Dub Boy Angst
Laughingboy invented a new music genre today, I call it Dub Angst:
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Isn’t it lovely? If I play it back to him during a shouting spell he calms right down instantly, but only for the duration of the track. I may have to record an album and turn him into a gazillionnaire.
I created the file using the ‘LaDiDa’ app(lication) for the iPhone. Sorry. I’m aware that last sentence made me sound like a tosser, but technology does have its perks.
Buried Treasure
I was clearing out my bookmarks this evening and looked what spilled out!!
-Floaty-mouse images of Dublin City in June 1961 and June 2011, a then-and-now sort of collection. Look at all the dinky cars! (Stolen from Jo :)
This is what real love looks like.
-US Actress Tina Fey’s ‘A Mother’s Prayer for Her Child’; it’s as though she’s inside my head.
-10 Words You Need To Stop Misspelling Read these, and write them out twenty times, you naughty children!
-How to make a gift box out of a bank note. For when you couldn’t be arsed buying that voucher.
-Arty Bollocks Generator because everybody needs an artist statement!
Oh, and a creepy picture by Lori Nix. Click the image to magnifify it.
Sister Ghandi and Violin Karaoke
Apart from attending weddings and helping with school libraries and hunting in vain for knee length socks and stitching costumes back together and carving halloween pumpkins and knitting nothing in particular very fervently in an attempt to (yet again) quit smoking, this week I be mostly reviving my violin.
It’s been lying inside a dusty box in various parts of the house untouched for the last twelve years which would make my Grandmother twist in her very pretty grave high up on the hilltop if she knew.
See, every time I consider opening that case, I would remember my teacher and suffer from huge pangs of guilt and would walk away and close my eyes and hope the guilt would dissappear under the bed again.
My teacher was a nun, a very small nun who reminded me of Ghandi and who was at least 125 years old if she was a day. She would make me go limp like a powered-down robot before every lesson, and told me that pressure was a waste of time, that I could only be as good as I am, so why worry?
I remember enrolling for classes with her at some stage during my school life, and picking up a violin and making it screech horribly. I could already read music, that wasn’t the problem, it was the damn bow not doing what it was supposed to do and the fact that the notes on the strings are entirely invisible. With a piano, at least each note is pre-defined, a black or white key to either be pressed, or not. A violin relies on the ear of the player, a finger slid slightly too far south makes the music sound a bit like a vomiting goat.
After a few months of learning scales and arpeggios and chromatics and the like, Sister Ghandi told me I was to do an exam. It was at this point I wondered if she actually switched on her hearing aid at all during lessons, surely no examiner would want to entertain me after just a few months?!? No matter how much I protested, she went ahead and enlisted me for exams anyway, not for some low grade warmer upper, no no. She went right ahead and booked me up for Grade SIX.
I had an impossible modern mumbo jumbo piece and an increadibly weird hungarian dance to learn in a tight space, but she had faith in me and made me do it, no matter how much I complained.
I passed it, too. I did really well, and became leader of the band geeks, of which I was entirely proud.
Then I left school after my leaving cert and never looked back.
I could have called the convent to see if she was still alive, but I never did. I could have checked in on her to thank her for all her hard work, but I didn’t. I couldn’t handle the fact that if I did call the nuns, they would tell me that she had shuffled off the mortal coil and was now fiddling at the Lord’s right hand side in heaven. I just couldn’t bear to hear that.
Which is stupid, because there is a slight chance that she’s still alive. I’m just too afraid to find out.
So, in her honour, I am attempting to re-tune these tired old strings and learn all over again via Internet Karaoke.
Internet Karaoke?!?!? Again poor Granny turns in her grave!
Via www.virtualsheetmusic.com, I found the following video on YouTube:
Which might not make a whole lot of sense as it is, but if you fiddle along with it, it might sound something a little bit like this:
Someday hopefully, at least.
No one gets hurt if they don’t act funny
There’s a very excellent scene in Tarantino’s ‘Reservoir Dogs’ – I’m sure you know it. The Fun Lovin’ Criminals robbed a sound byte for their ‘Scooby Snacks’ track it’s that cool. Skip to 1:20 in the following video if you have no clue what I’m on about.
I was reminded of that quote tonight.
I stole Pacino’s cat. I fear that if it had been left with him any longer it would soon be an ex-cat. It’s tail is, for the want of a more scientific term, pretty crusty. It looks like you could break it off and smoke it.
