Cafe society is as old as the hills. Starbucks & its imitators are the coffee face of the new man in a hurry.
Throughout the Old World, the laid-back, knowing residents of towns & villages suspend time in the post-luncheon long moment.
Oh well - the coffee's only ever as good as the water it is made with.
And the froth on top is the frilly knicker on a cheap tart's bum.
Funny old cup o'tea, coffee…
I sit in judgement on the market square.
I have my favourite table and I have my chair.
Natives are friendly and the sun flies high.
All kinds of crazy waiters – they go drifting by.
Come, sit with me and take decaf designer coffee.
Come, laugh and listen as the ragamuffin children play.
Lame dog and a black cat, now, they shuffle in the shadows.
You got cappuccino lip on a short skirt day.
Hours last forever in the Calliandra shade.
Conversation going nowhere and yet, everywhere.
Kick off those sad shoes and let the bare toes tingle.
Slip off the shoulder strap: loosen the thick black hair.
Electric afternoon and shrill cellphones are mating.
Lame dog is dreaming, dreaming of a better life
where bed is fluffy pillows, table scraps are filet mignon
flicked indiscretely by the lazy waiter's knife.
Rupi's Dance
The sight of a dark-haired, sexy & alluring female swaying & swishing to the sound of CNN playing quietly in the background never fails to captivate.
Rupi was, at the time of writing this song, about 14 weeks old a bit wobbly on her tiny feet & with not much of a tail yet to balance the bodily gyrations.
Funny old girls, pussies cat…
She dances through the flower-filled room
sea-green eyes a-sparking.
Or are they blue? The message clear:
Seduce the master, winking.
Dainty feet circles inscribe
upon the frozen parquet.
Arabesque in compound time:
Stately Pavane or Bouree.
Sultry smile, come hither gaze –
black hair softly shining.
Calls me up to half-lit bed.
Sweet cloud with golden lining.
Oh, so young with ageless smile –
born of ungodly maker.
Draws me: moth to candle bright –
fiery pleasure-seeker.
She dances through the flower-filled room
sea-green eyes a-sparking.
It's Rupi's dance: the message clear.
Her movement does the talking.
Lost In Crowds
I am terrible at drinks parties. I do my best & try to chat happily & meaningfully to complete strangers but something in my conversation seems to bother them. Too intense, perhaps? Too fond of talking at people instead of listening? Too condescending & patently bored with the whole thing?
What the hell. I prefer the anonymity of being among the faceless crowds in airports, on downtown sidewalks & in the ubiquitous mall haven of tranquil & isolated suburbia.
Funny old things, crowds…
I get lost in crowds: if I can, I remain invisible
to the hungry mouths. I stay unapproachable.
I wear the landscape of the urban chameleon.
Scarred by attention. And quietly addicted to innocence.
So, who am I? Come on: ask me, I dare you.
So, who am I? Come on: question me, if you care to.
And why not try to interrogate this apparition?
I melt away to get lost in this quaint condition.
At starry parties where, amongst the rich and the famous
I'm stuck for words: or worse, I blether with the best of them.
I see their eyes glaze and they look for the drinks tray.
Something in the drift of my conversation bothers them.
So, who am I? Come on: ask me, etc.
In scary airports, in concourses over-filled,
I am detached in serious observation.
As a passenger, I become untethered when
I get lost in clouds: at home with my own quiet company.
Herald Tribune or USA Today. Sauvignon Blanc or oaky Chardonnay.
Asleep for the movie. Awake for the dawn
Dancing on England and hedgerows
embossed on a carpet of green. I descend and –
forgive me – I mean to get lost in crowds.
A Raft Of Penguins
Having worked, over these many years, with various orchestral forces from solo woodwind players through string quartets to the more-or-less symphony orchestras, I remain entranced at the differences & misconceptions present in the mutual understanding - or lack thereof - in such gatherings of minds & music.
Who is the more terrified in such encounters? Me or them? I play a bit out of tune, out of time & read not a note of those Dead Sea Scrolls written so carefully upon the stave life. But when the wind gets up & the music stand blows over, I can busk it with the best of them. It's all in the head, you see. And in the heart. And that improvisational adventure remains a mystery to many a first fiddler & this tribe.
