House We Used to Live In

Swede Towers in the 19th Century, when it was the village shop

On Monday, almost nine years to the day since Mrs S & I tipped our final van-load of belongings into Swede Towers at the end of an exhausting series of back and forth trips to and from our rented place in Norwich, I leave this house for the very last time, alone. To say I'm heartbroken really wouldn't come close to describing the state I'm in. I've bounced off these walls in solitude for over a year now, reflecting on the cul-de-sac my life has ended up in and I'm not ashamed to admit that it's proved to be a traumatically difficult period. But, even in my darkest hours, I take great comfort from the 14 years I shared with this remarkable woman and though much diminished by her leaving, I know for certain that I'm a far better person for having known her. 

Swede Towers from roughly the same angle in 2019 (ours is the green door where the shop window once was)

Mrs S dropped round a few weeks ago, soon after I accepted the offer on the house, to pick up the last of her outstanding bits and bobs. It was the first time I'd seen her since February. We wound up sitting in the kitchen overlooking the remnants of her amazing garden, nursing our respective cuppas and catching up like old friends do - at one point we reduced each other to breathless tears of laughter following some silly remark or other. In the wake of her visit, I plummeted into a really dreadful emotional place for the following ten days or so. It makes no sense for me to try and keep in touch, or to meet up with her again in the future. I can't see her because I so very much want to see her. So that's the end of it. 

If you've made it this far, thank you and I apologise for wallowing in my own dismalia yet again. Going forward, you'll be pleased to hear that it's not something I plan to make a habit of anymore. Our mutual blogging chum Drew offered some simple, yet simultaneously profound advice in the comments a few days ago '...take the good memories of the house with you and forget to pack the ones that are not too good...' Amen to that. 

Wish me luck - I'll see you on the other side, as and when I get the broadband sorted in the new gaff. 

The Smithereens - House We Used to Live In

Trashed

A song cropped up on the radio recently that sent me whizzing back to a specific moment of a relationship I shared in the mid-1990s. J & I had been mates for some time before it became more and we ended up spending over two years together. We laughed, we went to a ridiculous amount of gigs, we went on holiday to America, we got silly drunk, we had a lot of fun. Everything in the garden was rosy. Then J introduced a notion. Perhaps saying that she wanted to settle down there and then would be to put too formal a stamp on it, but she was certainly looking for some form of....commitment. I wobbled, clearly thrown by the thought, even though at this point I was already in my mid-thirties. In reality I was an immature, overgrown teenager and selfishly I didn't want our innocent, unencumbered fun to end.

Inevitably and quite rightly, J eventually kicked me into touch. I was pretty upset, but somewhere deep inside I knew it was the right move for her and for where she wanted to go in life. She eventually married and had four fantastic kids. J & I have remained friends and I even went to her wedding, ultimately becoming pretty good mates with her husband. I've been to a number of gigs with him over the years, including one in 2019 with their oldest son who's now in his twenties.

So the song and the memory that sent me spiralling back? Late one evening in the Summer of 1996 (from this remote distance it feels like it might well have been the most carefree evening of my entire life) J & I fell laughing out of  a bar, drunkenly stumbling and weaving our way through the completely deserted town centre. A favourite song of the day came to us and together, staggering along arm in arm, we sang it loudly into the night air, joined only by the echo reverberating from the dark shuttered shopfronts. When it came to the chorus, our impromptu, but appropriate amendment of the lyric saw us collapse to the ground in fits of giggles.

'...we're trashed, you and me...'

Saturday Musings

I've had the week off - actually I'm still off and don't go back to work until Thursday. I've been hard at it for the past few months, taking every hour of overtime I've been offered, keeping mind and body occupied, so I was pretty knackered and ready for a break. Of course as soon as I stopped, I immediately became incredibly anxious and stressed, unhappy in my own skin and missing the person who is no longer sharing my life more than ever. So, each morning for the first half of the week, I took myself off to one of the many nature reserves in this part of the world, where I found myself able to embrace my solitude by simply walking, breathing and being - for hours at a time. It was some kind of wonderful I can tell you. Of course I had to return to the pain of my actual existence eventually, but those walks were encouragingly positive glimpses into a reality beyond the one I find myself trapped in at the moment.

