iappears to be often bypassed in favour of the more immediate response offered by the AK47. Just imagine that, being gunned down by a gang of winsome female pre-school teachers… there seem to be some very surreal scenarios emerging in this particular blog…

So, to avoid an ignominious and bullet-riddled end at the hands of vigilante female teachers, an event which would have certainly inspired the likes of Russ Meyer to previously unheard of heights of gore-drenched celluloid excess (I can see it now, emblazoned on cinema marquees across the nation – ‘Kindergarten Killers – Schoolma’ams with Machine Guns!’), I shall refer to it (the pre-school) obliquely as ‘The Singing Ringing Tree’. That should bring back some terrifying memories of dwarves, scary bears and giant fish for those who grew up in 1960’s Britain, for the rest of you, look it up on the internet. I rather think that personally I might have overly enjoyed a pre-school experience featuring the above, being an imaginative little chap who was equally fascinated by and afraid of pretty much everything, particularly large wooden bedroom furniture and garden sheds full of waterlogged corpses (a tale for the telling another time, me hearties…!) but of course that sort of thing didn’t exist when I were a nipper, our long suffering parents had to put up with us little blighters running around crushing their cigarette packets, swallowing their Valium and draining the dregs from their Sweetheart Stout bottles until we were at least five years old.

Curiosity not only killed the cat, but also aroused the interest of this old dog, so on last Saturday morning the family collective found themselves gathered in a hot and stuffy living room somewhere in downtown Phnom Penh to witness a presentation from the aforesaid ‘Singing Ringing Tree’ I have to say that it was not what one would term a brilliant presentation, somewhat under-rehearsed, but it was overshadowed easily by the behaviour of the scarily enthusiastic teachers who walked a very unusual line that reminded me somewhat of a gaggle of Pamela Stephenson’s doing her gauche ‘Not The Nine O’ Clock News’ routines crossed with ‘The Walton’s’ and ‘The Stepford Wives’ and the bad dancers from the Cambodia Karaoke Channel. Yes, their choreography of thought, deed and action was pretty impressive. Or maybe I simply have an overactive imagination. As A and I were ‘enjoying’ the floor show, O meanwhile had been spirited away to another room where some equally scarily enthusiastic teaching assistants were encouraging ‘boy’ to draw all over himself with indelible magic marker. After the question and very few answers session, we managed to liberate O, who now resembled a disgruntled Maori warrior, from the clutches of the TA’s and made our escape from the flawless grins of the ‘Singing Ringing Tree’ staff. A decision had pretty much been made on the spot - we will send O to pre-school, but in our inestimably weird logic and to strike a blow for reverse pretentiousness we will probably send our precious little chap to a French pre-school – ‘Vive La Difference!’ We decanted the little man into his buggy where he slumped with a slightly surly expression on his painted face and as we stumbled out of the door into the sunshine in search of a very late breakfast little did we suspect, dear reader, that this was where Saturday would begin to move into the territory of the extra surreal…

The plan had been to go to CALM (Commé a la Maison) to passively enjoy inhaling Gauloise smoke whilst enjoying some ‘oeufs sur pain’ (impressively bad command of French, what!) or something similar. As we passed along a far from well trodden side street en route, however, my eyes alighted upon a neon sign that I had previously imagined I had glimpsed briefly whilst passing the week before heading home from a particularly arduous ‘Strategic Workshop’ being held nearby…. It was real! And it really did say ‘The Carole King Jazz Café’ !!! Outside this (externally) modest little establishment, a middle-aged Korean man was sweeping the pavement whilst inhaling deeply from a cigarette. I’m not sure if it was a ‘jazz’ cigarette, but given the ensuing behaviour of said gentleman, I wouldn’t be at all surprised.

I strolled over to him and asked if his establishment was open. The following conversation took place in the middle of the street
Him (very excitedly) ‘Yes, yes please! Two days!’
Me ‘Do you sell food?’ (puzzled look) ‘Something to eat?’
Him ‘Ah, fast food! Yes!’
Me ‘do you have a menu?’
Him ‘ham sandwich, yes, yes!’
I turned to A with raised eyebrows. Should we venture in? I was certainly up for it, and the bemused smile she gave to me suggested that a bit of an adventure was certainly something she approved of. O continued to slouch in his buggy, with an expression that seemed to say ‘come on folks, just get on with it…’
I gestured to the door in a quizzical manner, and Mr. Cho (he very thoughtfully gave us business cards before we left) dropped his brush and ushered us in with welcoming gestures and much smiling. As we entered I asked him if he was a fan of Carole King. ‘Oh yes, very good singer, very popular, good jazz…’. However, the dulcet tones emanating from the discreetly hidden speakers within were clearly those of Karen Carpenter, who I suppose if you screw your eyes up and push your fingers slightly into your ears might bear a passing resemblance to Ms King. ‘The Carpenters?’ I said ‘yes, yes, Carole King.’ was the reply…

