I am CALLING non-clapping audiences OUT! (It’s a bit sweary)

I have a problem. I’m coming clean, coming to terms with it. It’s time. I CARE. I care about what I do. That sounds fine, doesn’t it? Necessary, in fact. Unfortunately, I also care what other people think of what I do. No, that’s not quite it. I care how they respond to me singing my fucking heart out just for them. That’s the problem.

This is a blog I could have written perhaps a dozen times over the last 19 years of my gigging life; in that respect, surely, I am ENORMOUSLY fortunate to have experienced it so infrequently. What? you say… Well, not to be a snotty douche-bag whinester, but I have from time to time encountered that tiresome beast, the Wilfully Ignorant Audience. It may be in pubs, a club, in restaurants or cafes. They exist. And I’m not alone; I read with resigned sadness about talented, hard-working, rocking friends in similar circumstances. I shake my head and sigh.

My adult life is a continued evolution away from a propensity to complain. Moaning is so deeply unappealing, and being aware that my life is utterly blessed in the grand scheme of things is important. It’s more out of a wish to get past this problem that I’m airing it - a purging process, if you will. Why must this process be public, you say? Well, if someone else can learn something from this blog, it validates my whinge, so there’s that selfish reason. But I also MUST express this, once and for all. Be warned, it’s fairly trivial at first glance. And perhaps on second or third.

Audiences that don’t clap SUCK. And when I say you suck, non-clapping audience member, I mean your action (or lack thereof) causes me to question the efficacy of my chosen profession, and it’s ongoing effect on my mental health...when you don’t clap. That’s crazy, right? Over-react much?!

This problem only occurs (to me) very rarely these days; not because I’m just too awesome not to be applauded, but because I currently gig on such an infrequent basis (due to, amongst other things, financial constraints - the reluctance of many venues to pay fair fees - but that’s another ranty blog for another day) This means that those remaining venues and I have built up long-standing rapports; with the regulars, the staff and the management, which is generally infectious to new punters.

My parents are regular attendees of my gigs, a fact that is both crazy and beautiful. Not many people can boast their Mum and Dad watching them work ever, let alone as frequently as I. But should I require a friend or family member to be in attendance at my gigs to encourage courtesy from the rest of the people present?

‘Cause that’s what we’re talking about here people - courtesy. I’m not talking about adulation - Beatles/Beiber level fan-freaking would probably cause me an aneurism.

I consider my gigs to be a conversation. That may sound pretentious, but let me explain.  One of the more subtle and beautiful powers music holds is to stop us feeling alone. A song can express those parts of ourselves that we cannot access or choose not to confront in any other way, and when this happens, we are moved, we feel alive and we are not alone. I start a dialogue with an audience the moment I begin playing. This is literally done with introductions, banter, a shared goal. It also comes across musically; acoustics, venue shape/space all impact my amplification decisions.

A type of absurdly stoic professionalism, or perhaps a type of cowardice, has impeded me from posting this sort of rant before, but, you know what, fuck it. I’m over it. Not professionalism - I stand by my ability to BRING IT at your pub/party/wedding/sacrificial corporate ‘do. That’s not bragging, or hubris. I will bring it. I’ll turn up early, be super polite and friendly to staff, and clear about my tech requirements. I’ll start on time, and I won’t short-change you. You will never get such INCREDIBLE VALUE FOR MONEY.  And again, not because I’m sooooo amazing. But because I will work my fucking ARSE off at that gig. Every song will get my undivided attention, and I will do everything I can to remain present throughout. I’ll care just as much beforehand... (and clearly afterwards too, as this blog attests).

Dubai really got me into writing set lists I could give a shit about. That this was 15 years into my gigging life may be telling, but let me tell you, I will spend two hours writing that set list. I will consider every frakking angle, I will craft that bastard like a sculptress. I will prepare extras and back-ups, and at the drop of a hat, on the gig, I will bin that set list and play whatever you want me to play from my epic Black Folder of Tunes. ‘Cause I want you to have FUN!

I think we have come to the crux of the problem. I’m trying too hard?! Jesus - how do you strike that balance then? ‘Cause I won’t play Hotel California - and I’m not Sally Field. But I do have a great time when an audience member asks for a song I wasn’t expecting to play.

This lack of autonomy, and the fact that I strive to craft an evening EVERYONE can enjoy - well, the first is problematic - I have to be in charge, actually, and really you want me to, you like it. And the second part is just impossible! You can’t please everybody all the time. Not at my level of success. I’m not playing to paying audiences who know my material and have shelled out to hear it. Sure, I wish I was; don’t we all? I’m over it.

Nooooooo. No, I’m not. Holy Shit-piphany. Ugh. I want to be successful. And by that I mean, more successful than I currently am. What an admission! The sentence makes me cringe. Which is ridiculous really, when I give it any thought. Don’t we all strive? The concept of success and how we measure it - for ourselves and when veiwing the lives of others - is such a meaty issue, it’s nearly impossible to quantify with any degree of objective accuracy. And I have always felt liberated by my lack of ‘desire to be famous’, a difficult burden at best. But is this the heart of the problem? “They just don’t know how good I am!”. Nah. Weirdly enough, that’s not even the issue - I get great feedback on every gig, and am constantly humbled by the kindness of strangers.

So really, my issue is with either of the following RUDENESSES.