Then on Wednesday evening I went to see Rozi Plain play in Norwich and on Thursday ventured down to my old hometown of Ipswich to catch her in concert again. Long suffering visitors to this place will already be all too aware of my immense adoration of Rozi's music. Today I'm off to Cambridge, to reconnect with my old buddy Robyn Hitchcock. Then, after a Sunday lunch in the company of a group of old friends, on Monday morning I'll be winding my way down to this nation's capitol to catch Robyn again for what is being touted as something of a career retrospective show at the Union Chapel, where he'll apparently be joined by guests aplenty, including more than one fellow former Soft Boy. It's all very exciting stuff for this old Fegmaniac.

I won't go on and on, but please allow me to reiterate once again how very humbled and grateful I am for every single message of moral support that has been sent in my direction following the recent posts regarding my personal circumstances. I appreciate every kind word more than you could possibly imagine. I'm appalling company at the moment, really dreadful, collapsing into a sobbing heap without warning at every turn, but one day, one day, I hope I'll be able to express my gratitude to at least some of you personally.

Rozi Plain - There Is No Sun

Gonna Have a Party

In this photo, taken in our Walthamstow back garden in 1961, I'm the rather confused looking one year-old being held in the arms of my aunt, who, with her husband, lived upstairs from Mum, Dad & I until 1972. My cousin, who now lives in New York with her own husband and three grown-up kids, joined the household in 1963. In those crucial early years, my cousin and I grew up like sister and brother, with each of us having the benefit of an extra set of parents on call whenever we needed them.

My uncle died suddenly in 1978, when my cousin was only 15, so, tragically, he was unable to enjoy any of her great academic achievements or meet her wonderful family. My aunt still lives alone in the East Ham house they all briefly shared together. Tomorrow it's her 90th birthday and my cousin has arranged for surviving friends and family to celebrate the milestone on Sunday afternoon with a party in the function room of a nearby pub.

My cousin arranged similar celebrations for her mum's 70th, 80th and 85th birthdays, so the tradition is well established, albeit with a smaller attendance and noticeably frailer attendees each time. After work tomorrow, I'll travel down to London to join my aunt and her friends for her latest knees-up. In the couple of days that follow, my cousin and I will hang out, catch up and no doubt start making tentative plans for her mum's 95th in 2024.

Stray - Gonna Have a Party

This Is My Home, The Place Where I'm Lonely

A photo of Swede Towers taken in the late 1800s

It's been a long stretch - two six day working weeks followed by a seven day one. Keeping mind and body busy is definitely a good thing for me at the moment and the exhaustion guarantees I get at least a few hours sleep each night. It's the coming home from work that's the difficult part though. The house is quiet and empty and the person I want be in it with is no longer here. I'm trying not to rush into anything, but I need to decide what my next move, if any, is going to be. Do I stay in a house that I love, is bought and paid for, but is full of memories and too big for my needs, or sell-up, downsize and take a chance somewhere else?

Husky Rescue - My Home Ghost

Drunk With Sadness

I'd like to take a moment to apologise for my ongoing low profile round these parts and more importantly offer genuine, heartfelt gratitude to those who have enquired after my well-being during my absence. The truth of the matter is that after 14 years together, Mrs S and I have separated and I find myself alone, isolated, broken, scared and struggling to function to be quite honest - the black cloud that engulfs me is so dense that it's nigh-on impossible to find a way through. I'm keenly aware that my problems are infinitesimal in the grand scheme of things, but currently I'm totally overwhelmed by them.

I bought 'Over' by Peter Hammill in 1977 when I was only 17.  The LP details the breakdown of a relationship in graphic, agonising, intimate detail, something I couldn't even begin to comprehend at such a tender age. It's far from easy listening, but right now every single line of 'This Side of the Looking Glass' rings so true that it's almost as if Hammill is sitting in the corner of the room, watching my suffering and taking notes.