Here is an affectionate musing on the scary delights of fronting an orchestra in the face of paying public.
Funny old birds, penguins…
A raft of penguins on a frozen sea.
Expectant faces look down on me.
Shuffle uneasy. The whistler plays.
Counting eleven, they begin to pray.
Tenuous but clinging, the missing link
joins us, closer than we might think.
Some half remembered coarse jungle drum
a naked heart-beat, trill and hum.
This world's no stage for the faint at heart.
Each symphony, a sum of parts.
Each overture, a sweet foreplay.
Let's crash and burn some other day.
Bonded in terror or suspicion deep.
Tentative tiptoe or giant leap.
Call down the angels to guide them in.
A raft of penguins take to the wing.
A Week Of Moments
Vacations, for me, are a mercifully short excuse for getting away from the rat race to find only that the stress of yet more hotels, screaming pool children & fellow guests from Hades make a mixed & dubious week's pleasure.
So here is my imagined idyllic, romantic holiday for two. Don't tell Shona - she might hold me to this.
Funny old chap, holidays…
A week of moments – a clutch of days –
ten thousand minutes of a Passion Play.
Medley of quavers informs the tune.
It's all too much: over all too soon.
Sweet condensation on chilling wine.
Traveler's palm, flamboyant tree.
Fast photos ripped and lost consign
A week of moments to faint memory.
A week of moments plucked from the page
found far horizons, a sunset stage.
Suitcases bulge, in silence packed.
A chapter closed: no looking back.
The lightest touch upon my arm.
No fierce restraint, no call to stay.
Hushed room maids glide like pawns to king
With pool attendants in chess piece array.
A Hand Of Thumbs
An imagined meeting with seductive stranger, glimpsed across yet another crowded room. Must try to practise these social skills. Must try to do better. Must try to be more confident.
Funny old business, fear of humiliating failure...
My hand of thumbs is shaking.
I am so glad to meet you.
All tongue-tied and twisted.
My lips stuck like glue.
More than a lifetime to say, 'How are you?'
More than an ocean to cross becalmed.
Less than a second to sink in silence.
Yours truly, I remain disarmed.
Saw you peeping from the corner.
Your eyes seemed to call hello.
I'm all too easily mistaken,
My feet unsteady as they go.
Was I a suave and confident trickster
I would sweep you up and carry you down
to raspberry meadows under diamond skies
and just mess around. Just mess around.
Eurology (instrumental)
Power-walking down London's Baker St. in rush-hour some months ago, I found myself humming this tune, bestowed upon me by the Euro-Gods - or, at least, their angels-in-waiting.
Having popped in to the nearest Sony Centre to purchase a digital 'dictaphone' of the cheapest variety, I repaired to the local Indian restaurant & furtively muttered into the new device the melodic bones of this eclectic & varied piece, between munches of poppadom & vindaloo. Well, you could forget it by the time you got home, couldn't you? Bet you wish I had.
I was trying to explain this piece to a journalist as being a pun on the study of the urinary tract & its diseases when he asked me if it was difficult to play. 'No, it's a piece of piss, actually,' I offered.
Funny old things, Euro-tunes…
Old Black Cat
For 12 years I enjoyed the good company of a pretty average, unexceptional old moggy by the name of Mauser. He was so-called after the German armament company of the same name but Deutsche-slang suggests his name might also liberally translate as 'Shagger' - quite inappropriate since he was de-balled & disarrayed as a young sir. However, he may have long considered eunuch meanderings of the third kind. Who knows?
He died of liver cancer quickly & painlessly just before Christmas & I wrote the song in the hours after the go-to-sleep-now needle went in.
Funny old thing, sentimentality…
My old black cat passed away this morning
He never knew what a hard day was.
Woke up late and danced on tin roofs.
If questioned 'Why?' – answered, 'Just because.'
He never spoke much, preferring silence:
eight lost lives was all he had.
Occasionally sneaked some Sunday dinner.