1. The audience who totally ignore you, from start to finish. Hey, listen, I don’t expect crowds to clap after every tune. I did when I started out moons and moons ago, but learnt the long, drawn-out way that people are chatting, or ordering a beer or whatever, and certain tunes are gonna hit harder than others. That’s FIIIIINE! It’s the d-bags who don’t deign to acknowledge your existence at any point that I have a problem with. Yes, I sort of want to go and set fire to their table cloths. But I quit smoking, so I don’t have a lighter on me.

2. The odder of the two - the audience that is clearly digging what you’re doing, but STILL DON’T CLAP!! Even on your obviously final song. This I cannot fathom. WTF. Really? You’re dancing about, and even singing along, nodding, tapping, making eye contact, smiling, generally getting a happy earful. Yey! That makes me extremely happy! So WHYYYYYYY can’t you put your fucking glass down for THREE SECONDS and actually respond. Again, not every tune, fine. But I shit you not, I’ve been pulling next level moves up here, and you even give me the big thumbs up on ‘Me and Julio Down By The Schoolyard’ and then COULDN’T GIVE A TOSS when I’m finished. I have ceased to exist. I am the human sodding boombox. (Wow, that dates me)

Ostensibly, I am a temporary member of staff at whatever establishment has employed me for that evening’s entertainment. Would you ignore your wait staff? If the answer to that question is yes, by the way - GET IN THE FUCKING SEA. Lame. Rude. Obnoxious. People are serving you things, bloody well say thank-you, smile, you may even wish to engage them in short, polite conversation! Of course, largely the answer to that is ‘why of course I wouldn’t ignore the staff, I’m not a total tool!’. Ok. Soooo…?

Perhaps this issue stems partly from the lack of presence I generally observe on (horrifyingly) about 50% of tables at many pubs and restaurants. What do I mean by this? Phones. For example, a table of three people at dinner, all on their phones. All shitting evening. Does this make me want to hurl? Yes. Does it worry me enormously that some people (of any age, btw) can no longer spend a pleasant evening eating and drinking in the company of their fellows without insessantly  checking their phone, playing a game on it (REALLY?! I’m insulted on behalf of your mates), texting absent people for minutes at a time (no conversation given during this spell of alt-concentration). Yes. I’m deeply concerned for the future of our species.

But I digress. If someone is not even present in the company of their friends, what chance does the musician stand of claiming ANY percent of their warped attention span. And, again, don’t get me wrong - I don’t want them sat at my feet, cross-legged, in a semi-circle like that weird Led Zeppelin gig from 1969 in Sweden or somewhere. It might be a common presumption that all people in the entertainment industry are attention whores. Not so. But I’m in the room with these people, playing my little socks off, and…what? I might as well not be?!

Other areas have it a little better than the humble local singer. On a visit to the theatre - would you all just get up and smegging leave after the show, applause be damned?! Or worse, just sit in your seats, talking drunkenly amongst yourselves? The traditions of thanking your entertainers with the smacking together of flesh and bone is deeply engrained in that arena, god love it. I love nothing better than clapping. Ok, I like some things better, but few. Very few. Because you are expressing your enthusiastic delight at best, and at worst you are being fucking nice. And what’s wrong with that?

I am a natural born Consumer. I am passionate about things. Being a nerd means applause comes easy to me as an audient. (Is that a noun? It is now.) Does part of this automatic willingness to share my pleasure have something to do with being a performer myself? For sure. I’m on the other side of that line more often than not. So yes, I will champion that person’s effort til the day I die. Passionately. Because it matters. People doing things for other people is important. Serving. Caring for. I am by NO means claiming to be top of the heap of important jobs that do this. For real, I work in Care Homes a lot these days and see regularly the kind of dedication to caring and serving and doing things for others that makes me want to weep.

My experiences in Chicago taught me a lot about the differences between audience attitudes across the pond, and these were some formative years - 21 or thereabouts. Audiences in Chicago were something else, and I was largely audience, but occasionally performer over there. Talk about giving a shit. These people were enthralled. Sure, the audience I was frequently a member of was the Kurt Elling Quartet’s weekly gig at the Green Mill, so, yeah, MIND-BLOWING stuff. But I was also audient (nah, can’t make that work) at many low-key bar gigs. The quality of playing was extraordinary, but that’s not really the point.

Case in point, when I (pant-shittingly) sat in at the legendary Von Freeman’s Tuesday night jam at the New Apartment Lounge with Rob Amster and co. It was at Rob’s comic urging that I, in semi-gin-soaked fashion, got up and did a number. I was not by any means great, nervous as I was, but all the same, Von and the small crowd made me feel so welcome, so appreciated and encouraged. I’ve written about this elsewhere, so won’t go on. But it was a tremendous gift, and taught me a lot about how people can care for a Moment, invest it with their love and joy. The fabulous and wondrously heart-centred singer Gingi Lahera (also a Chicago top cat) taught me this even more profoundly with her winning smile, rapt attention, hands clasped at her heart as I sat in on her gig at Pops for Champagne. That was beyond terrifying for dozens of reasons, but she imbued me with her spirit. Because that is the power the audience has, if they choose to.

Anyway, I’m all ranted out. It feels better to have exhumed the corpse of defeat, ejected the bile of frustration. (Ooh, it’s like the end of I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue.) I do this from time to time, the ranting. You may have noticed. I crave your pardon. If we shadows have offended, an’ all that. Still. If something positive can spring from this, let it simply be…give a shit about the people around you. I’m telling myself this as much as putting it out there. Care about and express thanks to anyone you are with, who serves you - in whatever way. Because you might just make their day.