Red Gold & Green #26 - The Jolly Brothers

In the early 1980s, purely because I worked in a local record shop, I was offered the opportunity to host my own Hospital Radio show. Visions of being hailed as the new John Peel flowed through my mind and I readily accepted. When the day of my first show arrived, I headed off to the hospital with little preparation and no records. No need, I was told - the station had a bountiful supply of donated records, enough for a hundred shows. On arrival at the studio I was indeed greeted by a huge quantity of records...Manuel and the Music of the Mountains, Boxcar Willie, Val Doonican, Mantovani, James Last, Johnny Mathis, The Black & White Minstrels, Klaus Wunderlich you name them, they were all there on the shelves of a musical wall of horror. My heart sank.

Needless to say, from my second show onwards, I made greater preparations and took my own tunes. That first week, however, I went through every last record in the studio in an effort to find an hour's worth of broadcastable music - the pickings were very slim indeed. On-air, I mumbled and waffled from nerves and also to cover the fact that I had scarcely anything decent to play. Bizarrely and inexplicably however, I found a 7" single of The Jolly Brothers 'Conscious Man' in amongst all the dross. I played it instantly. Then I played the dub version on the b-side. Then I rambled on a bit about reggae in general, Lee Perry in particular and the Black Ark studio where the track was recorded in 1977...I might have even played the a-side again!

What the patients on the wards upstairs made of my efforts that day, or in the slightly more organised weeks and months that followed, is thankfully lost in the mists of time, but whenever I hear the distinctive, squelchy, #couldonlyhavecomefromtheblackark intro to 'Conscious Man' I'm transported back to that studio and the musical wall of horror.

Jolly Brothers - Conscious Man (12" Mix) 

The postscript to the story is that when I mentioned the Jolly Brothers 7" to the station controller, his reaction to it was much as mine was to the whole wall of horror! He told me to take the single home and keep it, on the grounds that it wasn't suitable for hospital radio and he had no idea where it came from. I couldn't do it though, even though I didn't then own a copy. I tucked it back into the middle of a pile of utterly naff singles in the hope that it would one day be re-discovered by a desperate DJ with similar tastes to my own. I wonder if it ever got another airing?

Mum's Last Gift

The first gift my Mum ever gave me was in April 1960 - it was of course the gift of life. Exactly 50 years later, her last gift to me was this pair of trainers. By April 2010, by then too ill to go out to the shops herself, Mum asked me what I'd like for my upcoming birthday. I mentioned that I'd been thinking about getting some new trainers, so she gave me the money and told me to buy myself a pair. I wore them out and about for over four years, before demoting them to indoor wear only. Now, a further three years down the line, the soles are so completely non-existent that I can't put it off any longer - the time has come for them to be dispatched. I know it sounds a bit daft, but I felt that I needed to take a photo of the trainers before they went. It's like a last direct connection with Mum is disappearing with them.

No songs about trainers spring to mind by way of a tribute to my loyal old pair, but I can offer 'Shoes' by Brook Benton. Written by Don Covay & George Soule, 'Shoes' was released as a single in 1970 and came into my possession by way of a second hand Atlantic Records soul compilation three or four years later. It's the only song I've ever owned by Brook Benton, but I surely do love it.

Brook Benton - Shoes

Red Gold & Green #22 - Ken Boothe

It's Mrs S's birthday. I'm writing this a few days ahead of time and we've not yet decided exactly what we're doing by way of celebration, but if I were a betting man I'd stick a fiver on it involving a coastal walk, a pub and a big plate of chips. We're easily pleased.

Here for Mrs S, on her special day, is her favourite song by her favourite reggae artist, Ken Boothe's 1973 cover of Syl Johnson's 'Is it Because I'm Black?'

Ken Boothe - Is It Because I'm Black?

57 Not Out

Somehow, don't ask me exactly how it happened, I seem to have reached the grand old age of 57. Last time I checked, I could've sworn I was hovering somewhere around my late thirties. In spite of previously doubting and poo-pooing the notion, it appears that the passage of time really does speed up as you get older. These days time doesn't so much pass, as hurtle by.

Whenever either of our respective birthdays roll around, Mrs S & I generally take ourselves off to the coast for the day to eat some chips, drink a beer, mooch about for a bit, then come home - the simple pleasures. This year, following several months of niggling health issues, we've decided to push the boat out a bit more than usual. As you read these words, we're on the last full day of a short break in deepest North Norfolk. We found a little bolthole a couple of years ago and remarkably it wasn't booked out for the Easter weekend. It's a self contained cabin in the middle of nowhere - a perfect base for exploring the coast, taking quiet country walks or simply staying put and chilling on the porch with a celebratory birthday beverage.

