Bill Nelson's Diary - February 2004

Wednesday, 4th February 2004 -- 10:41 AM  
Spent yesterday afternoon at the Carlsboro amplifier factory near Nottingham after a rather fraught journey from Yorkshire. I had already bought a train ticket the previous day but when I arrived at York Station's car park yesterday morning there were no spaces available and another car was already waiting to gain entrance ahead of me. I'd deliberately allowed myself an extra 45 minutes, just in case parking might be a problem but after waiting for a while, there was no sign of the barriers lifting. I glanced at my watch. There was still a reasonable amount of time before my train was due but I started to worry.  I decided to play it safe and drove to the NCP car park where finding a space might be more likely. The NCP car park is about ten minutes walk from the station but there was enough time left before my train to make the deadline. When I arrived, sod's law, I was greeted by a 'car park full' sign. I pleaded my case with the obviously uninterested attendant who simply said " season tickets only mate."  No mate of mine, I thought and slammed the car into reverse.  I drove back to the station car park, only to see the same car as before, a grey BMW, still  waiting for the barrier to lift. I once again waited behind it for several minutes and then, beginning to feel the onset of panic, decided to try the esplanade car park, down by the river.

A short drive later I managed to find a space there, only to discover that the maximum parking time was not enough to accommodate the length of my trip to Nottingham and back. Perhaps a good thing as the river was swollen, dangerously high and climbing higher. I didn't want to return to find my car had floated away in the general direction of Selby. The only other long-stay car parks were across the other side of town and too far for me to walk back to the station in time to catch my train. I desperately drove back to the station car park (for the third time), praying that spaces had become available. No such luck. The same grey car was still  parked by the barrier, it's driver giving me a resigned shrug of his shoulders. He'd been waiting for almost an hour, to no avail. I watched the last few minutes of my train departure time tick away and then accepted that I wasn't going to make it. A fixed ticket too, so not valid on any other, later trains. What to do?  I telephoned product manager Duncan Boniface, my contact at Carlsboro, to explain my predicament. I asked him for a little information on the location of the factory and then made up my mind to drive down there and abandon the train idea altogether. Thirty three pounds for the train ticket wasted and another thirty pounds to fill up my petrol tank . Oh, well.... I set off, heading out of the city towards the motorways and immediately hit a long line of traffic, held up by road construction work. Desperately, I slipped down a side street and negotiated a series of back roads in an attempt to skirt around the blockage. Unfortunately, I also hit a speed bump a little too hard and felt and heard a dangerous crunch from under the car. Whatever damage was done didn't stop the engine so I ignored it and rushed on towards the motorway, praying that a floor pan or exhaust system wasn't going to suddenly drop off in a shower of sparks.

An hour and a half of teeth-clenched, pedal-to-the-metal driving later, I arrived in the vicinity of the Carlsboro factory although it took a couple of telephone calls and several wrong turnings before I finally pulled in through the gates. I felt frazzled after the intense drive, even though it wasn't as great a distance as I'd first thought.  Motorway driving seems to become more stressful with every journey, 'though I'm not sure if this is simply a result of my advancing years or because of the average driver's hurtling indifference to every other road user.  Nevertheless, there's a tangible feeling of aggression and competitiveness emanating from the surrounding traffic that's hard not to get caught up in. During my boyhood years (yes, I know...give me a break, I'm in my 'dotage', whatever that is), children's annuals often carried stories of heroic racing drivers whose sleek machines emitted 'snarling' sounds from their hot exhausts. Stirling Moss,  Jack Brabham, Fangio, etc. Men with goggles and oily faces. These days, cars are generally quieter but it's the drivers that seem to do all the snarling, particularly when it comes to giving way to other drivers during lane changes or at junctions. It's more like Mad Max or Deathrace 2000 than the gentlemen's driving clubs of motoring's golden age. We'll all have spikes and machine guns fitted as essential equipment before too long. I know I will.

Once signed in to Carlsboro's visitor's book, I was introduced to Duncan who proved to be a warm and informative host, as was Nick Rastall, the Operations Director at Carlsboro. Between them, they filled me in on the company's recent history and their plans for the future. It was good to see that the company was back in enthusiastic hands again.  I was once a dedicated user of Carlsboro amplifiers, from my pre-Be Bop Deluxe days, right through to the 'eighties. My guitar sound at that time was partly defined  by my Carlsboro equipment...to such an extent that when the company stopped manufacturing the100 watt valve heads I'd used for so long, I was forced to scour the country to buy second hand ones so that I could maintain my sound. Unfortunately, when I hit hard times as a result of managerial problems (and a simultaneous, acrimonius divorce), I was forced to sell my Carlsboro gear to raise money to survive. My 100 watt amps were bought for small cash by a music shop in Leeds which then sold them for a considerable profit to the guitarist of a Be Bop Deluxe tribute band. I believe that he still owns the amplifiers, along with my old Pete Cornish pedal board and various other items of equipment obtained to give him my 'Be Bop era' sound. I hope to God that it takes more than equipment to get to the heart of whatever it is I do. If it was a measurable, quantifiable, scientific equation of notes and sounds, there would be no point in moving forward. Moving forward, backwards, over, under, sideways down is the prerogative of the artist. Everything else is emulation. Anyway...don't get me started.