Night..

(sorry about all the f-bombs)

Bad Patience

First off, forgive me the petty sin of writing this shallow face-moan of a blog during the season of festivities that surround us as another year draws to a close. It is at the very least churlish, if not downright arsey and mirthless to get a whinge on over Christmas; believe me, I am at once utterly mindful of the fact, and if not unable, then quite obviously unwilling to keep my trap shut a moment longer. Allow me to further add, I consider myself one of the all-round luckiest sods alive. My cup runneth over, as they say. Worth keeping that firmly in the mind’s eye, note to self. To clarify the source of my current (and let’s be fair, temporary) misery, and the purpose of my tirade; I underwent my second mouth surgery in six months on December 17th, and I find myself at 2.35am swimming in a weird headspace, part gross self-flagellation, part unspoken bitching, with a dearth of good cheer. That’s the what. The why seems to be a quite physical need for catharsis, an expulsion of this misanthropy, a boil-puncturing bile-barf. Which is nice. Particularly for you, dear reader. I meant to write up a journal of my experiences after Surgery no. 1 (a rather straight forward, if grotty, tonsillectomy) to publish somewhere online. The intended review of proceedings was more for the benefit of others in similar straits, as I had found certain websites and forums useful to me in my many months of research pre-surgery. “Many months of research?” you might mouth incredulously. Surely an exaggeration? Alas, not. A combination of professional duty (as a singer and singing teacher, it seemed necessary to know my shit and be able to take responsibility for my healthcare and recovery) and morbid curiosity led me to be supremely prepared (or so I thought) for the looming procedure. The four-page document of pre-op questions I presented to my surgeon was a testament to my presumed preparedness, obnoxious tike that I am!

