THE DEEP POOL - MARCH 2004

In an recent interview, i was asked what made me happiest in the world - a tricky kind of question - and you think YOUR job is hard...you can either throw the answer away, get pretentious, or perhaps say more than you want to say about your life - not that i personally believe there is really that much difference between one life and another - it's just where you're standing in it at any given time (can we get to point please?). Anyway, i decided that what made me happiest was when an ancient gap-toothed farmer gave me a cheery wave and smile as he passed me in a country lane in his crumbling jalopy. That happens quite a lot these days, and there is a considerable art to cultivating this kind of fleeting relationship - you must not arouse suspicions in the ancient farmer that you are a neurotic/mentally unstable ex-townie who has effected a dubious escape from city life (or perhaps is on the 'run' from summat as yet un-named, like in crap telly dramas about strangers in the Highlands of Scotland), nor must you affect to be unrealistically 'close' to Nature and the natural world, with, perhaps, attendant bad attitudes to people like, well, farmers, who would be only too happy to experimentally grow GM crops if it meant getting a new flat screen television by Christmas - unworthy thought there...

And have you noticed on British television, how whenever a news programme interviews a farmer who has grown an experimental field of, say, GM maize, they always think it's really brilliant - 'yer, oi got no qualms whatsoever about the safety of this 'ere maize - oi fed some to me pigs an' they were foin - mind you there's no market for it, and oi reckon the customer is still king'. They never say - 'yer, oi reckon this GM maize oi grew is a load of shoit, with unknowable soid effects and it scared me 'alf to death watching it heave around at noight under the stars - oi 'ad to boi a big potty for the soid o moi bed'. I mean, it's not as if these geezers are scientists who would be in a position to HAVE an opinion on anything except how fast or slow the stuff grows - they just happen to have a fuckin field and half a brain.

So oi reckon (oh no, it's catching) i've trod a pretty impressive line as far as the perceptions of these characters goes - yes i've got longish hair and a battered New Zealand-made all weather sort of frockcoat/jacket, and sometimes bright-red socks and muddy old Brashers. BUT i've got a much admired rare breed of working dog (Parsons Jack Russell) instead of the usual stupid labradors and retrievers that plague the countryside, with owners braying 'Roderick/Ellie - come heeaah!' And i have proper countryside etiquette which appears to come naturally, hasn't been learned from a Daily Telegraph 'Downshifter's' supplement on such matters, AND i clearly know enough about horses to have been around them at some point in my existence. Plus, i took a big chance in the Brewery Bar a while back and engaged the son of one of these farmers in a conversation about local crop rotation. As it happens i know a bit about the unique ''7 Year Crop Rotation of Fife', made possible and desirable by the inclusion of sugar beet twice within the cycle. The conversation was going well, but this lad got bored of crop rotation as a subject, which was great as i was fast running out of bullshit, and suddenly he said 'is that right that you know Dave Gilmour from Floyd?'

I feigned surprise at this piece of knowledge, looking theatrically round the pub so as to make sure, as it were, nobody else was listening, and said yes, this was true, and in fact Dave had played on one of my records (Grand Passion by Doll By Doll, if you must know). The lad nodded - 'i likes Floyd - Gilmour's a great player'.

I agreed, but there was another matter that i wanted to talk to him about. He lives at a fabulous old farm on the corner of a local lane, called 'Markes Farm', and i had noticed that suddenly there was a new hand painted sign that declared it to be 'Marks Farm'. 'Why have you dropped the 'e' in Markes?' i inquired with care and lightness. He thought about it for a moment - 'Marks is more modern, up-to-date'. I wanted to say yeah, but this is a really ancient farmhouse whose origins are most probably from Saxon times, pre Norman. (There's a beautiful Saxon church a few miles away, in the hamlet of Boarhunt, pronounced Borrunt, if you're ever in south Hampshire - when visiting it some years ago, a young blonde girl on horseback rode past and smiled - i've written a song about it, called imaginatively 'Saxon Girl On Horseback').

I was irritated by the 'up-to-date malarkey, but it was wrong and stupid to show that, but neither could i let it go, so in a joshing sort of way i said - 'you could take that further and called the farm 'Marky Mark' - that would have even more contemporary resonance'. (i'm SUCH a phrasemaker...). To my concealed horror, he gave this weight of thought, eyes widening, and said, 'yer, you're right -i'll run that past Dad - mind, we've only just changed the name once, so he might not reckon changin' it again so soon'. Then we had to talk for an hour about Dave Gilmour solos - then he began to piss me off (we were drinking dark rums) by saying i couldn't be a real electric guitar player if i didn't use a pick - i'd foolishly told him i didn't. I said 'well, Jeff Beck doesn't use a pick, and electric playing doesn't get better than that'.

'Who's Jeff Beck?', he enquired.

How the bloody hell can you have heard of Dave Gilmour but not Jeff Beck? - the world is so mysterious - i raved about Beck's worst albums, so he would have a poor end-to-quest in Southampton's Virgin Megastore.

But the world IS so mysterious. I was once on a train going to Wembley and the train was mobbed by young folk obviously all going to some music event there - great excitement and singing of choruses. I asked them who they were going to see.

'Keith Sweat' they chorused - 'we've got tickets for both nights'. I'd never heard of him.

BORDERLINE - Well, my Ubudoll show with David Thomas at The Greys, Brighton is sold out, so don't turn up hoping for the best - when The Greys is sold out, that means no room for anything at all, and that's before David and I enter the room. However, that show is really a paid rehearsal for the Borderline show on the 23rd of March, and this show will also have Michael Cosgrave on it - we'll do Rainy Day Bergen Women' with David's immortal coda - 'the bridge is too twisted, i'll fall off the side, and all the wee fishes swim up my backside' (lyrical distortion of an old Glaswegian skipping song), and 'Faces' from Shining Brother - also 'Morbid Sky', 'Paris Blues' and heaps of obscure but devastating songs of David's - it's great working with someone who can draw on such an extensive repertoire, and who also has a small dog. 'An evening of shouting laughter song and fear' is how we bill it - this it will be...

GERMAN TOUR - i've just noticed that i've so far failed to find someone(s) who might like to come on tour with us in Germany from 24th March to about April 1/2, and do the merchandising. This means you have to sell records at the shows, but you'll always be within sight of the show, and the crowd tend not to buy during the show - also the German crowd is a warm, intelligent one and will not damge your mind. You'd be travelling with us and staying at our hotels - tour party is Gernte Poets (tour manager), me , Michael Cosgrave, and Kevin Foster, bass player and possibly the funniest man on earth. We fly to Hamburg on 24th, returning from there after the Dresden show. We'll be doing TV in Bonn and radio in Bremen and visiting some great cities and venues. All expenses paid - let the site know if you are interested, and we'll get back to you...i know it's short notice in view of work etc, but you won't forget it in a hurry! Leave your details in the guestbook here and I'll get back to you.

After that, lie around at home going 'oh, ma heid', then back on tour in the UK with Willard Grant Conspiracy, a band i deeply admire, so it's a tour i'm very much looking forward to.

It's Sunday, the sun is shining, snowdrops and primroses are in the lanes and the estuary will have lazy silver glints, with herons cruising overhead, saying AAWWWRRRKKK! in the heron way - there is also an industry of green woodpeckers peckin' away in the woods (of course), so i'm going to get an apple (no, that would be a faux rural touch) and take Harry down the lanes. (His real name is Henry, but you don't want to be shouting 'Henry!' in the countryside - sends the wrong signals....).

jl