Times, thankfully, changed and I moved on, re-defining my approach to playing and  adapting my sound to the digital era. For a long time now I've been an enthusiastic advocate of direct to the board guitar processing, using no amps at all on stage or in the studio. However, I found, from the experience of playing with my 'Lost Satellites' band at the recent Nelsonica fan conventions, that a reliance on stage monitors, whilst fine for solo concerts, can be a struggle when up against a seven piece band using their own amps and a live drum kit. One needs the kick provided by a dedicated amp and cab if one is to compete with the on-stage ambient racket.  And I use the term 'racket' in the fondest of ways... Back in the 'seventies, I was always the loudest member of the band, much to Andy Clarke's chagrin! I was, of course, totally unrepentant and remain so to this day.

With the prospect of my forthcoming autumn tour, the seven-piece band and a wide-ranging performance of new and old songs, it seems that a 'traditional' (for want of a better word), guitar amplification set up might be more than useful alongside my digitally oriented equipment. I'm one of those restless players who wants everything on tap, both the 'pure' guitar tones AND the 'out there' processed effects. Basically, I've been keeping an eye open for something that would inspire me and allow me to reproduce some earlier 'classic' sounds when required. I was pleased to discover yesterday that Carlsboro seem to have hit the spot with a new product range which includes a re-issue of one of their original 50 watt valve amps. I tried it out in three different variations and was very  impressed by all of them. I think that this range (known as the '50 Top' series) will offer serious competition for the expensive American boutique amp market. It's certainly a sweeter and tougher sounding amp than many amplifiers I've tried that cost the proverbial 'arm and a leg' more. A home grown product too and made by people who care about reliability, customer service and appreciate end-user feedback. Perhaps this sounds like an advert but these values are often lacking in the cynical world of musical equipment manufacturing. I personally believe that these qualities should be encouraged and supported.

I urged Duncan and Nick not to underestimate the appeal of this particular amplifier for serious guitar tone fanatics, pro players who are prepared to spend a lot of money to access that kind of sound. It's a great amp, a genuine classic in my opinion. Of course, being something of an individualist, I wondered if they'd possibly allow me to commission a version in a custom cabinet of my own design. 'The art school dance goes on forever', as Pete Brown once said.  Turns out they're open to this (brave and bold),  and I now need to work out some cool visual ideas. The electrical guts of the amplifier will be the stock 50 Top Evolution model, a twin channel, extra gain affair, but housed in a custom cabinet with matching speaker cab. I'm really excited about this and hope that my ideas will be practical, even though they might raise a few conservative eyebrows. My thoughts are predictably in the retro-futurist area, something that Japanese designers call 'Mod-tro' (modern retro.) My colour scheme is already fixed in my mind but there are a couple of possibilities in terms of shape. I won't give any more clues here yet as I need to draw up some basic ideas and then liaze with Duncan and Nick to see how practical these ideas are. Hopefully, they'll see the fun of it all and enjoy the challenge. If things go well, it will be a unique, custom piece and a visual showstopper as well as a brilliant sounding amplifier.

I left Carlsbro's factory around 5:45  and headed back up North, the motorway congested with early evening traffic and heavy rain making visibility difficult. Not that this seemed to bother truck drivers who bullied their way through the lines of vehicles, throwing up clouds of spray that made visibility even more difficult. It felt like a much longer journey home than the trip down to Nottingham and my nerves became even more frazzled than previously. A nice glass of red wine eased the tension upon my return, however, along with Emi's warm companionship and a hearty dinner.

Haven't mentioned my recent concert at the Mick Jagger Arts Centre in Dartford yet. The last diary entry saw me getting quite wound up about it. It turned out to be a really nice venue, run by caring and genuine people (thanks Mike and Peter), and filled with a warm audience who helped me to overcome my nerves and slight rustiness. I sometimes overestimate the complexity of my recent two-hour solo set. It's a deceptive beast, requiring a fair amount of mental stamina, especially as I'm up there on my own with no other musicians to lean on. I try to pretend it's easy, but the truth is, it's not. I backed myself into a few crazy corners at Dartford but managed to squirm my way out of them in what I hope were interesting ways. The audience seemed engaged and happy enough, even if my brain wasn't. Ian Thorpe and Dave Standeaven did their usual sterling job of propping me up with sound, vision and all the other 'behind the scenes but absolutely essential' stuff.

