JAMIE CULLUM

Wednesday night with D to see Jamie Cullum at the Town Hall, courtesy of the lovely Geoff Gascoyne. Met Geoff and the adorable Bob Dorough and Sally for drinks beforehand, then caught the support by Brandi Carlile, who was passionate and feisty and full-on to the point where one slightly worries about her voice holding out beyond her young years.

Jamie was phenomenal. I've seen him perform many times over the past few years but he continues to get more and more accomplished and polished without losing any of his charm, spontaneity and infectious enthusiasm. His energy over the two hour plus set was just remarkable - he never stops moving, be it pounding the piano (with all limbs), jumping onto or off the piano (which we no longer worry about, thanks to Yamaha), darting around the stage or dancing. And just when you think he can't possibly have anything left to give he launches into the sort of drum solo one expects only from the inhabitants of Sado Island.

He has also achieved something quite amazing - he has seemingly effortlessly fused a myriad of musical forms in a way so many try to do, but fail. What begin as pop songs move fluently and intelligently into hard core jazz soloing and sometimes into free-form, or reggae, or Brazilian grooves, soul or show tunes and a duet he performed acoustically with sax player Tom Richards was almost two-part harmony Bach. The result is that the audience, many of whom have probably never been to a jazz gig in their lives, were spontaneously applauding after the jazz solos, not because they had to, or because they were copying those who knew when to applaud (as so often happens in jazz clubs...), but because they felt moved to.
There was also that vibe you get in rock and pop gigs where the audience applaud and scream after the first bar of a song because they recognise it, and in Jamie's case, they were doing exactly that - but I've never before witnessed it in the opening bars of a whole bunch of jazz standards....

Was quite exhausted after watching all this hyperactive leaping around with no pause for breath for over two hours, but couldn't possibly turn down a drink or 4 inside the tour bus. Obviously.
I say tour bus, but as D rightfully pointed out, it's probably at least three times larger than her apartment. Lovely to see all the London musicians and catch up. Lovely to drink the bus almost dry before being thrown off by the driver who had to get them to Boston overnight, lovely to hear Jamie again and once more be enchanted by the magic of watching a performer who is doubtless a true star.

FRIDAY NIGHT LIVE

The codenamed one is safely back in her jodie marshland and the apartment cleanup utility application (ie. Me) has cleaned up all unnecessary celebrities from the immediate environs.

I am beginning to seriously believe that Mrs N is privy to battlefield information and deliberately plans her trips away to perpetuate the myth of her non-existence. I was so looking forward to ringing her doorbell with CNL in tow and just letting her run in when she answered, in the same manner as she lets the dog/pig in at my apartment door. But sadly, it was not to be. She has (of course) returned today but I am feigning total deafness.

Last night headed out to the Whitney Museum to try out a possible Commuter Jazz substitute - Gutbucket and Ethel performing together as part of Whitney Live . Have seen both groups live before, but separately - Ethel when they were being a quite 'serious' contemporary string quartet at the Cutting Room and Gutbucket ripping up the Spitz in London in a sweat-spraying frenzy, so couldn't quite imagine them performing together. As it turned out the result was surprisingly palatable (like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches - or so I'm told by last guest but one). The collaboration emphasised their incredible virtuosity on all their respective instruments, and also a similarity in their compositions, which are in the main built around immensely complicated but awesomely tight rhythmic structures. Ethel got a bit loose and were swaying around a good deal, whilst the hyperactive Ken Thomson, Gutbucket sax monster, managed to restrain his leaps and jumps to a mere 2 foot cubic area, probably because, this being Manhattan, the air-rights almost certainly belong to someone else, who might have demanded rent.
Gutbucket's 'O.J Bin Laden', from 'Dry Humping the American Dream' (which has to be one of the best album titles ever), showed the string/band fusion at their best. An organised chaos of minimalist yet frenetic jazz/punk.

As for the vast concrete foyer venue (a subject about which I know more than the average shark in the street), it left a little to be desired. I do like to lean at a gig, and any leaning on the sorry excuse for a (practically bottled beer only) bar would have involved a spinach-wrap elbow situation.
So we made do with perching on the less-than-comfortable shop/cafe area wall divider, whilst others sat on piles of merchandise or stood and a lucky few actually had chairs (which at a cost can be reserved beforehand). The capacity is limited - at 200 or thereabouts it was pretty packed , but the sound was good under the circumstances, and one has to hand it to the programmer for what looks like a fairly cutting edge series of events. The vibe was relaxed and on the whole it was a good way to spend a couple of hours on a Friday night, so with some interesting gigs forthcoming, I will definitely be returning...