 Why didn’t I write up Surgery 1? Tricky really. The experience was nothing if not profound - I was guided by friends, loved ones and a team of medical professionals to have the most revelatory recovery possible. That sounds weird, I am sure, but the recovery really is what all the fuss is about - presumably with most surgeries, and certainly with the removal of the Palatine tonsils (the obvious, big round ones either side of the dangly bit, the Uvula). My biggest fear leading up to Surgery 1 wasn’t that it might alter my singing voice, or irreparably damage my instrument (not to sound wanky, but it is an instrument, internal or external, and not only my means of making a living, but inextricably entwined with my identity). No lie, I was definitely shitting myself on that front, but that anxiety was more indistinct and amorphous, an underlying hum of nauseous worry. The real dread was reserved for the pain. Every forum, every comment, every blog post, book, WebMD article and specialist paper on the topic of adult tonsillectomy always came back to THE PAIN. ‘Banged on about it’ would be a mild interpretation. The descriptions by those afflicted varied in style and articulation, but the one common feature was the violent extremity of expression. “This must be hyperbole? You didn’t really want to die, come ON.” I would think as I read the 8th page of weeping human distress and kind comradeship that accompanied such entries (surely the reason to write in the first place, was to be understood?). I would inevitably cut myself off by page 9, pulling rank on myself in order to ever sleep again. So in what way could recovery from Surgery 1 be claimed a “revelatory” experience? Oddly enough, it was a meme buzzing around Faceache just prior to my op that started me off on the right foot. Something about attempting to spend 24 hours not complaining, and see how your life improves, that sort of thing. It might have been 7 days for that matter, or half an hour, but the point was made succinctly, and it brought to the forefront of my mind the main reason I was frightened of the pain. I didn’t want to bore everybody shitless, myself included, by endlessly moaning on about it! Now, don’t get me wrong, I was certainly also daunted by the concept of being in pain for an indeterminate amount of time, who wouldn’t be? I don’t know that I’m a particular physical coward, but I have little or nothing of the masochist about me, so I could rest assured the pain itself was going to be generally displeasing (no shit). But the idea of me, unthreatened by any mortal disease, cared for and supported by innumerable different people and organisations, cosily cosseted and safe from harm, then being an incessant miserable whinge bag through it all; no, that was just not on. So I didn’t write about it. I did keep a rigorous diary of medications and recovery details for my ongoing case file, but there was very little in the way of moan about all that - facts first. I also partook in another Faceshite exercise in gratitude, which may seem facile - a surface-glossing box ticker - but oddly, it was actually extraordinarily helpful to me. Come up with three things a day you’re thankful for. Oh, days and days would pass between entries, but the concept held fast within me - acc-en-tu-ate the positive and all that. Simple but effective. This led me back to the wonderful Youtube lectures of Ahjan Brahm of the Buddhist Society of Western Australia, a stalwart mentor to me during the dark days of Dubai in 2012. It was here that I listened with awe to an anecdote he told of a chap who regularly visited his temple who through a terrible spinal injury sustained pain so appalling as to barely be comprehended. In an attempt to allow the man’s family to understand his experience, he was tested, I believe by neurologists, who were able to accurately measure his levels of pain. The description of how much pain the man was in and what type was this; it was as if he was having his arm cut off. All the time. Ceaseless, unendurable agony. Through the power of meditation, this man was able to not only manage his pain, but actually minimise it so that it affected his peace of mind less. Now, if that doesn’t put things in perspective for a person, I don’t know what does. Relaying that story right now re-clarifies for me why I didn’t want to give a blow by blow “poor me” account of the tonsillectomy recovery, because essentially, what the fuck have I got to whine about?! In the light of such suffering, quite literally nothing. Quite what I’m up to at 3.30 in the morning then, about to spill my guts, I don’t know. I do know that I couldn’t sleep, and that because no-one wants to hear about shitty stuff at Christmas, I’ve been gulping down my grumpy groans for days on end, slapping a falsey on the face, and keeping my chin up for the sake of, frankly, good taste. Some of my friends and family may be shaking their heads ruefully at this point; no dear, you just think you’ve not been acting like a callostomy bag at an orgy - you are in fact quite a drag. But, haaaaang on. We’re getting in a muddle. So. As straightforward as Surgery 1 was (and it was expertly done, thank you very much, using v.good procedure called Coblation, which uses radio frequency energy and water to excise tissue dontchyaknow) after about three weeks I noticed a full feeling in the back of my mouth. This didn’t go away, and steadily got worse. Many weeks passed, I saw a host of different GP’s, ENT specialists, my vocal coach, a therapist, and two very special organisations; BAPAM (The British Association of Performing Arts Medicine) and Help Musicians UK, who not only provided me with free advice and support, but financial aid and understanding. Angels. At the ENT’s I had Nasendoscopies - tiny camera on a tube up the nose and down the throat, yum - and they discovered a growth of lymphoid tissue at the base of my tongue and on the right wall of my mouth. Around this time I became familiar with the lymphatic system, through many articles online and much excellent discussion and exchange with my reflexologist, Sam Whiteside, the one person quite willing to spend hours on end talking to me about how to get better. This involved a radical overhaul of my lifestyle; I had quit smoking the paltry but still obviously damaging amount of cigarettes I had clung to for years - that was achieved with little or no fuss in May, pre-Surgery 1. Next came my diet. I joined an NHS Fresh Start programme, run by my local pharmacy and a lovely pharmacist whose genuine encouragement and kindness was the real boon in an otherwise rather dated programme of information. But it peaked my interest. I then bought Sarah Wilson’s “I Quit Sugar” books, and the whole thing really stepped up a fucking gear, lemme tell you! Cutting sugar out of my life (an ongoing process) has been like finding a secret code to wellness. Weird shit, and really not a hardship AT ALL. Plus, you get to make potions and mud pies, which I’ve always enjoyed. I got right into my Yoga, started a daily practice, going regularly to classes and to the dreaded GYM. Found a cracking site called Grokker for online Yoga tuition (remains a daily source of goodness). I relay none of this righteously, more to try to express the kind of glee I have taken over the last 6 months in really taking care of myself for once. I worked less - had to, my ability to sing and teach for long hours was definitely impaired with the bloody mass of tissue filling my gob - and exercised more. Read books - non-fiction ones too, mind, a bit of a first for an avowed ghost-story/sci-fi/Mieville-scale narrative addict like me - books about getting better, or coping with what was going on if I wasn’t getting better. All of these things came about as a result of Surgery 1; which is why I say it was revelatory. I re-discovered my desire to learn. And to practice. A decent Mind Body Green article would end here. There’s no ‘but’ to all this. There is an ‘and’ though. Which is to say, that whilst I made significant progress with all that life stuff, after all was said and done, I still needed another surgery! Eff-ing whaaa? I don’t mind admitting, a twinge of bitterness got added to my general mentality at this point, though I think I did a pretty good job of brave-facing it. Again - what the blank have I got to moan about, blah, blah, all very routine, la la la. Was I trying to convince myself into this casual attitude? Little bit. But, having vehemently rallied against the concept of another surgery