I then walked from the Tate to Covent Garden (via the Millenium footbridge and St. Paul's), in a bitterly cold wind, tootled around the antique/junk stalls there, purchasing a couple of small gifts to take home for Emiko, then off to Denmark street to seek guitar thrills (of which there were not many to be had as it turned out). Then a walk to the 'Forbidden Planet' shop to browse the fantasy and sci-fi wares, most of which were of the dull, sword and sorcery type, sprinkled with a certain amount of comic-book superhero stuff but not a Dan Dare figurine or artefact to be found. I have zero interest in all that 'hellspawn' boorish nonsense that seems to permeate these places. I really ought to stay  out of them as I'm much too old (I mean mature , ) to be compromised by such trash. I did  see a rather fetching model of the 1950's version of the Batmobile though...just like the Bob Kane original. What a sad man I am. One of these days I'll renounce everything, bugger off up the mountain and sit in a cave with only a 40 watt enlightenment bulb for comfort. A dimly lit illumination maybe but at least I won't have to change any more damned guitar strings or dust down shelves full of 'collector's items.'

Nevertheless, despite the guitar strings complaint, these last few days I've been recording again...more guitar-based instrumentals plus another possible band demo song.  And no, I still haven't found the energy or enthusiasm to tackle the editing of the last five years worth of my diaries in readiness for publication, 'though I have spent considerable time making cover images for it. I know I'm a naughty boy but I really wish someone else would deal with the editing and tarting up of the text for me. Of course, If that was the case, I'd probably complain that they'd missed the point and so on and so forth, but...'William has ability but must try harder...'  Now where have I heard that one before?

My personal dictum : 'If it's hard work, you're doing it wrong.' I've said it before so maybe it's true, but who can tell?  Miracles often appear effortless to the onlooker. Listening to the second 'Latin Playboys' album (called 'Dose'), and almost finished reading Phillip Norman's lovely 'Babycham Night' book. Enjoyed this one, must be my age again.  Next on the bedside reading table is Iris Murdoch's 'The Sea, the Sea'. These days though, I need my off-the-peg glasses to see the print, my poor old eyes not being what they used to be. All that reading by candlelight that seemed so romantic some years ago has taken its toll. That and the girlie magazines. My new amplifier will have large dials and clear numbers.

Wednesday, 16th February 2004 -- 10:34 AM  
Tired today after a sleepless, restless night, my thoughts racing like storm clouds across a frowning moon. Not just the usual anxieties of work, schedules, health worries, etc, but a kind of desolate anger brought on by an unexpected Sunday afternoon encounter with my past. Part of the following story belongs in my autobiography but it is also valid diary material...I'll try and tell it here and now, if only as  an attempt to chase my demons.

In the 'seventies, when the fates appeared to favour me and all was well in wonderland, I became the owner of Haddlesey House, an old property in the village of West Haddlesey near Selby, North Yorkshire. I first saw the house in a local newspaper where it was advertised as being for sale. It was an imposing, grand residence but there was something else about it, something beyond it's exterior opulence, that mysteriously intrigued me. I arranged with the vendor's agents to book a site visit.  It turned out that Haddlesey House had a fateful history, the original house built on the site went back at least as far as Oliver Cromwell's time. Local stories told of Cromwell's troops being garrisoned overnight in the village, on their way to the battle of Marston Moor. Cromwell himself was supposed to have stayed at the house during that time and an ancient bell, still hanging from a rusty hook on the wall of one of Haddlesey House's outbuildings, was said to have been rung to summon his troops to arms before setting off for the famous battle. Later in its long history, the house had been extended whilst in the hands of the Davison family (this, I think, was during Victorian times). The final surviving member of the Davison family, known simply as 'Miss Davison' according to village history, had died a pauper there after being systematically fleeced by an Italian musician who had charmed her heart. The romantically besotted Miss Davison succumbed to this cad's regular demands for money, even after he'd relocated back to his native Italy, and she was eventually obliged to sell her furniture to send him funds, all in the belief that he would one day return to her. It was not to be and she eventually died alone and penniless in Haddlesey House...The poor woman was even refused burial in the local churchyard as a result of her having lived part of her life out of wedlock with the Italian man. Instead, she was buried in an unmarked grave in the churchyard of the nearby village of Birkin, where the vicar seems to have exercised slightly more compassion than the judgemental priest at West Haddlesey. Miss Davison's late father (or grandfather, I can't recall which exactly), was known to locals as 'Piggy-Tail' Davison, and was apparently a terrible, nasty man. His ghost is reputed to haunt Haddlesey House. It seemed to me that Miss Davison's ghost would have equal claims to the same premises.