The Birthday Party - Happy Birthday

Prez In Action

Above and Beyond

On this day 36 years ago, I was laid low with a nasty case of the mumps - eating, drinking and even breathing with considerable difficulty. In the evening, my best mate unexpectedly knocked at my parents' front door and we stood for a moment, one of us at each end of the hall, about 10 feet apart. I was in no condition to hold a conversation, so few words were exchanged and I was puzzled as to why he'd chosen to put his health on the line to visit me when he could've just picked up the phone to find out how I was. He reached into his backpack, pulled out a record in a carrier bag, crouched down and slid it along the floor, the length of the hall. 'I thought you'd want this, however rough you're feeling', he said. I picked it up and took the record from the bag. It was 'Sandinista' by The Clash, which had been released that very day. A brief nod of gratitude was all I could muster in my fevered state. He turned, opened the front door and was gone.

The Clash & Mikey Dread - If Music Could Talk / Living in Fame

Suitcase Man

In September, it'll be 45 years since I started at 'Big' school. It was 1971, I was 11 years old and up to that point had only ever worn shorts and casual shirts to school - now all that was about to change. I was expected to arrive at 'Big' school kitted out in full uniform (including long trousers!) and carrying a briefcase - very grown up. As ever, Mum was ready with a camera to capture the moment as I left the house on my first morning. In the resulting photo I look apprehensive about the day ahead and slightly ill at ease in such formal clothing. At school, 95% of the other boys carried traditional leather Gladstone-style briefcases, but having already shelled out for a uniform that I would quickly outgrow, my parents were having none of that. Instead, I inherited a solid, square-cornered attache case that Dad had already used at work for a few years, which only served to make me stick out like a sore thumb in the classroom. Because it looked so different from the norm, I soon acquired the nickname of 'Suitcase Man' from the other kids. It could've been worse I suppose. That's the case in question, perched on the ground next to me in the photo. As it transpired, I actually only had it on loan. After I left school and no longer needed it, Dad reclaimed the attache case and carried it to and from work until his retirement in 1995. Even then he continued to use it at home to store his cheque book, bank statements, outstanding bills and various other bits of household paperwork, right up until his death in 2007.

In 1977, I plucked this little gem from the punk box of the record shop in which I would eventually work. Stanley Frank wasn't a punk and 'S'cool Days' wasn't a punk song, though John Peel played it a few times and it possessed a certain spiky edge that wouldn't have felt out of place on an early Stiff single. It wasn't released on Stiff though. Instead it remains one of only two records I've ever owned on Power Exchange Records (a label usually better known for a strictly middle of the road roster of artists), the other being '(I'm) Stranded' by The Saints.

Something's Gone Wrong Again

A channel dropped out while I was playing a record about a month ago, leaving just a crunching noise coming from one of the speakers. I checked the leads, fiddled with settings and cursed a bit. Everything else feeding off the amp appeared to be working fine, so I reasoned that it must be a connection in the turntable. After a little research, I discovered a place about 20 miles away that carries out general electrical repairs, so I took my turntable in for a service. Back at home, literally an hour later, my old laptop died. (I have a new laptop, but I still haven't got around to transferring all my photos and music across) I phoned up the same servicing place to find that yes, they were confident that they could get the laptop up and running again, at least for long enough to allow me to retrieve everything from the hard drive. 'Bring it in' they said.

A week later I made the 40 mile round trip to pick up the turntable and drop off the old laptop. When I got home I plumbed the turntable back into the system and sat back to enjoy some tunes. After a minute a channel dropped out, leaving just a crunching noise coming from one of the speakers. The fault was somewhere in the amp all along.

On Monday I got the call to say that my laptop was ready for collection. I mentioned the amp to the guy on the phone. 'Bring it in', he said. So, yesterday morning, I disconnected everything from my trusty vintage amp, placed it carefully on the back seat of the car and set off on another 40 mile round trip to drop it off and pick up the laptop. Two miles down the road the engine started stuttering and lights began to flash on the dashboard. The car shuddered to an undignified halt. I raised the bonnet and stood by the side of the road looking at the engine in despair, as traffic whizzed by inches away.