for some time, it was almost a relief to concede it was actually necessary. Official line; a biopsy of the lymphoid tissue and lingual tonsils. What’s that? Linguawhatnow? Sorry, I didn’t mention - the human body has 3, count ‘em, 3 sets of tonsils; the adenoids (receded in childhood), the palatine tonsils (just had them whipped out) and the lingual tonsils, which reside deep in the base of the tongue, usually never to be seen. NEVER HEARD OF THEM. Literally never came across mention of these shitbags in all the maaaaany hours of internet trawling and specialist opinion-seeking pre-Surgery 1. So, yep, I was a little miffed (and strangely moved) to discover a whole new set of tonsils had leapt to my defence in the absence of the primary set. Brilliant. Poor old confused immune system. Now, isn’t a biopsy where they just snip a little bit of the tissue out to examine in the lab (histology, that)? I presume so, but in the case of my lymphoid mass, that wasn't really an option, as they might not get a decent sample, so out it must come. In fact, my surgeon’s exact words were “If in doubt, take it out”! This is not to seem disparaging. My surgeon was and is an extraordinarily kind and brilliant practitioner - I merely found this old adage both amusing and a bit close to the bone, as t’were. The fact that the growth was asymmetric also caused the men with lasers to want it gone - apparently asymmetry in nature = not so good. So, in the immortal words of Wordsworth the Butler and the entire cast of Clue - to cut a long story short (TOO LATE!) - now I’m on day 12 post-Surgery 2. Just before I went down to theatre on the dreary Wednesday morning 12 days ago, my surgeon came into my room at Benenden Hospital for the usual pre-op chat, and we discussed what I could expect. Would it be like last time? I asked, gulping. Bit of a shit sandwich, this. Basically, his appraisal was that it would be more painful but a shorter recovery time. Hmmmm.. I had put a pin in preparations for Surgery 2 in a way I hadn’t for the first op. I’d gathered up all my notes and med-diaries, but I hadn’t re-read them. Didn’t see any point trawling through all the grot beforehand, since I was already pretty anxious, albeit covertly. Therefore, I couldn’t remember how long the pain had lasted the first time around, and somewhat underestimated it in my memory. I also couldn’t really recall the exact details of it all, just a blurry haze of yukkiness. Codeine will do that to you. Which is not to say I don’t have a full account of it, I do, I had simply decided not to remind myself. Just let it be what it will be, or some such arse. To briefly attempt to counterbalance the outpouring of glum before we really sink into the mire of self-pity, in many ways, I’ve had it much easier this time around. Not with the pain, which as per my surgeon’s assessment, has been quite a bit worse. But the unpleasantness has been less. Here on in, it gets a bit graphic and gross, so if you’re faint-hearted…why the fuck are you reading this, you loon?! Recovery from Surgery 1 involved two really choice bits of discomfort; firstly, the front portion of my tongue and then different sections of it were totally numb for weeks. This might sound inconsequential, and in the grand scheme of things (like all this guff) it is, but it was horrendously distracting and a perpetual source of not-rightness. The other was worse; at least three weeks of the most rank, no, rancid taste in my mouth and back of throat at the site of the tonsil beds. Whaaaa? Basically rotting flesh. Despite Coblation being a non-heat-requiring method of excision, it still leaves a manky, white ooze-covered wounds in your mouth. This is unavoidable, but I genuinely feel for one of my besties Jo Frater who once described to me her experience as a vegetarian having once accidentally eaten meat and being extremely physically revolted. Thus, imagine if you will, every waking moment being accompanied by the taste-smell of your very own zombie mouth and we’re getting somewhere. Good times! Since I’m really getting my bellyache on now, let’s discuss the last 12 days. Yes, LETS! I hear you cry fervently. Again, you needn’t read on if you’re not invested. At this stage I’m in full-blown catharsis mode, and for those unfortunate bastards out there about to undergo a biopsy of lymphoid tissue and lingual tonsils in their mouths - I’ll attempt to be of some trifling service. As usual, the first two or three days are lulling you into a false sense of security - lemme see your hands tonsillectomy tribe, can I get an amen?! - it’s not that bad! You’re still coming down off the morphine (although disappointingly much less enjoyable second time around), and it’s as if the area operated on is in shock. It doesn’t really kick in until day 3/4. By now, you’re on a pain ladder of Paracetamol, Ibuprofen, possibly Codeine. My regimen of meds, and specifically NSAIDS, (Non-Steroidal Anti-Inflammatories) after Surgery 1 was brutal. In 14 days I took 869mg of Codeine, 13,800mg of Ibuprofen and 43,500mg of Paracetamol. Not great for the kidney/liver/stomach etc.. Also, as I charmingly announced to all and sundry on Faceplant - I didn’t take a crap for 8 days after that much Codeine. Joooyyyyyy. With Surgery 1, the pain was weird and incessant, but rarely got above a 6 or 7 on my personal pain scale. There were a couple of occasions when it went up to 8, but it was more a nagging bore of a hurt than AGONY! The fucker with that was that it made sleep nearly impossible - for at least two weeks, I got barely more than 2 hours sleep at a time. New parents will snort with derision at this pitiful gripe, as well they might. I’m pretty sure my sister, mother of two delightful and boisterous young boys, hasn’t had a good night’s kip in years. Just ‘splainin’, homes. In this respect, I have got off lightly this time around. Because the op was all on the right side of my mouth, not on both, pain has been reserved for that side only. This has made sleep not only possible, but preferable. Alas, there is only so much sleep you can take before back ache and sheer boredom get you out of bed. The being awake is the problem. The pain this time around has been, well…evolving. Yes, we’ve got the grinding low-level (5/6) constant soreness, spiked with sudden eye-watering 7/8’s - sharp or burning sods caused by swallowing anything from your own saliva to a sip of water, a spoonful of mashed potato or whatever. A small bite of banana made me pull the car over and weep this morning. Rubbish. Must have been a 9. When the pain spikes, it doesn’t go away just like that. It might take twenty minutes for the area to normalise back down to the thudding grey 5/6, and then you’re thankful for it!! Happy, happy smaller hurt. The funniest thing about the recovery is that it seems to keep getting worse and worse, until you think it (yes, ‘it’ has a personality now) can’t possibly invent more new ways of throbbing and stinging and shooting fire up into your ears and jaw and skull. But, as nature is wont to be a shit for brains, it hurts the most as it turns the corner and starts to get better. Two nights ago I woke up, if not convinced, then experiencing the sensation that I had a shard of glass stuck in my throat. I was once told by a new mother on the subject of breastfeeding, that it felt like tiny shards of glass in her nipples! Sod that, was all I could say at the time. I still can’t compare, since I imagine the nipple has infinitely more nerve-endings than my mouth/throat. However, my point is, as the wound began to scab, the shard-pain peaked at a fierce 10. And the kicker is, look on the bright side eh? It’s healing! Oh GOOD. So I’m swallowing glass because I’m getting BETTER! Well, that’s a fucking relief. Shan’t fuss then. And so, here I am. All moaned out. There are an infinite number of little whinges and bitter resentments I could get into, but can’t be arsed. It’s nearly 5 in the morning, and the boys will be up soon. Suffice to say, it’s been a duff Christmas, and I’m politely (ahem) requesting a do-over. I could say the same about this rant, but for all my obsequious hand-wringing “I’m a dick for complaining”, the bald fact of the matter is a deeply English quality; I feel so much better for having carped on. It’s all out now, and I am over the worst of it, I’m sure. For those willing few of you kind/daft/curious enough to see it through to the end of this self-indulgent onslaught of myopic blues; you may need a mind-colonic now. But thanks for listening.