The unbearable lightness of being 

THEY'RE CELEBRITIES, GET THEM OUT OF HERE

Whilst it is truly lovely having the adorable CNL around, I am noticing subtle shifts in the apartment. There is a copy of something called 'Star Magazine' in the bathroom. Then there are the weird mutterings behind laptops (1 broken from overuse, 2 to go.) 'It seems like everyone is moving out of Coronation Street.......' 'Chantelle has been talking about being bullied at school'..... 'Britney Spears is pregnant again' All of this over a perpetual background sountrack of 'When You Wasn't Famous' the new, and frankly appalling single from The Streets. I can only presume CNL is watching the video over and over and over (and over) just to catch a glimpse of the demented one.....
It's a worry.

BROWSING NOT BOOKING

The Hawaii situation is even more alarming if you consider that the TH has a very responsible programming position in a multi-national company, and spends all day on computers, yet he not only managed to book a holiday ACCIDENTALLY on the internet- he did it TWICE. He was only meant to be browsing.....

Anyway, it's not his birthday anymore, so this morning I threatened to send CNL in my place(s) to Hawaii (twice) for our wedding anniversary. Strangely, this immediately did the trick and he employed his wikkid hacking skillz to cancel said holidays.

For future reference, if anyone is booking a holiday for me - I hate beaches, I hate hot weather and I hate big tower block hotels.
No pressure.
I am now browsing the Ice Hotel.

CORRECTION

The TH has mistakenly booked two holidays in Hawaii.
It is his birthday, so I am trying to remain calm.

HULA HULA

Two things.

1.CNL has arrived.



2. The TH has mistakenly booked us a holiday in Hawaii.

BECAUSE TIME WARNER CABLE MADE ME DO IT

Even jetlag can't explain why I found myself this afternoon watching the last 15 minutes of the Jodie Marsh Big Brother suitcase sale on ebay in a refreshing frenzy. I clearly caught trashy-bird-flu whilst staying with CNL this week. Having said that, despite being a total farce, said sale was also pretty compulsive viewing on account of it suddenly reeling from 7,000 and pages of bids down to 1,000 and 'no bids' in a matter of minutes. I thought the whole point of auctions was that bids are supposed to go up? In any case, I'll spare you the details, but if you're interested (and I really hope for your sake that you're not) the whole pointless saga is beautifully summarised here. Incidentally (I hope), CNL (who is coming to stay this weekend) emailed this evening to say, and I quote - 'I now have a suitcase on loan so can bring hula hoops'. I am trying not to tirer des conclusions....

Whilst we're on the subject of totally unimportant addictive TV programmes I must report that The Bachelor and Sarah have already split up. And I feel nothing less than totally cheated out of the wasted hours I spent watching them get together. I hate to say je vous ai dit (not least because it's probably grammatically incorrect), but obviously, as I previously pointed out, he should have chosen Moana...

As for American Idol, I am thankful to discover that both Paris and Taylor are still going strong. If one of them doesn't win, it will clearly be the end of the career I currently don't even yet have.

I did get my life back in Europe. Honest. And to prove it, tomorrow I will be writing an in-depth post on anti-semitism in the works of Karl Marx and George Orwell.

HOME FROM HOME

So I was that person I normally hate at the check-in desk , unpacking my entire suitcase and trying to jam 9lbs of sharks, hula hoops and new black clothes into my carry-on luggage on account of being the subject of excess baggage. Still, I gave the check-in guy the opportunity to say something he's almost certainly never said before and in all likelihood will never say again - 'perhaps one more shark would do it...?'

Had a perfect last day in London. Lunch and good chats with the lovely Stevie at his wonderful new discovery Hummus Bros in Soho (highly recommended gorgeous veggie fayre). Then a look around the National Portrait Gallery ('cos I is a tourist) on the way to meet A for yet more good conversation and wine. And finally a typically debauched, hilarious and gossipy Archduke evening with the HM's, well two-thirds of them anyway. How I miss those wicked-humour evenings and B's ever-increasing array of outrageous expressions and evil spot-on nicknames....

So now I'm back home. (I said 'HOME' - check THAT shit out!) It's been an excellent trip, and was just the therapy I needed to bring me to a realisation of just how lucky I am to now be in a position whereby I can be a part of and really appreciate both London and New York. I love London, but I love it even more now that I don't live there. I was running errands in that City this week which in a previous life would have been a drag, but are now fun and exciting. I was getting sentimental over seeing copies of the Guardian and learning about oyster cards, wandering through Soho and walking over Waterloo Bridge. And now that I'm back with the lovely TH, planning a week of gigs, I'm getting excited about all that's possible here too. I'm all set to hit this place with renewed vigour, an entire new wardrobe and some business cards.....