How to describe the interior…? Kitsch simply does not do it justice… it was truly a magnificent monument to a taste that transcended good or bad, but simply existed. The hanging gardens festooning the front room gave way through a dividing central tree (!) to the large wooden bar and multicoloured disco lights of the back room. A dado rail of wallpaper inscribed with the legend ‘Carole King’ snaked around the entire premises and the walls were decorated with… well, not with pictures of Carole King, that’s for sure. UK readers will be aware of the 99p store, those wonderful places where the occasional genuine bargain nestles amongst an ocean of genuine rubbish, and will have no doubt flicked rapidly through the many tastefully tasteless tackily framed prints usually on sale therein of big haired 1980’s women sipping cocktails next to greasy coiffed tuxedoed lotharios in a low grade approximation of a Jack Vettriano painting (or a paparazzi shot of Bryan Ferry on a night out in Newcastle) whilst pensively pondering on who actually buys these things. Well, ponder no more, as he resides in Phnom Penh and is the proud proprietor of ‘The Carole King Jazz Café.’

I have to say, we absolutely adored the place. Loved it. And I also have to say that Mr. Cho was an absolutely impeccable host. Once he had resettled us in the air-conditioned part to the rear of his establishment, we began negotiating refreshments. ‘Do you have Lime Soda?’ ‘Lime Soda? Sorry, no Lime Soda..’ ‘Coke light?’ ‘Sorry’ ‘Sprite?’ ‘Sorry’ ‘7-up?’ ‘Sorry’ ‘orange juice?’ ‘Ah, yes, orange juice. Sorry, only open two days – please wait!’ and with that he disappeared into the back. It sounded as if alchemy was taking place, with the sounds of pouring liquids and much stirring going on, and then Mr. C emerged with two glasses of reconstituted and well-sugared orange juice in his grasp. He disappeared again and returned with another, for little O who had by now slipped his fabric bindings and was tottering inquisitively around, no doubt overawed by the breadth of imagination displayed in the interior design. Once he had glugged his down, hyperactivity kicked in and off he went to investigate the karaoke machine set up beside the bar. Mr. C sat beside us briefly, smiling and nodding, before he again leapt to his feet and rushed through the back. He re-emerged bearing a large white platter ‘Snacks!’ he pronounced, and laid a veritable feast of onion rings, crisps, prawn crackers and savoury biscuits before us. This prompted us to push the boat out big style. ‘Excuse me. Do you have any beer?’ ‘Beer?’ ‘Beer.’ ‘Ah yes... Heineken?’ “That would be lovely.’
He darted through the back once more and returned with two chilled bottles of Heineken and a bottle opener which he placed on the table before, yes, you’ve guessed it, disappearing through the back again. We waited for a bit, then as he did not appear to be in any hurry to return, opened our beers, raised them to our lips and… ‘Excuse me! Some fruit for you.’ Mr. C. placed an even larger platter of freshly sliced fruits in front of us, and then delivered his customer satisfaction ‘coup de grace’. ‘Madame, please, I was given these by some Korean friends and do not use, so please I want you to have.’ He then solemnly handed A a diverse selection of very good quality cosmetics…

So what can we say? Where lie the borders between the real and the surreal? If you live in, or ever visit, Phnom Penh, please, please pop in to Mr.C’s establishment just around the corner from Wat Lanka near the Independence Monument. He’ll be very, very happy to see you. You might get a ham sandwich out of it (one of the few things we didn’t get) and possibly even a drink of your choice (but be prepared to have multiple options ready). I cannot promise cosmetics, unfortunately, but you will certainly get the world’s most attentive service to the strains of, well, probably not Carole King, I have to say.

We rescued O from the arms of our new friend, thanked him profusely for what had been a hugely enjoyable and slightly bemusing experience, and promised him we would spread the word. If you do go, just tell him the two barangs with the baby who disturbed his Saturday afternoon sent you… for him, we were probably the surreal experience…

LISTENING TO - Paul Weller '22 Dreams' - at last! end to end brilliance from the grumpy changingman
The Who - 'By Numbers' and 'Live at Leeds' - bless them, Keith Moon was SUCH a great drummer
Don Drummond - 'Jazz Ska Attack 1964' - fabulous stuff from the second greatest Jamaican trombonist
Elvis Costello - 'Momofuku' - another grumpy makes a goodie
Tinariwen - 'Amassakoul' - cannae beat that Tuareg groove...