Nean x

Day 96 of 97...

Well, here I am at last. Last full day and night of Dubai, leavin' on a jet plane tomorrow..

I wasn't sure how I wanted to format this blog, since the last one was such an outpouring of personal stuff. I didn't want to just bullet point stats, 'cause shit, who wants to read that, but I have been collatin' data (as they say - Browncoat quote, hereafter known as Brownquotes...?) and some of it seemed worth mentioning.

So tonight is my last gig. It is Gig No. 70. I've been here for 96 days, or almost 14 weeks. It was mid April when I arrived. It is now two thirds of the way through July. 

In the four weeks I had between getting the job and leaving I compiled a repertoire of some 500 songs (by other artists). I already had at least 200 songs at my fingertips anyway, so the additional 300 averaged out at learning 10 songs a day; an exhausting brain-strain, but deeply enjoyable. However, trying to work out what sort of songs people I'd never met in a land I knew very little about would want to hear was a tricky task. Pop music has been going for (arguably) more than 60 years now, so where the hell do you start?

Normally, for my repertoire back home, I don't tend to take into account what songs are popular or famous or sing-a-long-able. I largely try to please myself first, and then others. Which is not to say that all the songs I sing back home are obscure, but they certainly used to be (all odd King Crimson ballads and Steely Dan randoms). But I understood that this was going to be a different kind of job - less about me and my personal taste as a singer-songwriter and more a journey into the realm of crowd-pleasing. The songs, by and large, needed to be familiar.

Funnily enough, whilst I have chosen to learn requests and continued to expand my repertoire (by day 63 I'd learnt an additional 124 songs, Christ knows where we're at now), the musical choices I've made ended up being songs I've loved since childhood, or heard recently and would never have dreamed of playing back home for fear of the cheese accusers. ("chee-cusers"? No.)  Hall & Oates Greatest Hits have been thoroughly pillaged (Adult Education easily my favourite to play), but I also had a go at Rihanna (Don't Stop The Music is a righteous stomper), Maroon 5, Gotye, Aloe Black and Cee Lo Green for those love-em-or-loathe-em catchy hit requests. Oasis has rubbed shoulders with The Rolling Stones, Elbow with John Martyn, Madonna with Kate Bush. If I didn't have an eclectic repertoire before I came out here, I frakking do now!

But, do you know what has been without question the most requested song? Hotel sodding Cali-sodding-fornia. A song I wasn't terribly fond of anyway. Hey ho.

Some musical highlights, you ask? I themed every Friday's Brunch gig, and the pleasure of Brunch Brought To You By The Letter 'W' (Waterfalls alongside Waterloo Sunset, ohhh yeah) was only rivalled by the Totally Beatles Brunch. That was crazy popular! Hmmm, the oft-repeated moment when nearing the finale of a song, my eyes scan down to the end of a page of lyrics to find a note-to-self that simply says "Ending?!". The curious feeling of having throat sweets stick to the roof of your mouth whilst singing so an artificial lisp is created. Bumping songs from the set list on the night so frequently that A Kiss From A Rose finally got it's premiere performance on it's 6th attempt, some 9 weeks after arrival in Dubai. Nailing the groove once and for all on Quatro Elementos (a beautiful Brazilian song by Joyce I've been playing for nearly 10 years). Garbling lyrics (not due to drunkenness, I'll add) so that "don't say a word" became "don't say a turd" (which, unfortunately, I did) or "The horse with no name" became "The horse with no mane"! Poor baldy horse.

There are always more, but I'm hoping tonight's final gig (7-0 bitches!) will hold the most memorable. There is not one song I want to bump tonight - just tune after tune after tune..

If you want to really hear the lowdown though, come along to my next gig, this Sunday 22nd at The Three Mariners in Hythe! No rest for the wicked...

Over and out duders, see you in the Shire...

Nean xxx 

Who's that girl (on the ceiling)?

Just some of the delicacies.. The balloon bread is Lebanese and called Khobus and the other thing has octopi!

My cocktail was Passion-Fruit-infused Tequila, and Bea's was... not as nice as mine!

Check out my excellent callouses! Finger positioning could be improved..

(Sidebar - I took another picture where my fingers looked more like three damaged penises, be thankful this is the one I posted.)

Shiny things at the InterCon..

Kate by the tallest building in the WORLD! The Burj Khalifa and my sis..

Climbing out of the well...

Soooo.... been a while. Today is Saturday June 9th. Can't remember when my last blog post was, but that infers it was longer than I meant to leave it.

What have I been up to? Well, I've now played over 45 gigs in the 8 weeks I have been in Dubai. Unsurprisingly, I got Laryngitis a few weeks back. That was less than excellent. I had been trying to approach each night's gig as I would back home, giving it my all, cutting my voice no slack and that, it turns out, was naive. Not only was the length of each gig double what I'm used to, but the incessancy of nightly performance eventually took it's toll. Couple that with brutal air con, humid/arid climate and a smoky bar, and I had a recipe for...well, Laryngitis!

Thankfully both my employers and my agent were very cool and we re-shuffled and reduced my vocal duties. I'm slowly trying to build them back up, as I still find it difficult to give what my ego considers "less than my best performance", but striking a balance and finding a way of singing and playing regularly that is sustainable over several months is more important than my ego!

