Sixty-One – there it is, done and dusted, dozed off in my teens and woke up in the third age! Old guard folk-punk-poet in his senior years. He struggles on – bless him!
Blood tests, X-Rays, Doctor’s appointments, Specialist appointments, more blood tests – welcome to 2023 – welcome to the new new-normal. Such is this road on which I find myself.
Life without lectins is working out pretty well – though requires imagination and experimentation. Fried egg on gluten free toast layered with smashed avocado, green salad and sweet potato fries on the side – not too shabby. Eating out is harder, but then I haven’t had a severe inflammation flare up in six weeks and that’s such a relief. Still get grumbles, aches and nagging pains, but the real debilitating shit seems to be – touch wood – somewhat tamed. I probably need to consult a decent dietician – the web is awash with theories, debate and horror tales – you have to pick your way through the swamp to chart your own course.
We lost a friend, just before Christmas – just gone in his sleep. Nick was a cool, considered creative powerhouse with a cunning sense of humour. From ‘90’s space-rock at the New-Year Crow through to DJ sets in the park and the final act – our Hammer Man producer-director-star-force of nature. I managed to set him up supporting Judge Jules at a local charity gig in November and feel glad I was able to offer him that as a parting shot – he was a natural choice. Shooting the breeze – foraging and gimbles and crazy shit. It sucks!
Hammer Man - Skull Puppets, Directed by and starring Nick 'Beardo' Frewin
First gig in four months – playing outside in sub-zero January – at the wonderful Farmer’s Boy. My lovely cuz came down (from the Midlands) with partner and shaggy dog – so sweet. We played pretty well, despite the shivers, and it felt good to be back strumming with the boys and chatting to the stalwarts that attended. My favourite song of the day was our take on The Giant of Illinois (Handsome Family) – just fitted the moment somehow – cool!
Los Chicos Muertos at The Farmer's Boy - Never Learnt to Swim (Clive Product)
Skull Puppets reconvened as well – back in Bruce’s garage – Nick’s ghost in attendance. Some much needed fuzz-noise protest. We had to turn down several gigs over Christmas/New Year as I just hadn’t been well enough to rehearse since the Autumn – but there’s new recordings in the pipeline and gigs awaiting for sure.
I’ll still easily sleep for nine or ten hours – I wear out pretty quickly, and then there’s the pervading sense of otherness and occasional involuntary trembles. The medical benefits of red wine and 90% dark chocolate are a welcome comfort.
I’m pretty much back at work, in between the medical appointments – well, another year of having to justify the importance of adequately funding community arts events and projects – such is our burden.
On my Birthday I went into London with Justine and Emelia (wife and daughter) – first trek to the big smoke in quite some months. We headed straight for Tate Modern and decided upon checking out the Cezanne exhibition. That line kept going round in my head – ‘in the room where they keep the Cezanne’ and couldn’t place it. I thought it was from Jonathan Richman’s Vincent Van Gogh but much as I endeavoured to recall all the words it just didn’t fit. I later recalled of course that it was Girlfriend – right singer, wrong song. It was lovely just mooching round the galleries, though a little crowded. My take away was that some of his preparatory studies were somehow more vibrant than the finished works and that he had a strong closing chapter. Afterwards we walked along the South Bank, stopping for a coconut milk cortado, before crossing over and wandering through Covent Garden before some extended perusing in Fopp and Forbidden Planet. I picked up (another) Velvet Underground live album and Talking Heads Psycho Killers Live ’79.
With energy levels fading we caught the bus to St Pancras and checked a couple of food places to see if there was anything I could eat on the menu – there wasn’t. So straight to the Champagne Bar for some bubbly rose whilst watching the Eurostars come and go. We checked out the nibbles menu and noticed that there was a cheeseboard. I explained my dietary predicaments to the lady behind the bar and she set about ensuring I received a goodly proportion of Goat’s Cheese as well as some gluten free toast and a fine bowl of olives (goat’s and sheep’s cheese are low lectin as opposed to cow’s cheese which is a no-no). Justine and Emelia had oysters and smoked salmon croque respectively, so all very excellent in the end.
St Pancras
Back at home playing that Velvet Underground album, I read in the sleeve notes that a young Jonathan Richman had attended the gig – being as it was in Boston – though no mention of whether he had a girlfriend at the time!
Back in August 2022, whilst still harbouring a cancerous kidney, I began to write a poem. The impetus was an uber ride towards our debut Skull Puppets gig at Biddle Bros in Hackney- just across from my birthplace. Cruising through those so familiar streets, laughing and buzzing on pre-gig adrenaline. The poem slowly developed over the following months, becoming something of an epic. Pour yourself a stiff one and enjoy…
Buzz Time on the Murder Mile
Blue light caffeine buzz
Uber cool street smart
And drive
Just drive
We are kids at the fairground
All punk rock and lairy
And laughing
Like loons
On this warm summer city
Define us in heartbreak
In powder and cold ink
And howl like a mad thing
This pauper’s kingdom
Set sail in a cold war
A state of attrition
But learn from the bruises
And call out the fuckers
For what will define us
Is less than you’re thinking
Enchanted sidewalk
And tracks in the basement
Look down from the buildings
Take courage in nothing
And swim like a demon
For there in your eyes
Is the panic and freedom
The passion and glory
All speedball romance
And the late-night phone calls
That walk with the angels
And never regret
All the gasoline comforts
The makeshift tents
The ash in the wind
And just freeze
Right there
That moment they held you
In frame and in noise
All blurred and ecstatic
And fun
Like a fuzzed-up bohemian
Sailing and scented
All camp and confused
And lost in the transcript
The needles and pinstripes
The poets and pushers
That drink to the ones
On the wayside and lost
For we ran
Oh we ran
For one beautiful moment
And there in the telling
The stories and rumours
That made us beguiling
That focused the tuning
That left us so broken
Created mosaic
In a Kinder egg Jesus
Who led from the back
With the faintest of smiles
And born to the vampires
This night-time is ours
Take joy in the calling
Take heed from the prophets
Who stood in the spotlight
Who died in the prologue
Who relished the seconds
Who stammered and stuttered
And strutted off skyward
We stand on their graves
And we shuffle
Discomfort
Torn from the season
Just give me a moment
And breathe
Breathe it all in now
For one day
You will need this dream
For one day
You will fall like them
And will cling
To the thought
That for one sweet second
These streets were ours
Such a small thing
Hardly anything really
Who knew
What terms are we using
Define handsome doctor
Do tell
Do tell
Pass around cigars
The port and the quips
There’s jazz in the holding
This sense of foreboding
Wracked soul from the valleys
Cast wayward and crooked
Take solace from those
Who have left for the mountain
Now way beyond sight
As the cloud is descending
No pain no gain
No rain in Spain
No sense of shame
No fun no name
Let’s call it out
Let’s say the word
Then lock it away
In a file marked secret
Damn this trial
And curse this joke
For one brief moment
I swear he spoke
In the wall of the harbour
At closing time
Meandering homeward
In neon and star shine
The sticky tarmac
Slowing our stride
Was it there all along
Or still lost in the ether
So hard to determine
Through a medical mask
Quite what expression
The eyes are not telling
Press pause
Right now
We’ll pick it up again later
Test the shadow
Step out from the doorway
If only it would rain
This air is too heavy
Crazy big moon
With an amber hew
And stars falling
Like press bulb poppers
This heaven you speak of
A cellar in Lyon
So far from the sidewalk
So taken in myth
Summer store Tuesday
The bars are still open
I believe
Life’s a cunt
And then you survive
Just drive
I promise not to cry
Just hold me
Soar away
And smile
For a while at least
Just drive