I only want to listen to a record.

Good Times Bad Times

Anniversaries abound. Yesterday it was exactly 37 years since my first Clash concert and today it's 37 years since my first Bob Dylan gig. Life has never been quite the same since that magical 24 hour period in 1978.

Sadly, yesterday also marked the 35th anniversary of the death of Malcolm Owen, lead singer of The Ruts. The Ruts were one of the few groups with the potential to rival The Clash in terms of passion and musical versitility. Certainly they were the only band who got anywhere near The Clash when it came to reggae. If you don't believe me, check out the 'Rhythm Collision Vol.1' LP, released as Ruts DC in 1982. Meanwhile, here are a pair of roots rockers from 1979. We remember you Malcolm.

Memoria

A few more photographic memories of our short holiday in North Norfolk.

This is Bruce. He immediately made us feel very welcome on his patch and became a proper little poser whenever a camera appeared.

Fred Astaire. We stayed in a secluded cabin, the roof of which Fred and Ginger (not pictured) treated as their dance floor each morning. Fred appears to have removed his tap shoes for this photo.

There were no street lights in the remote village we called home, so we were treated to some glorious late evening skies. 

We saw a wide variety of birds on our travels, from tiny Wrens to the mighty Marsh Harriers that seemed to be everywhere. I spent much of the time gazing through my binoculars at the bird-life rather than the camera lens, but while walking down a long country lane in the blistering heat, we encountered this Chaffinch who showed no inclination to fly away, at least until he'd finished his song.

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Murcof - Memoria

From Ibiza to the Norfolk Broads, Part 2 of 2

One evening after school in 1971, a pal played me 'Get It On' by T.Rex. I was 11 years old at the time and when I listened to the record it was as if a black and white curtain had been pulled aside, to reveal a vivid technicolour world beyond. It was a personal musical revelation. A life-changing moment.

So I've had roughly 44 years to consider what I might say, should I one day be lucky enough to meet Tony Visconti, the producer of 'Get It On' and of many subsequent records that ended up in my collection. I had a close call once, on a bitingly cold Winter afternoon in mid-1990's New York, when we passed each other on the street. We were both wrapped up against the fierce sub-zero winds so that our faces were only partially visible, but I recognised him instantly and also instantly decided that I wasn't going to disturb him in those hostile circumstances. I've quietly regretted that decision ever since.


On Wednesday evening (after this show) I found myself in a queue, edging ever closer to Tony Visconti, who was seated signing autographs a few feet away. I had just a couple of minutes of those 44 years left to decide what words I could possibly use to, A) adequately summarise what a profound effect the music he's produced has had on my life, and B) not sound like a gushing buffoon.


As I drew level with him, Tony looked up, smiled and said 'Hello'. This was my moment. 'Do you mind if I shake your hand?' I said. His smile broadened as he gripped my hand firmly. Quite suddenly I knew exactly what I should say. I didn't need a to make a grand statement or sweeping gesture to encapsulate the years of pleasure this man's work had given me. The solution was far simpler and more obvious than that.

'Thank you', I said, shaking his hand warmly and blinking back the stinging in my eyes. 'Thank you.'

There's No Point to Wanna Comb Your Hair When It's Grey and Thinning

One evening, when I was 12, I persuaded Mum to put my long, thick, straight hair in curlers. I've always hated my shapeless hair and, for a couple of hours at least, it was fun to see it tumbling in Bolanesque corkscrews. The following morning, of course, it had dropped back to boring, straight normality. It's hard to believe that Dad didn't grab his camera and record the event.

Much as I disliked my boring Barnet, having it cut was the worst. Dad first took me to the local barber's shop when I was four. I was plonked on a plank resting across the arms of the chair and told to sit dead still while the barber clipped and buzzed around my bonce. It was easier said than done. I twitched and I squirmed, particularly when he got anywhere my right ear, which for some reason set off a convulsion down my spine, leading to stern looks from the barber and a stern word from Dad. My left ear was fine, but that right ear always seemed ultra-sensitive to the slightest noise and it was only years later that I learned to control my involuntary reaction.