Time passed and the house fell into a state of semi-ruin, left empty for many years. Then, during the second world war, it was requisitioned by the British Army for use as a rehabilitation centre for wounded Army officers. One of the officers recovering from his wartime injuries here was a 'Captain Wayman.' He loved both the location and the house and, once the war had ended, returned to buy it for himself and the woman he was about to marry.  In civilian life, Captain Wayman was a wealthy man and he and his new wife set to renovating the old place, now further damaged from its wartime use. He retained the building's imposing height but transformed the interior from three floors to two, making the ceilings of the rooms much higher. The central hall became a thing of baronial splendour, having 'stone-block' faced walls, a grand, decorative staircase and a minstrel gallery complete with a massive stained glass window, fit for a church. The huge drawing room was more like a Venetian ballroom with a sprung parquet floor, a beautiful Italian marble fireplace surmounted by a tall, fitted mirror, plus wall and ceiling moldings depicting fruits, vines and flowers, all hand made and painted in subtle matte oil paints by Italian artisans (ex-prisoners of war who Captain Wayman had employed to do the work). The bathrooms were equipped with luxurious art-deco baths, sinks and fittings and a richly oak-paneled library room was installed upstairs.

The house stood in beautifully landscaped gardens leading down to extensive river frontage with a separate summer-house and private pier where Captain Wayman moored his own yacht. It was, apparently, capable of ocean-going travel. On the North West side of the grounds, there was a separate water-garden consisting of a picturesque waterfall feeding a large pond which in turn fed a stream that meandered through the garden to a second  pond containing an ornate stone fountain. Throughout the entire garden, there were statues of fantasy characters from 'Alice In Wonderland' and 'Peter Pan' as well as a set of antique classical urns, mounted on tall pedestals. A long drive swooped down to imposing iron gates and the entire grounds were graced by a great number of mature and beautiful trees. Somewhere amongst my endless memorabilia, I have Captain Wayman's original plans and drawings for the renovation work, which came into my hands during my ownership of the property. The good Captain also employed  full-time staff, maids, butler, etc, and built a separate 'staff-quarters' next door to the house, complete with kitchen garden where his permanently employed gardeners could grow fresh produce for the master's kitchen. At this time, the place was known by its 'correct' name of 'Haddlesey Hall', a name which perfectly suited its grand status.   The years went by and eventually the ownership of the house was transferred from the Waymans to a local Selby family, the Appleyards. It was from this latter family that I bought the property in the 1970's.

When I first went to view the house, I was surprised to discover what a terrible state it was in. It had been neglected and had a truly sorry air about it. The current owners seemed to have fallen upon hard times and had no interest in it other than as a means of raising cash. It would take me a long time to describe exactly how low this once gorgeous home had sunk. I'll hint at this by reporting that a dead bat was hanging on the drawing room curtains for several weeks without the Appleyards removing it and that an entire motorbike lay in pieces in a puddle of oil on the kitchen floor. Damp and dirt were everywhere. I realised that if I were to buy the property, it would require extensive renovation as a result of the terrible neglect that had been inflicted upon it since Captain Wayman had left. Surveys were ordered and I weighed up the costs of renovation. It was not going to be cheap. I offered the vendors a price more in keeping with the property's condition than the rather unrealistic one they were hoping for. They wouldn't budge and nor would I...It seemed that I was not going to be able to purchase it after all.

Disappointed but resigned to the situation, I set out on an American concert tour with Be Bop Deluxe. Whilst I was away, my business manager, along with my lawyers, attempted to negotiate again with the Appleyards. Eventually, and much to my surprise, they agreed a more sensible price and I became the new 'lord of the manor'.  I then embarked upon a six month long renovation scheme before actually moving in. Damp-proof courses were fitted, all the timbers treated or renewed where treatment was impossible and the house's three roofs repaired. I had the entire building re-wired, new light switches and sockets fitted, a new oil-fired boiler, tank and central heating system installed, a brand new kitchen custom built (complete with cast iron wood-burning stove), new windows and floor fitted in the kitchen itself, and a complete re-decoration throughout the house, both inside and out. A series of small rooms located above the kitchen (a sort of 'granny-flat') was altered to provide one  large room which became my home studio: 'The Echo Observatory.' I also built a brick double-garage, re-surfaced the drive and employed a firm of landscape gardeners to clear the grounds which had been neglected to such an extent that they looked more like a jungle than a garden. It was after this last work that the Pan and Alice statues, which had previously been hidden, came to light. As did the water gardens and the tennis courts.

Slowly, I brought the house back to life, restoring it to something resembling its former glory. I loved the place, it had real character, a sense of history, an aesthetic appeal and I  felt really at home there. Jan, my wife at the time, later said she didn't share my feelings for the place. She found it spooky, perhaps primed by the stories of Piggy-Tail Davison, but I never once felt spooked by the place, only a tremendous affinity with it. At night, when my family was asleep, I would walk around the house alone, wondering at its magnificence, unable to believe that such a marvelous place was actually my home. I considered myself extremely fortunate.