Anyway, great things that have occurred since my last post? My older sister Kate, on her way back to New Zealand from the UK, came to visit me for a few days, which was, in a word...SWELL! It was the first time I've seen her since 2010 (yuk, too long) so it was lovely to go do silly things like walk outside at midday (I thought I was going to die), go to the aquarium at Dubai Mall or spend endless cab rides to go look at a giant glorified housing-estate (The Palm, which is for some reason considered a tourist attraction?! It's a freaking series of expensive Cul-De-Sacs!) On a trip that saw Kate being the surprise guest at our Great Auntie Dooney's 80th birthday back in the UK, I hope a string of rows with cabbies and my serenading her with It's A Kind of Magic could compete with a full-blown family reunion!

What else? Hmmm... Been to the movies a lot. Saw The Avengers again. Still need to finish the blog about that.. Saw Cabin in the Woods. Men in Black 3. The 5-Year Engagement. Snow White and the Huntsman. Going to see Prometheus tonight, despite a host of bad reviews from trusted friends.

Been for drinks with Bea (Singer/Pianist at The Vista Lounge in the InterCon) a number of times, which has been enormous fun. Would probably have gone rapidly mad without her excellent company. I have yet to teach her Shithead, as I keep promising. The heat out on the balcony at L17 (our bar upstairs) is stifling, even after midnight, and would make concentrating on the rules of the world's best card game tricky at best. Plus red wine.. It's not a complete write-off, but let's just say I'm not holding my breath. I can't wait to go home and play the Shithead spin-off Charlie Homersham and I created one sunny afternoon, aptly named "Bullshit!" (which is frequently snarled through gritted teeth as our deliberately convoluted and frustrating rules thwart our efforts to best the other!)

Ummmm.. oh you'll like this one! Last Saturday I spent 10 and a half hours in a mall. Yey? I can already say that in my two months here I've spent more time in malls than all the other times previously spent in malls put together. That was an inelegant sentence, and a disturbing fact. The heat makes it incredibly difficult (that's me being kind, and not saying IMPOSSIBLE) to spend time outside here, and really it's not somewhere with lots of "natural" attractions anyway, so malls it is!

Anyway, I don't like malls. Didn't before. Don't now. Back home they are generally noisy, over-crowded and pumped full of artificial smells, bad lighting and shiny things I cannot afford. They're not massively different here, though they are bigger, more airy and with less people. But the end result is still a place where I cannot fail to spend money, which I'd rather not, or rather "shouldn't". So, the fact that I spent my entire day off in one last week should sound like a travesty. And it would have been, if not for the fantastic book I bought halfway through the day - "Diet Rehab" by Dr Mike Dow. A really fascinating and informative book, Dow's proposal is to help you end fad dieting and addictive behaviours towards food, based upon an understanding of what foods and activities boost our brain's serotonin and dopamine levels in a healthy and sustainable way, and which foods and thought-patterns don't. I'm at the end of week 1 (it follows a 28-day rehab plan) and I've lost 5 lbs. More importantly, I'm cultivating a more healthy relationship to food and am treating myself with more kindness.

Which, I guess, brings me to the reason I haven't blogged in several weeks. Essentially, the long, dark night of the soul. Except replace "night" with "many weeks", or possibly "several years" and we're closer to the truth. I've spoken to both friends and family about how challenging this trip has been so far, and it has been that. As I've said before, there's nothing like solitude to bring about an identity crisis. I don't mean this to sound overly-dramatic or grand, when the reality has been anything but - more of a gradual chipping away of the parts of myself I had outgrown, felt bad about, or thought were integral to me but weren't. And then coming to terms with and letting go of a lot of old baggage to make room for change and growth. All sounds very new-agey, right?

If the "identity crisis" part seems difficult to understand, imagine having so much time to think that you question every thought, or in fact how you think, and whether your thought processes and patterns work at all. You notice how you treat yourself and others, and find it lacks compassion. Then you look at that thought, and IT lacks compassion! Realising that the food I was eating (junk food and lots of it) and the way I was eating it (in a disordered and uncontrollable fashion) was having a direct effect on my brain chemistry and therefore my mood and general outlook on life was not only a revelation, but a relief. I'm not a bad/weak/useless person. I just needed some help.

So, I had to fall down the well to climb back out of it. The reward? I get to create music every day. "Working" is learning how to play a bunch of great tunes and then sometimes having audiences sing them with me that evening! Don't get me wrong, I work hard and I make sure I do the best job possible every day. But I can put that in perspective, and see my colleagues working harder on 12 hour shifts for less money, less perks and much less thanks. I am more grateful for this opportunity than ever, and thankful that I can work on becoming a healthier and happier me. 

And to the parrot that sat on my head. That was awesome.

Stay tuned folks, much less time shall elapse before blog-o-next... I promise to include more snarky jokes and less catharsis. This ain't Thirtysomething. (Oh christ, it is!)

Signing off, hoping Ridley Scott doesn't let us all down (no pressure or anything pal, only been waiting to see this film for three decades..)

Nean

XXXX

Read on...

Some more things Dubai..

Sweet chair.

Stranger in a Strange Land...

So, I've been in Dubai three weeks today. It feels like longer.

What have the first three weeks held? Well, from a whistle stop tour of the Intercontinental Hotel, Crowne Plaza and Resident's Suites on my first night, my initial reaction was "overwhelmed" with a side of "dazzled". Giant floral arrangements, luxury restaurants with trees inside, vast wealth, high ceilings, pools, gyms. You name it. I may have squealed somewhat the first time my laundry arrived in a paper parcel on my bed. And all subsequent times.