COUNTRY LIFE

Last night to OVP's new gaff. It's really exactly the same as his last place except it's in zone 954, currently has no internet access or mobile phone reception and is surrounded by dense forest. There is also a veritable Bloomingdales-make-up-counter-selection of types of mud, and a satellite tv variety of wildlife. (Wanna see a snow leopard? No problem). But I guess if you're going to move out of a flat which is practically on top of St Paul's with the Thames running through the bathroom and your workplace a mere biscuits toss away, you might as well do it properly. On the upside there is definitely oxygen there (which frankly you need in order to traverse the terrain outside the station), it is a real beautiful coach house with beams and history, and there is a proper country pub affair happening directly across the road and stars in the sky. C & OVP are two of my favourite people in the world and it is only in the company of a handful of true friends such as these that this nomadic shark nowadays feels really at home. A lovely relaxed evening of good vibes, chat, champagne and gorgeous Indian food.

Today to meet the ever karmic and resilient (and slightly less Big) Buzzard & my namesake for lunch. BB's had one hell of a week, as you can read on his blog, and it was good to see him to reassure myself that he is ok as far as it is possible to be under the circumstances (I think he is), get the full story and give him a hug. It's an unenviable situation to find yourself in, but he (and S) are dealing with it admirably well and are full of practical optimism and their usual zest and energy for life in general. I nevertheless hate that in 48 hours I'm going to be thousands of miles away again and can't be around to help or support in any way. It's a reminder that what matters most of all in life are the people we love and of course, our health.

A lovely London afternoon doing errands, walking the streets with OVP, talking and drinking in the way that I can only do with him. Then on to the QEH to hear Zoe Rahmans set (inspiring as always) and inevitably crash into many other people I've not seen for months.

The wondrous CNL had gorgeous dinner served when I got in. (She is spoiling me). Though quite how she managed to cook whilst refreshing the Jodie Marsh suitcase ebay sale every 5 seconds I'm really not sure. If I didn't know her better I'd say she wanted to buy it...........

SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER

Left Berlin in several inches of snow and miles of scaffolding. I have grown to love this work-in-progress-City over the last few days.

Tonight in London attended Codenamebanksy's second art exhibition at Escape, where today's art class painting was briefly exhibited on the wall next to the bar. (Her first exhibition took place at the Royal National Theatre last Saturday. CNB gaffer-taped her art to various bits of the foyer wall, before the intervention of some rather confused security guards. )

My (now 6 or so) bags and I will be staying for a couple of days at the Lizzy's who shall be named in code and who also has scaffolding. Home from home. She has hoovered. There is a glitter ball and much strange talk of parsnips.

Berlin days 

Berlin nights

'IF YOUR BREASTS ARE TOO BIG, YOU WILL FALL OVER. UNLESS YOU WEAR A RUCKSACK.'

Berlin pavements are absolutely covered in dog-shit, and this morning I was reminded of a story Ivor Cutler had once told me. Apparently he used to get so pissed off with dog shit on the pavements in Camden that he went round for weeks and months drawing cartoons around the offending items in chalk.
Allegedly, as a consequence of this, the problem attracted huge publicity, and Camden council changed its laws and started a massive dog-shit-clean-up campaign.

It was whilst I was trying to work out what he would use instead of chalk today, under Berlin snowy conditions, that the very sad news came through that he had died on March 3rd.

I had the fortunate pleasure of being on the receiving end of a complaint phone call from Ivor back in 1990. He was calling to complain about the volume of a performance at the RFH a week after I had started to work as a programmer there. When I agreed with him, he seemed a little confused, and we started talking about other things. Approximately 10 minutes later it was like we were the best of friends and he came to meet me the next day to give me a 'poetry lesson'. I never did get on with the Ivor poetry method which seemed to consist of getting into a kind of relaxed hypnotic state whereby your subconscious would produce noises and nonsense words. My tendency to lapse into Keatsian verse frustrated him immensely, and he soon gave up on me as a disciple and our friendship became based upon the lunchtime foyer performances, throughout which he would sit next to me on the left hand side of the bar maybe twice a week for many years.

He was a great music lover and very open-minded to all kinds of perfomances as long as the music was truly convincing and emotional from the heart. What he hated was any kind of amplification, and we would sit down at the beginning of each month to go through the programme so as I could mark up for him the gigs I knew he would like from a volume perspective. He was immensely moved by some music - John Law's Trio, Kate Williams' Trio and Mark D'Inverno's Trio in particular I remember moved him to tears.