When the family relocated to Ipswich in 1975, I cast around my new classmates for a recommended local barber. 'Go and see Kenny,' someone suggested, 'Kenny Cuff the dancing barber'. It sounded unlikely, but was actually true. Instead of ambling around the chair while he snipped and trimmed, like your average barber does, Kenny performed a continuous soft shoe shuffle as he worked and was something of a local legend. His salon was a meeting place for a handful of old retired Suffolk gents, who rarely seemed to get their hair cut, but treated the place as a hang-out, smoking cigarettes and drinking endless cups of tea all day. They all thought my London accent was a hoot and good-naturedly sent me up something rotten throughout every visit, especially whenever I twitched as Kenny clicked his scissors close to my right ear.

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Here's the late great Mikey Dread with what's probably his best known tune, 1977's 'Barber Saloon'. The uploader has also kindly included the dub version, 'Lagga the Barber', featuring King Tubby at the controls.

55 From 55 - 2014

55 songs in 55 days - one for every year of my life...so far. 

This whole shebang started on a whim. A few tunes, each with an attached few lines of waffle - 55 posts, bob's yer uncle. Once I got into the groove though, the thing took on a life of its own. For some of the years I struggled to come up with anything and it probably showed, while for others I had more memories, tunes or photos than you could shake a stick at. So I've got a little backlog of stuff to dip into, going forward (one for all you Buzzword Bingo fans out there).

One of the unfortunate by-products of my devoting so much spare time to 55 From 55 (as well as being laid low by an absolute stinker of a cold last week) is that I've fallen way behind with all the excellent blogs I follow myself. Normal service, on all counts, returns henceforth. Next time I post, it'll no doubt be regarding some of the newer stuff that's been tickling my fancy over the past couple of months. 

Thank you to everyone who has dropped by to support this little endeavor, it really is very much appreciated. Right, I'm off out for a spot of Birthday lunch with Mrs S. Catch you later. And remember - age is just a number.

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As is the way of such things these days, many of my favourite albums of 2014 don't actually enjoy a physical presence here at Swede Towers. A case in point was, until recently, 'Unlikely Mothers' by Big Blood, where the only physical release was of the 'Limited Edition Coloured Vinyl Double LP' variety, which of course I was too slow off the mark to snap up. Fortunately for me, a second limited run of 150 appeared early in 2015. This time I was off like a shot and managed to bag a copy.

I can't recommend Big Blood highly enough and I shall return to them more fully at some point in the future. If you have any space in your head and heart for a gothic acid psych folk hybrid, then I urge you to check out 'Unlikely Mothers' here and if you like what you hear, you're in luck. The band have a wealth of music going back 10 years, all available to consume at the Free Music Archive (here).

55 From 55 - 2013

55 songs in 55 days - one for every year of my life...so far. 

When he was young, fit and able, Dad loved to walk. The chronic leg problems he suffered in later life were a particularly cruel blow. By the end he was struggling to even shuffle around the house. I, on the other hand, would rarely walk if there was some form of transportation available. I was lazy and I didn't see the point. Gradually, though, during my late 30's and early 40's, I began to see the point. And now, getting out and stretching my legs is a fundamental part of my day. Even if I don't have a planned destination, I do it just to walk, something I wouldn't have dreamed of when I was younger, fitter and more able..

Over the past year, hugely inspired by similar posts from blogging chums C and Singing Bear, I've taken my camera out with me upon occasion and shared the results. Here's a walk from July 2014. The reason I mention this now, is that during the course of my research for this series I unearthed a set of photos taken on the self-same circular riverside route 16 months earlier, in January 2013, not long after a coating of snow. You might even be able to recognise a few of the locations if you flick between the two sets. Our part of the world has been almost entirely snow-free since then. Click on any of the shots to blow 'em up.

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In this series I've featured Pop, Rock, Reggae,Dark Country, Minimal Techno, Motorik Madness and Jazzy Post Rock, so since we're nearing the end, how about a little 21st Century Prog? 'The Mardi Gras Turned Ugly In Seconds' is taken from Regal Worm's debut LP 'Use And Ornament'. Hear more of this band's incredible music on their Bandcamp page (here).