Once the album was completed, it seemed logical to hold a launch party for it in the village where the recordings had actually taken place. I recall photo's of me, with the house in the background, appearing in the music press with reports of the launch event. It resembled a  hip garden party with beautiful summer sunshine, champagne and Pimms.  A year or so later, 'Family Circle' magazine visited to do a 'Hello' style feature about my life there... the photo's that they took for the article revealed something of the house's style. The television programme 'Riverside' also came up to film at the house for an interview, as did David Toop who was making a documentary programme for television about 'northern' musicians. Other guests of mine whilst living there were Mark Radcliffe, Paul Morley, Michael Caton-Jones, Harley Cokliss, Murray Grigor, Andy Parks, Darryl Runswick, Tony Mitchell, Betty Page, and, before we became a couple, Emiko Togo. There were many others whom I'd need to look up in my archives, my memory not being what it used to be. Needless to say, it was an active, creative time, 'though soon to be marred by devious mis-management and personal troubles.

Many of my albums were recorded in Haddlesey House, in the 'room above my kitchen.' It was here that my Cocteau Records label catalogue blossomed, here that I made music for the Henry Moore film, for the 'Brond' TV. drama series, for 'Map Of Dreams', 'Lucky Sunil' and for the movie 'Dream Demon.' It was inside Haddlesey House that I filmed the 'Do You Dream In Colour?' video, using only a hand-held home cine camera and a couple of coal miner's lamps borrowed from a Yorkshire pit-worker. It was in Haddlesey House where I rehearsed the bands that I assembled to perform one-off tours of America in the early 'eighties. It was here that my family extended to include horses, a dog, a rabbit, ducks, terrapins and several Japanese carp, as well as children. It was in the house's garage that I kept my black Daimler, then my blue Rolls Royce, maroon and silver Panther Lima and white Porsche, all to be supplanted by a modest, grey, Citroen 2CV before things went completely downhill and I could hardly afford even bus fare. Here too that my life changed dramatically when my marriage broke down and, for a while, it seemed that all hell had broken loose. I lived in Haddlesey House for 13 years before finally selling up and trying to get things back on an even keel. No wonder I have left so much emotional baggage laying around the place.

Anyway, all of the above is merely to set the scene for the following:  In recent months, I've had regular and disturbing dreams about Haddlesey House, dreams from which I've awoken feeling sad and low. In the dreams, people living there had done terrible things to the place, disrespecting it's history and character. Strangely, my son Elliot and daughter Elle had experienced similar dreams.  I put these down to the fact that the person I sold the property to, around 1989, had, within six months of living there, begun to build other houses in the grounds. Bit by bit, he had embarked upon a systematic destruction of its gardens, profiteering by doing so.   Back in the late '80's, whilst negotiating the sale of the house to him, I had gone into some detail about my home's history and how I'd tried to preserve it against attempts by local builders to develop the surrounding area. I explained my conviction that a house such as this deserved its proper setting and that I had always attempted to keep it intact, respecting its past. He appeared to wholeheartedly agree with me, saying that this was the right thing to do, but I now realise he was privately plotting to exploit the situation as soon as he'd gained ownership. In recent years, I'd driven past my old home and felt saddened by the carving up of its grounds and the totally inappropriate architectural style of the various properties built there. Nevertheless, even though the once beautiful garden now contained six or seven houses, there was still a good sized area of the original remaining. Not all was lost.

Then, last week, I passed by an estate agent's window and saw a large photograph of Haddlesey House given prime position amongst all the other, smaller photos of properties for sale. It transpired that the person I had sold it to, over ten years ago, had now put it on the market once more. I was curious.  I went into the estate agent's office and asked for the sales brochure. The photographs of the house's interior revealed that the place was no longer occupied, the rooms being bare and neglected looking. Then, almost by chance, this last Sunday, Emi and I were returning from Doncaster and we passed close by West Haddlesey. I decided to turn into the village and take a look at Haddlesey House for old time's sake. If, as the brochure appeared to indicate, the premises were vacant, it might be possible to have a look around the grounds and perhaps peek through the windows.  

Arriving at the centre of the village I was shocked to discover that the entire three and a half acres of land that once constituted my garden, the garden I looked out upon from the windows of the 'Echo Observatory', the garden whose lawns I mowed for hours on end whilst sitting on a bright orange Kubota tractor, the garden that furnished me with birdsong and sunsets and snowscenes and laughing children, with chestnut ponies and cavorting dogs and oaks and elms and cedars, my one-time personal paradise...the whole thing was now, completely and irrevocably transformed into a housing estate, cram packed with dozens of bland boxes passing themselves off as luxury executive homes.  The developer, a local builder who had attempted to built on the perimeters of the property even whilst I was still living there, had erected a large sign declaring 'Old House Gardens', the name he's apparently given to the development. (The 'old house' in question being Haddlesey House.)