He wasn't good and he wasn't bad.
My old black cat wasn't much of a looker.
You could pass him by just a quiet shadow.
Got pushed around by all the other little guys.
Didn't seem to mind much – just the way life goes.
Padded about in furry slippers.
Didn't make any special friends.
He played it cool with wide-eyed innocence,
Receiving gladly what the good Lord sends.
Forgot to give his Christmas present.
Black cat collar, nice and new.
Thought he'd make it through to New Year.
I guess this song will have to do.
My old black cat....
Old black cat...
Photo Shop
Just across the street from London's Paddington Station, is a small photo shop where I have occasionally taken in some film for developing. The voyeuristic delights (& horrors) of processing the customers' holiday snaps must be a poor substitute for the chance to leave cold & rainy old Paddington for the balmier climes of foreign parts..
And some of those foreign parts, in all their gynecological detail, doubtless show up in the work load from time to time. Oh, well: brightens up a drab day doesn't it? And most of the snaps get stuck in a bottom drawer & forgotten - better remembered, perhaps, by the photo processor than the picture-taker. Think about it when next you drop off the roll of film with the bared buttocks of Auntie Maude by the swimming pool.
Funny old waste of trees, most holiday photos…
A Morris Minor, a cafe noir –
banana smoothie, snails in a jar.
Three dodgy sailors, a girl on skates
a little too muscled from doing weights.
A family wedding, a sushi bar –
sand in the Seychelles, karaoke star.
Lads on the razzle get lost in love.
Paddington station, rain clouds above.
The crumpled sheets of a long hot summer.
Stored images like an acorn, drop.
Squirreled away, but still remembered
by the man in the photo shop.
Rush hour on Praed Street: behind the glass
a picture process, in one hour fast.
Intimate portraits of topless wives –
flashed indiscretions: snap-happy lives.
Pigeon Flying Over Berlin Zoo
While I was going morning walk-about during a few hours off mid-German tour, I dropped in, as I usually do, to the calm & orderly Berlin Zoo to check out my little pals in the Cat Kingdom for the medium to small.
On my way to the cat section, I noticed a pigeon flying lazily over the other animals locked behind wires in their enclosures & thought, 'Oh, to be free like that pigeon…'
But then, would the antelope, the elephant & the flamingo really want the get-out-of-jail card after all? I wrote the song in my head there & then, words & music, top to tail & recorded it safety on MiniDisc back at the hotel.
Funny old things, zoos…
I'm thinking free - like the bird
flying over, over the animals
in the zoo. How do you do?
What's it like to be in there? Think about it.
You're locked behind wires.
Safe and warm - under house arrest protection
from the wild, wild storm and tempest
raging here on the outside. Think about it.
Pigeon I. Pigeon toed.
I'm pigeon-friendly as pigeons go.
Pigeon lonely. Pigeon English.
What's it like to be in there? Think about it.
Harsh spaces. Empty freedom.
Scary concept. Wrong side of the window.
Which one of us will wake imprisoned
come tomorrow? Think about it.
Give it due consideration.
Weigh it up. Kiss me quickly.
Pigeon friendly. Let me in there
to be with you. Mull it over. (Think about it.)
Griminelli's Lament (instrumental)
Andrea Griminelli is a famous Italian flautist who possesses good looks, Latin charm, wordliness, exceptional musicality &, temporarily, no girlfriend following a parting of ways.
That's why I wrote for him this piece of music which we played together on some concerts with orchestras in Italy in 2002. It combines Celtic & Baroque influences to symbolize our separate musical & cultural backgrounds. Didn't do a lot to cheer him up, really. I play both flute parts on this recording, as Andrea & James Galway would have liked to perform the second flute part & I didn't want to upset either of them. Now, I've probably upset both.
Funny old lip-smackers, flute-players…
Not Ralitsa Vassileva
As an inveterate watcher of CNN after each Tull show, I clamber, naked as a baby, on to the hotel bed to be with the young & not-so-young ladies & gentlemen of Cable News Network as they fill me in on daily events. Of course, Ralitsa (Bulgarian-born & educated journalist of the most professional & responsible sort) is a CNN International gal & therefore not viewable in the US, but we see her over here in Europe & the rest of the world.