I heard Puppychild giggling in the bedroom earlier… I went in to investigate to find her upside down, her upper shoulders dangling under the bed – she looked like a decapitated pink chicken. I heard the engine-roar of a large cat’s purr from the darkness somewhere.
“What ya doin’?”
“Playin wit the cat!” said a muffled child’s voice.
“Are you torturing that poor animal?!”
“Torture? That’s a good idea!! I like that!”
UB Grateful
I don’t go to concerts much. I’ve never been to Oxygen or the Electric Picnic, but I plan to change that eventually. I went to Radiohead once, the most exiting part of that gig was watching the kids spewing all over each other… I think the downer music was a bad buzz. They should have called it the ‘whitey’ tour.
I went to U2 once, but can’t remember much of it. There was no drugs or booze involved, it was just… meh. I wouldn’t have minded sticking around for the fireworks, but the crowds were too damn huge and ducking out early seemed a wise idea at the time. As much as I respect Bono and his efforts, he is an undeniable twat. His is the only assassination I’m actually looking forward to for curiosity value, but that wasn’t me that wrote ‘DIE BONO DIE’ towards the Grand Canal part of the Dart line, I swear.
This t-shirt sells itself, really.
Then there was Paul Simon. Supported by Van Morrison, Blind boys of Alabama and The Fun Lovin’ Criminals, this was easily the best concert I was ever at. I was kicked out twice for acting like a mad thing while sitting on TAT’s shoulders, and almost passed out when Paul returned my tinkerbell wave. Hey, my crush on Paul Simon cannot be explained, let’s just leave it at that, eh?
Tenacious D of course almost made the winner of the ‘best concert ever’ award. Almost. I’m looking forward to the porn version; The Prick of Destiny. I want to see a REAL cock push-up.
Oi! Hands up, cheater.
I went to Bon Jovi once, but don’t judge me, they were free tickets. I followed two women around and watched them shatter their reputation as classy independent women and wished I had brought those vodka injected oranges after-all. Men that age shouldn’t wear leather trousers, that’s all I have to say about that.
Guns ‘n Roses was another freebie. It was exactly what I expected it to be.
The Red Hot Chilli Peppers was absolute kak. They botched the speaker-rig in center-field so I spent the whole gig searching desperately for at least one of the twenty five people I’d come with, with my hands clasped tightly over my ears. The only place the music sounded halfway decent was from the porta-loos. I got used to the smell eventually.
—–
Now, thanks to a lady who may or may not be the full shilling, but who has thankfully developed a crush on my taxi-driving husband and ‘uses’ him at least fifteen times a week (and booty calls him at least twice that amount), we have tickets to UB40 at the O2 in November. Apparently her dad works for a large publisher and is the man to ask for tickets and back-stage passes.
I’ve no idea what I’d say to UB40 if I wandered into their stoner-room though. ‘Did you have to bastardize Reggae so blatantly?’ I might say. Or… ‘Don’t you think it a bit of a cop-out that all your top hits were cover versions of someone else’s music?’ Then again I might not. I might just say ‘Howyeh Maxi… this concert made me feel really old! Thanks for that, mate.’
Not that I’m not grateful or anything.
How K8 got her groove Bach
Recently I went on a rather anal whinge about home decoration… there really are too many shades of paint to choose from.
Then I had a brain fart, inspired by a coffee shop I used to visit a lot in Blackrock shopping center which was plastered floor to ceiling with old musical manuscripts.
Ok so I probably should have screwed the doors back on before showing it off, but you get the idea.
This is how I did it:
- First I downloaded some free piano sheet music here, and printed it off onto extremely cheap printer paper (the more absorbent the better)
- Then I found a large tray and added two kettles-full of boiling water to about six teabags (including raspberry tea for interesting colour). The printed manuscripts went into this massive brew to soak overnight; I sprinkled a few teaspoons of instant coffee between layers to add interesting speckling.
- The next morning I heated the oven to its max, and began to dry each sheet individually for about a minute per sheet (this part requires intense babysitting obviously) until I was left with a stack of crispy, slightly burnt paper that looked like it had just been rescued from a 200 year old vault.
- I then mixed some PVA glue with a little water, and plastered it to the surface with a wide paintbrush. The bonus here is that PVA glue is waterproof, meaning that the finished plastered surface is washable and permanent, provided that an extra coat of PVA is applied to finish the effect. Happily this doesn’t mean that the surface ends up glossy, but with a pretty nice textured matt effect instead.