Emi and I stared in absolute disbelief and horror. An all too artificial looking 'show house' stood, door ajar, down one of several little roads that have been constructed across what was once my grassy, flowery haven. The roads are intended to connect the village lane to this rabbit warren of mediocrity, each new house destined to be filled with golf club, squash club frequenting BMW owners. The properties, whilst obviously aimed at wealthy buyers, are so closely packed together, it would be impossible to erect another house in there. Every inch of space has been exploited, privacy is almost non-existent. The visual change to the area is horrific, a vision of planning irresponsibility and sheer developmental greed.

And Haddlesey House itself ?  It now sits forlorn behind new walls; walls which are no longer three and a half acres away, but a few short yards from it's empty windows. The poor 'old house' has been forced into a corner of this plastic-looking estate, bullied out of paradise, a forgotten, faded relic, a cowering, abandoned thing.  Emi and I got out of our car and peered through the gates. I realised that they were not locked and opened them, walking the few remaining yards of what was once my long sweeping drive. What a state the old place was in. The man I'd sold it to had not appeared to have looked after it at all. Emi and I looked through the windows into the downstairs rooms. They were empty, dowdy and dark but the traces of my 13 year occupation were still to be seen. The wallpaper I had chosen and decorated the dining room with was still in place, as were the curtains I'd had made for it more than 20 years ago... The same curtains. The elegant drawing room was still hung with its crystal chandelier, the light switches I'd fitted still in place. The parquet floor was scuffed but intact. The kitchen seemed to have suffered the worst of the neglect, it's window frames rotten and all the natural pine kitchen units I'd provided clumsily replaced with cheap and tasteless ones, totally out of keeping. It seems some people have no sense of style. Still, the wood burning stove I'd installed was there as were most of the house's visible light fittings. The garage I'd long ago built too. Unfortunately, the side entrance porch was in poor shape. Behind its grimy glass windows I could see piles and piles of unopened mail, all addressed to the man who had bought the house from me. Why had he not re-directed his mail?  Had he done a runner after selling off the very last bit of land remaining to the property?  How much money had he extracted from its environment since I'd vacated it?  How much soul had the house extracted from him in revenge for his blatant abuse of its history?  If only I had not allowed him to purchase the place. If only I had read his intentions better, foreseen his disrespect and greed. The neglect to the house itself may be repairable but the damage done to its once peaceful, tranquil setting is irreversible. Lost forever.

I turned around to face south, looking away from the three sets of French doors that I loved to open in those distant summers when the bees were humming through the fragrant tea roses. It was almost impossible to imagine what the view had once been like. Instead of the seemingly endless lawns, the lines of trees, the winding pathways, the tennis courts and bee-hives, the ancient willows on the river bank and the open fields beyond the river, all that was in front of me was a bright shiny brick, a wall near enough to reach out and touch, a wall failing to hide row after row of hard new buildings, their windows staring blindly back at me, brash and ugly newcomers urging the old away.  Emi and I walked back through the gate, closing it behind us. In the car, I could have wept. I genuinely felt sorry for the old place, for the spirit of it and the ghosts that haunt it. Perhaps I am one of its ghosts too now. Emi said, "Just try to remember it as it was, the golden time that you experienced there, the life that you brought to it... The person who's been there since you left didn't deserve to have the privilege. At least you cared for the house and its past..."  So, last night, I couldn't sleep for thinking about it, laying awake, feeling the house's pain. Only bricks and mortar ?  Much more than that, much more.

Thursday, 26 February 2004 --  12:33 AM  

As I type these words, I'm attempting yet another assembly of my new guitar-based instrumental album. Once again, I've given myself a hard task, mainly as a result of the number of pieces available to me to choose from. I've narrowed it down to eighteen or twenty tracks from a list now nudging some thirty-plus recordings. ('Narrowing it down' is obviously used extremely loosely here!) I really need to cut it back even more, not simply because it will be easier to digest but also to make it hang together as a cohesive, unified work. The fact that these pieces cover a very diverse range of styles makes this latter objective a tough one to achieve. I thought I'd got the problem solved a week or so ago but, after living with my choices for a while, decided to have a re-think, and then another re-think... God knows how many re-thinks I've had these last few days. Getting the flow of the album and the balance of styles right is quite a problem. This is compounded by the fact that I've continued to come up with new pieces, some of them inspired by the sounds of a Line 6 Vetta combo I've been experimenting with in my studio. One new piece (current title: 'All's Well In Wonderland'), uses a wacky preset which makes an ordinary guitar sound like a cross between a mini-moog and the old Hagstrom Patch 2000 synth guitar I once owned, back in the 'seventies. In theory, this could be an invitation to disaster but the resulting piece is, I think, exquisite.