This dizzy, slightly incredulous feeling has only worn off slightly. I still find myself saying "really?!" a lot of the time.  Perhaps I will get used to it. I sort of hope not. I don't think these sorts of "luxuries" should be taken for granted. Particularly not since there is somebody working a 12 hour shift to achieve this for me.

Anyway, I've had lots of good friends ask me how I'm doing since I got here, and to be honest, I've been evading their question. Because it really is difficult to describe some of the features of Dubai without it either sounding like I'm bragging or complaining - neither of which would I wish to do. So bare that in mind as I break it down (homies)..(ugh)

40+...dammnit, where's the little degree sign? PLUS FORTY DEGREES CELSIUS. There we go, that'll do. Now, not bragging, though to the sodden Englanders it might seem like I am. Because what that means is I cannot leave the building. Sounds like complaining, right? Seee... I can't win. But seriously, stepping outside of the (brutally) air conditioned buildings/cabs/whatever for longer than 30 seconds is like walking into a convection oven (not joking). Anyway. Is what it is. I'm sure the shit weather back home would be traded in a trice for a slice of hot-as-hell-Dubai. Fair enough, but I'm just being honest!

So, next - how are the gigs? Well, they took a bit of a turn over the weekend because I started to lose my voice, but I think I'm on the mend now, so lets look at the positives. Really great staff. I mean, super-nice. Supportive, sweet, helpful, friendly, the lot. Punters are pretty cool too - had some great feedback (and some actual feedback, but the less about the monitor the better) from customers, and have even been taken under the wing of some of the regulars.

I've even started to enjoy writing set lists (a job I've LOATHED in the past, probably because of limited and lazy repertoire), spending two days out of my week doing these. Monday sees me write Mon, Tues, Wed gigs and Thursday I write Thurs, Fri and Sat. This literally takes all day, as I start by emptying the live pad (by which I mean folder) of the previous night's charts, putting them in alphabetical order (in four piles on the bed, as there are four pads) back into their respective plastic sleeve. Then I select 120 songs (that's three gigs' worth) until they're all stacked up on the floor. Then I put them into what set they should be in and on what day (delicate operation, gotta feel the vibe...snort..sorry even I know how douchey that sounds!) and finally create a document of the actual set lists for each night; so the specific order each ten songs in each four sets of each night's gig will go in. And yes, that takes all day, because I care (not because I'm slow and secretly half-watching a movie over my left shoulder, shame on you for even suggesting it). If there's any time left over I'll learn new songs and requests, print out lyrics, look for new ideas and suggestions...

Phew. That was a boring paragraph about set list writing. I apologise, but I have become slightly obsessed with it. I'll move on quickly, before it kicks in again..

Some gig highlights have been... the string to the strap on my guitar finally snapping to bits (but I didn't drop her) and the lovely waitress Angel giving me a handful of cable ties to secure said strap - cable ties, where have you been all my gigging life, huh?!

Ummm..my stunning Bertie peep-toe wedges saving the day (thank-you Mum and Dad!), since they are the only pair of heels I could possibly wear for 4 hours a night, 6 nights a week (and even then my feet get dunked in a cold bath afterwards). Come on, what was I thinking bringing these bastards?! (hoping I can insert photo of my yellow Topshop vertigo-wedges here, but if not, they are ridiculous!)

Also, as many of you know, there are a group of male singer-songwriters who bring me much joy and my friends much agonised, over-played annoyance. The list is (in possibly chronological order..) Billy Joel, Hall & Oates, Elton John, Sting, Paul Simon and John Mayer. That is a freight train full of good tunes by the frakking way. So...there. But anyway, I get to play songs by these guys every. single. night. YEAAAAAAAH.

Particularly enjoyable was getting to the final chorus of Why Georgia? by John Mayer before I realised that I could be singing "Am I living in RYE?" (whaddup Madam Bones?!)...the timing of which was as pleasing as the realisation itself as you can overdo those things. Sidebar, see my rendition of So Lonely with Sue Lawley substitutions. Classic overcooked pudding.

Also, giving the New Radicals' "You Get What You Give" a decent stab was uplifting - reminds me both of good old friends from home, and also my time in Chicago, where I would play it on the jukebox of the sports bar I worked in and nostalgically think of those same old friends.

Some surprising hits? Somebody really dug Sealed With A Kiss the other day - threw me a bit. Also, Nights in White Satin was totally rocking, as was House of the Rising Sun - but it's worth remembering that it'll never be as awesome the next time you play it, don't try to recapture, just keep learning new tunes and find new unexpected greatness!  And songs you think will be sweet, end up a damp squib. Spinning Around, I'm looking at you. Or rather, me, 'cause that song is genius. It's not just the gold lame hot-pants...(hey, that just says "lame" without the accent!) 

Upcoming hoped-to-be classics? Been putting off Please Don't Stop The Music for weeks (just scared I won't pull it off, it's a really good tune) and Think (hard). Still, always looking for more, so please keep those suggestions coming - really helps.

Well, I'm sure there is lots more that I can spew about (unpleasant), but it'll have to wait for a later post, as my Avengers blog is beckoning, I need to go for a night swim (woe is me) and I'm getting up at 4.30 tomorrow morning to go do yoga!

More soon from your correspondent in the UAE - until then, ma'a salama..

Milk of the Coconut!