The chattering classes love to pontificate on the ways & wiles of the world & I am no exception. This song is based on the memory of temporary & slightly tipsy female dinner table companion who regaled me with the day's news stories as if she was the author of all-that-was-great-&-happened-today. As if she could be the slick, tutored & elegant Ralitsa! Oh, Ralitsa of the careless dimple.
Funny old things, CNN gals…
Dinner table chattering classes –
tell all we need to know.
Like it. Lump it. Dig it. Dump it –
on your late, late show.
And do you think you're Ralitsa Vassileva?
You're just hand-me-down news in a cookie jar.
It's a long way from here to CNN in America
and a red-eyed opinion too far.
Dish the dirt or dish the gravy.
Spill the beans to me.
Sinking fast in terminal boredom –
Feigned interest flying free.
And do you think you're Ralitsa Vassileva etc.
Talking monkey, breaking news junkie, tragedies to reveal.
Light and breezy, up-beat squeezy, close in to touchy-feel.
Pass the Merlot, dance the three-step
Cut to a better chase.
Align yourself with no proposition
and simpler thoughts embrace.
Let's talk about me. Let's talk about you.
In a world of private rooms.
Hide awhile from dark stormbringers –
sad messengers of doom.
Sadly, you can't be Ralitsa Vassileva etc.
And do you think you're Ralitsa Vassileva etc.
Two Short Planks
When I was a short-trousered pre-teen schoolboy, I had an easy ride at primary school in Scotland. But, aged 12, & having relocated to a more competitive environment at the North of England's Blackpool Grammar School, the full horror of the regular examination process had me in a tizzy. Some subjects caused me great anguish & difficulty: Algebra, Trigonometry, Chemistry & Physics brought on the jitters & the fear of loosened sphincter, hot flushes & migrate attacks.
I decided that I was not academically blessed & took refuge in the strangely comforting notion that I must be naturally a bit stupid (as thick as two short planks). Of course, sufficiently relaxed & resigned to a distant & soon-to-be-forgotten acquaintance with academia, I quickly went on to rise to the top of the lead class & take all my exams successfully a year early!
Funny old thing, school…
Find some way to square the circle.
Feet slipping, sliding on the level.
Connect to reason, is there anybody there?
Drum it in to me now if you dare.
Triangles by Isosceles.
Principles by Archimedes.
Amo, amas; even amat
make for one less way to skin the cat.
Two short planks –
try my luck on another day.
Must be thick as
two short planks –
that's about all that I have to say.
Two short planks –
pop the question: I sit the test
Must be thick as
two short planks –
spin me round till I come to rest.
They say truth comes flooding if you let it.
But what happens if I just don't get it?
I'm blissful in my sweet ignorance
and delight in my incompetence.
Birthday Card At Christmas
My daughter Gael, like millions of other unfortunates, celebrates her birthday within a gnat's whisker of Christmas. Overshadowed by the Great Occasion, such birthdays can be flat, perfunctory & fleetingly token in their uneventful passing.
The daunting party & festive celebration of the Christian calendar overshadows too, some might argue, the humble birthday of one Mr. J. Christ.
Funny old 25ths, Decembers…
Got a birthday card at Christmas: it made me think of Jesus Christ.
It said, 'I love you' in small letters. I simply had to read it twice.
Wood smoke curled from blackened chimneys.
The smell of frost was in the air.
Pole star hovered in the blackness. I looked again: it wasn't there.
People have showered me with presents while their minds
were fixed on other things.
Sleigh bells, bearded red suit uncles. Pointy trees and angel wings.
I am the shadow in your Christmas. I am the corner of your smile.
Perfunctory in celebration. You offer content but no style.
That little baby Jesus - he got a birthday card or three.
Gold trinkets and cheap frankincense. Some penny baubles for his tree.
Have some time off for good behaviour. Forty days, give or take a few.
Hey there, sweet baby Jesus: Let's share a birthday card with you.