I'm also thinking of changing the album title from 'The Art School Ascended On Vapours Of Roses' to something else. I have a wonderful old Victorian postcard that I bought ages ago at an antique fair that I'm thinking of using as the main cover image for the album. It depicts a young sailor boy at the helm of a fantasy sailboat beneath a starry sky. The boat is decorated with garlands of blue flowers. I've painted out the 'Season's Greetings' message that was emblazoned in gold across this image (a slow, painstaking Photoshop task), and, whilst not an absolutely pin-sharp picture, it has a lovely, dreamlike quality which will suit the album. So...one possible title for the collection is 'Dreamland To Starboard', a phrase I used in one of my songs some time ago ('though I can't recall which song at the moment, there being so many, over the years).  Anyway, all this is still tentative as I haven't yet hit on the album's final shape and form. Let's see what the next day or two brings. These mysteries eventually solve themselves and the finished album will reveal itself to me. Patience and trust will bring their reward.

One thing is certain: it's going to be a beauty, a fitting climax to the 'eclectric/electric' guitar trilogy. ('Romance Of Sustain' and 'Plaything' being the first two components of this.) There are some wonderful pieces that I'm really pleased with. My latest list of possible choices is as follows:  

1. Boyhood Rockets
2. Creamy Clouds
3. Moments Flash Like Stars Between Them
4. Synchromatic Dreams Returning To The Night
5. Hostess Twinkie VapourisedI
6. Remember Circus Boy
7. Ocean Afternoon
8. Kitchenette
9. My Ever Gleaming Dreamertron
10. Blue Sparks Flying
11. The Six Coiled Serpent
12. My Sputnik Sweetheart
13. All A Dream, After All
14. Ghost Of Gilded Ruin
15. Scenic Elevator
16. After Midnite (Expecting Something)
17. All's Well In Wonderland
18. Rattling Trams

This still leaves a fairly extensive selection of material for this years Nelsonica convention album, a  couple of which are vocal pieces. I'll deal with the running order choices for this once the guitar album selection is chosen. Some of the above instrumental titles will not make the final list and will then be moved onto the convention CD choices list instead.  I already have more than enough tracks for this latter project so it looks as if I'm to have another difficult time selecting the contents. There will certainly be some overspill. Sometimes, I'm intimidated and unnerved by the amount of music that flows through me from wherever it is that it comes. There's something disturbing and almost spooky about being its vessel, as wonderful an experience as that may appear to others. Perhaps I'm over romanticising it again... perhaps there's nothing more supernatural at work here than a fertile, over-active imagination and a simple love of making music. Yes, let's leave it there, that's exactly what it is.

Last week, I drove over to my birthplace, the West Yorkshire town of Wakefield, to visit my mother and collect my daughter Julia and grandson Luke who were coming over to stay with Emi and I for a couple of days. I also used the visit as an excuse to photograph some of my old Wakefield haunts for use as 'prompts' in my unfinished autobiography. They may also prove useful as illustrations to the book itself, once I complete the authorship of it. Until then, I intend to assemble some of these photographs into a concept I'm currently referring to as my 'Museum Of Memory.' I may place this on the RWBV web site which already has some of my personal archive photographs. It would be nice to put them all together in a proper, dedicated space (The Museum Of Memory), within which could be various, separate departments, one devoted to geographical locations, one to childhood/family photo's/ one to my own archived career photo's, one to my collections of objects, toys and guitars, and so on...Anyone interested in the many streams of experience that make up the life of this particular contemporary musician could hunt around for clues in the "museum's" dusty departments...  A visual history of a life both private and public. There could (should), also be some brief text explanation for each image, to put it into its proper context. Ultimately, it would be as much for my own enjoyment as for the use and curiosity of others, a visual means of gathering myself (my selves?), together in one space, an 'imagistic' counterpoint to my written autobiography.  "An artist's life is in itself  art," goes one particular theory...(so, maybe it's my own theory and I'm too ashamed to own up to it). Well, I'll flatter myself with that possibility. Why not?

The marks are still there although the equally low windows through which I used to peer into the mysterious workings of the small factory have been bricked up. The rotting wooden frames are still there though...blind but nevertheless set into the wall in their original positions. I took a few photographs and squatted down at infant height, trying to tap into whatever fascination those  old bricks had for me as a three year old child. Trying to make sense of something...  In past times, Marriot's Buildings' back yard  opened onto Lawefield Lane and, in fact, still does so, despite the actual house being long  demolished. The space where my grandmother's house stood is now partly occupied by a low modern industrial building (of late sixties' origin by the look of it), that appears to house some kind of motor repair shop, although it is the rear of this enterprise that backs onto the yard.  It doesn't quite cover the original house's ground area and I was able to stand on the same spot that had once been my grandmother's kitchen, conjuring up my memories of the house (which was already a historical relic at the time of my birth), and imagining myself being born there, then living my first three years as an infant within its old walls before my mother and father finally acquired their own home, a ground floor council flat at 28, Conistone Crescent on Eastmoor Eastate at the opposite side of town.