While this whole ordeal is slightly labour intensive, it’s a heck of a lot cheaper than buying paint or wallpaper, and a lot less messy than applying same.
Thanks to Chaplin’s (ex) coffee shop for the inspiration, and to Art Attack for glue enlightenment.
Wartime
Oh, sometimes skies are cloudy
And sometimes skies are blue
And sometimes they say that you eat the bear
But sometimes the bear eats you
And sometimes I feel like I should go
Far far away and hide
‘Cause I keep a waitin’ for my ship to come in
And all that ever comes is the tide-Hard Time Losin’ Man, Jim Croce
I spent most of today with my hand clamped firmly over Laughingboy’s mouth. He’s been suffering from… something… for a few weeks now. Could be teething problems, could be growing pains, could be gas, could be that the planet under the control of his amazing brain power somewhere is suffering from the turmoils of wartime. Everybody offers opinions, but it’s anybody’s guess. Either way, he spends most of his time red faced and screaming, his limbs clenched tight like rusty vice-grips, his eyes wild with anxiety. There’s only so much pain killer a kid can take before he either becomes immune, or suffers from liver malfunction so it’s a case of trying one thing after another until he eventually falls asleep.
Problem is, most of the day must be spent quietly while TAT sleeps off his night-shift, so I must stay glued to Laughingboy’s bedside, gagging his yells with the cupped palm of my hand, stopping briefly every now and then to scream profanities into a soft cottony Spongebob pillow. I caught myself yelling at Puppychild for singing ‘ring a ring o’ roses’ in her sweet little voice over the calamity caused by Cryingboy in the same room. Hers was the voice of peace, but I only saw that once I had shattered it and she looked at me with big eyes brimming with tears, confused at what she had done wrong. It killed me.
When silence briefly reigns, I must spend it washing or cooking or sweeping, or simply staring into an open fridge for two hours. I miss the good parts, the quiet smiles, the interludes.
It grinds a girl down, it makes her want to sleep, to find her reflection in the bottom of a bottle, to forget about sending wedding thank-you-cards and emptying spare-rooms and sunbathing in rare Irish tarmac softening heat. I wonder when things will start to perk up again.
Then something silly happens… in this case, while I was setting up Laughingboy’s feeding bag tonight, and I stood on an up-turned plug. My reaction sounded something like a birthing hyena and it sent both children into hysterics. All three of us, collapsed on a bed, ripped into shreds of giggles and forgetting the bad times. It was right then that I figured it isn’t Laughingboy who has special needs, but me. It’s a need to know that giggles are no good without tears, quiet smiles are accentuated by loud frowns, stress breeds peace.
Whatever it is that Laughingboy is suffering from, it will be but a distant memory someday. I should take this opportunity to teach Puppychild how to deal with stress by example, and to remind Laughingboy what my heartbeat sounds like, instead of having him taste the salty bitterness of my sweaty hand. Nothing comes from nothing, everything comes from understanding.
Like Grannymar once said on her blog; “Be thankful for a lawn that needs mowing, windows that need cleaning, and gutters that need fixing because it means you have a home.”
Not just an Irish Liquor
I vaguely remember ‘Carolan’ music when learning to play the violin all those years ago, but apart from that I drew a blank when it was suggested to me over the phone.
Wedding music. The thought freaked me out, man. Just think… all those specialist musicians out there waiting to screw you as soon as you mention the ‘W’ word, just because they’re handy with a few strings and a plec. Everyone I researched cost at least nine hundred quid. For an hour!!! We’re in the wrong job lads! But; happily, a friend piped up one day and suggested I ask her second-cousin’s brother in-law’s nephew who happens to play in Dan’s bar in Greystones of a Tuesday night. Apparently those fellas can do amazing things with Mandolins and flutes that would blow the acoustics right out of a church, so myself and TAT went to have a gander last night.
What an atmosphere! Dan’s is a tiny pub that looks like it’s the household pet belonging to The Beachhouse bar/restaurant next-door. It’s like as though somebody left it there by mistake, or maybe its neighbour partook in a course of steroids…Dan’s bar is a strange but beautiful place.
The group of lads consisted of two guitarists, a tin whistler, a mandolin player, a box-squeezer, and a very timid bodhrán player. That was before the Uileann pipe player happened by, bringing a Venezuelan chap with a Suzuki guitar (a cuatro?) and a very beautiful singing wife who stopped time with her songs about the moon. A chap wandered in towards the end, ordered a pint, and drank it while singing all fifty-nine verses of a pretty comedic Irish song, then buggered off again. The Accidental Terrorist and I were quare’n entertained, and discussed becoming part of the furniture there at some point in the future.