Some days we sat and simply listened to the music, and other days we had deep conversations about very silly things, and light-hearted conversations about very serious things. He was a strange mix of attention-seeking and shy, not quite understanding why the large sunflower on his hat was attracting quite so much attention, and often, when feeling unsociable, hid behind me at the bar when anyone looked like they were approaching to talk to him. He loved to make friends of strangers, which was far preferable to him than being approached by a fan who had recognised him. He would put a sticker on someone's hat or mug of coffee when they turned round for a second, then stand at a distance to watch the reaction, getting huge amounts of pleasure from a stranger's smile or look of momentary confusion. We spent many lunchtime gigs choosing the right sticker for the right stranger in order to elicit the best reaction. He would often arrive at the gig with a story of how he had handed a sticker to someone across the gangway on a tube train on the way, or to a cashier in the supermarket that morning, and how said-person was his new 'best friend.'

He had many quirky characteristics such as his random crazy dance routines, and a pocket full of wondrous objects - an old tin full of the kind of sweets and herbal tablets only found in the dustiest of village sweet shops or apothecaries, a dictionary of shorthand, a chinese character book, a huge array of stickers in a plastic bus-pass holder and all manner of badges and other oddities.

Like a child he gained pleasure from the very simplest things and had abrupt and dramatic mood changes, and like a teenager he was always in search of romantic love. He didn't really understand getting older at all and to me it was always like talking to someone truly ageless.

Someone should make a postcard in his honour, rather like the Elvis one, reading 'What would Ivor have done?' or 'What would Ivor have said?'

RIP Ivor. You touched millions of lives and will be missed by far more people than you could ever have imagined.

FIRST WE TAKE MANHATTAN, THEN WE TAKE BERLIN

The London whirlwind was just lovely. Managed to see many adorable and hugely missed friends, hear some great gigs, have my whole head fixed and meet my dream tenants (who very generously allowed me to stay).
Apart from all of that it was also just so nice to be back where the trains get cancelled, the bus drivers shout and the chemists sell gas permeable contact lens solutions. In short, where I understand what the fuck is going on.

Apparently a change is as good as a rest, so I am currently changing in Berlin in the hope of catching up on some of the rest seriously depleted by a series of late nights, alcohol, plane journeys and time zones. The lovely sister had failed to mention that she lives in a palace, and from now on I will only be able to grin and bare the rabbit hutch of an apartment I live in when I return to New York. On top of being larger than some small countries, it is also a grown ups apartment. And by that I mean everything is in a frame and mounted properly on the wall, and even their fruit bowl seems to naturally assume the arrangement of a Jakobsen, whereas mine (when I even remember to buy fruit and find and wash a bowl to put it in) seems to resemble something more along the lines of a Picasso.
This is what happens when you're the eldest. You're out there paving the way for the younger one when you should be out skipping, then in middle age you're still trying to learn to skip when what you should be doing is having babies and framing art. Which probably explains why I seem to have so much in common with the 7 yr old Elf.

Incidentally, it's amazing the impression kids can get. The Elf was seriously determined to teach me how to order wine and gin and tonic in German last night, else otherwise I honestly believe she was going to bunk school today incase I couldn't get through a few hours without this vocabulary to hand.......
My German language is spectacularly awful as it happens - German O' Level being the only exam I've ever failed in my life. (I think I might even have failed it twice.) But strangely I've never forgotten how to order drinks. What I can't quite get used to is the total absence of any 'please' or 'thankyou' words, which according to the Elf (who was of course fluent after a mere few weeks here) just sound 'wrong'. This is a little odd when you're used to the 'you're more than welcome' country, where it takes so long to thank people that by the end you've forgotten what it is you're thanking them for.

Oh and don't listen to a word the Mafling says about not being able to speak German yet. I was present last night when she not only totally translated a Thai German menu in a restaurant (which I probably wouldn't even have understood in English), but then fluently ordered for all of us and had a long conversation about the wine choice with the waiter.

Things I have learnt about Berlin so far - it is snowing and does that a lot, you can't buy double duvets, the recycling is ridiculously complicated (there are 5 different receptacles in the kitchen,and even after nearly a year here Mafling was incapable of explaining exactly what they were all for), they are still building absolutely all of the roads here and there was once a Wall (actually that bit I did know already), which I should now make an effort to go and find out more about.

The TH, meanwhile, is apparently having the time of his life back in NY with 'the girls who manage to carry around a change of clothes, a toothbrush and a pet dog in a bag the size of a credit card'. Although he promises that he only took home 11 business cards last night.....