I also photographed my parent's second home, a semi-detached council house on a different part of Eastmoor Estate, this time at number 37, Woodhouse Road. We moved there when I was around eleven or twelve, I think, maybe a little later. Whilst the move from a flat to a 'proper' house was seen by my parents as an improvement, I somehow always preferred Conistone Crescent as a location. Woodhouse Road was on an older part of the estate and the architecture seemed less interesting than Conistone Crescent's quiet,1950 deco-futurism. When my parents moved from Marriot's Buildings into their first 'proper' home, when I was three years old, Conistone Crescent was a clean and pleasant, brand new extension to Eastmoor, a post-war, modern 'ideal' area. Number 28 itself  faced onto open fields which were bounded by hedges, an orchard and an old brick wall that was broken down in one place, allowing children to easily slip through into the countryside beyond. It was an ideal 'playground' for me and my childhood pals. I witnessed this natural environment dramatically change into a further extension of our housing estate whilst I still lived at 28 Conistone Crescent: The golden cornfields one day became a council development called 'Ivy Estate'. My grandmother eventually moved to a flat there after Marriot's Buildings was sadly earmarked for demolition in the late fifties.

These days, the area is rather downtrodden and seedy and my grandmother's once shiny new flat in Sawley Close looks badly neglected and in need of a lick of paint. Whilst looking at the place last week, I parked my car on nearby Starbeck Road and recalled how Bronwyn Jackson (The daughter of Muriel and Jim Jackson,  who were our upstairs neighbours at the Conistone Crescent flat), and myself used to toboggan down the hill in those 1950's snowy winters, before the Ivy Estate houses were built there. Bronwyn was a childhood 'girlfriend' of mine and a good pal, a tomboy type and a little older than me. The two of us spent a lot of time together. We had watched those houses grow from their foundations  whilst riding our bicycles around the newly constructed roads that had been laid across the gently sloping fields. But I must stop here...I really am getting too much into territory already dealt with in much more detail (and with much more flair, clarity and descriptive imagery, I might add), in my autobiography. Let me just say to any readers of this diary, that my childhood in Wakefield, whilst typically post-war working class and modest, was filled with a  special magic that, I think, has fuelled a great deal of my work as a musician and artist. I've gone to great pains to capture this in my biographical writings, not just the facts and dates, but the 'soul' of my life at that time. Sometimes it is like grasping at smoke but I think I have managed to cage some of it. One day, perhaps, it will be read and shared by others. It's captured in many of my songs and instrumentals too.

Change of subject: Bill Frisell is playing in Leeds next week. I must try to get tickets to see him. A rare opportunity. He's one of the few guitarists that interest me, guitarists being ten-a-penny these days and very few of them having anything remotely original to say. Mr. Frisell is an artist and thankfully devoid of all that text book conformity. Scotty Moore also playing at City Varieties soon too, another concert I'd like to see.  A couple of weeks ago, Emi and I went to 'The Wardrobe' in Leeds to see a concert by Japanese electronic musician  Nobukazu Takemura who was performing with his six piece 'Child's View Band.' A very interesting evening spent in the good company of our friend Paul. The first half hour of the show was a single, continuous piece of  digital noise improvisation on laptop computers plus live drum kit, utilising just three of the musicians. I found it quite gripping and inspirational. The second set involved vibes and marimbas and some energetically atonal, scratchy, 'experimental' electric guitar...plus upright acoustic bass and keyboards. This too had some excellent moments although the video back projection the band used was a little less interesting, somewhat naive, (although that in itself can  be a good thing, here it wasn't.) I was pleased, however, to suddenly realise that my own video work was a little more...shall I just say,'happening.''?  I also got the urge to storm the stage and add my own noisy 'anti-guitar' rattles to the event. I'm ashamed to admit that I generally  feel that way whenever another band or musician's performance conspires to fire up my imagination, regardless of musical genre or whatever. Thank God I lack the extrovert qualities that would propel me stagewards at these times. I have been spared untold embarrassment by my reticence! I must remember to sit on my hands at Bill Frisell's show though...

Cold today, the sky attempting snow in a half-hearted fashion. Tomorrow another visit from Paul Sutton-Reeves for the book he's writing about me. A trawl through some old albums in search of explanations to individual songs is his plan for the day. Hope I can remember what the hell they're about.   Listening back to the new guitar album, even as this diary entry comes to its close, and I still haven't got the running order right... Damn! It's taken me weeks just to realize that it's just not happening properly yet. The right combination of pieces is in there, somewhere, but this latest version is certainly not it. Back to the drawing board again. Well...there goes the weekend.

 On to March 2004!

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