They played a few Carolan tunes for us to give us a taster for Churchy things to come, that might have sounded something like this:
Apparently Turlough O’Carolan was a blind itinerant Irish harper who lived from 1670-1738 and got an enormous thumbs-up from Mr. Vivaldi himself for his music composition. He wasn’t rated much as a musician by his peers, rather for his poetry. For example, he fell off the wagon once, and penned the following poem;
He’s a fool who give over the liquor,
It softens the skinflint at once,
It urges the slow coach on quicker,
Gives spirit and brains to the dunce.
The man who is dumb as a rule
Discovers a great deal to say,
While he who is bashful since Yule
Will talk in an amorous way.
It’s drink that uplifts the poltroon
To give battle in France and in Spain,
Now here is an end of my turn-
And fill me that bumper again!
Problem sorted! Thank God for Irish Trad, and for the fact that I don’t have to pay through the nose to see some young wan’s Aria on my wedding day. Now, to find a babysitter…
Bray School Project Roof-Raiser Fundraiser Gig
Here’s positivity for you. Our schools are falling apart and funds have run dry, but instead of complaints, solidarity reigns and rock and roll rules. If you’re around Bray on Thursday night, you can see it for yourself. Enter the mosh-pit and help raise the roof!
Bray School Project Roof-Raiser Fundraiser Gig
WHEN: Thursday 2nd April, 7pm
WHERE: Greystones Theatre
WHY: To help raise funds for a new school roof
WHO: The Juice, The Cujo Family, Blind Yackety
Tickets are €10, from BSP Office/Box Office/Door
January's Dog's Bollocks
I’m going to try and keep this short and sweet, but you must understand that there’s a lot of passion being supressed. This post could go on ’till next Autumn for all the potential content involved, but time’s short and the Chinese is on its way, fair play to him.
January’s Dog’s Bollocks award goes to Mr. Rick O’Shea.
Rick’s radio show has been my touchstone for humanity for the longest time. He saw me through freezing weather in my forlorn days of window cleaning… his banter kept my soul nice and toasty. It also broke the ice somewhat given my situation – a bunch of belligerent blokes with a female driver, my territory here (you understand) was somewhat ‘spurious, but Rick levelled us to the same domain with perfection.
Then came my taxi driving boredom. From hackney to cabbie, the lost hours… those spent biting nails and scanning newspapers, waiting desperately for someone to fancy the thought of being driven anywhere… somewhere… the suspense of the next fare was healed by Rick O’Shea and his inane questions – questions that levelled Ireland to the same base instincts, the same issues, the same mistakes. I felt so at home, so entertained… I actually cursed fares that interrupted my concentration on Rick’s show between 2pm and 5pm.
Now it’s gone.
This is the facebook protest if you’re into that sort of thing. (I hope the link works!)
2fm have seen it fit to call a halt to chat radio. They seem to think that they’re the only radio station playing pop music, that they have the edge on popular radio, but the sad thing is (from my point of view), is that the only thing they have going for them is Rick, and Nikki Hayes, the popculture guru that can be heard before Rick’s slot. These are the shows that determine real entertainment, something worth listening to. They call out to the general public, they hand the day’s subject matter to us, to you and me, and in my opinion it’s genius.
“What’s the last thing you tore up?”
“When’s the last time you told someone you loved them?”
“What’s the most embarrasing thing you’ve ever done?”
It’s the closest thing to a radio blog… inviting the public to create an atmosphere that nobody else can match… it grounds us all and lets us know that we’re not alone, that we’re all human underneath. I miss it so.
Rick’s slot is not gone yet, but his show is now lacklustre. He has no more questions, he plays music that everyone else plays, his voice carries dampened undertones as though his baby has left home for good. I hope he doesn’t mind me saying this, but his show (since he returned from New York) has joined the ranks of banality and I sense that this isn’t his fault. He’s been shot down.
Why?
Fuck knows.
Cut Gerry (perve) Ryan’s salary, bring back Rick. Oh ok, I love Gerry too, but seriously… he’s not worth that much. Ray D’Arcy fills my slot far more adequately most of the morning time, so to speak.
Long live Rick O’Shea, he is indeed the Dog’s Bollocks.
Goodbye 2fm, you’ve lost a listener.
