Both Kinds of Music

Last night, as is often the way with me, I found myself pondering. It's activity fraught with peril, as it is basically an internalised version of pontificating down the pub, without the benefit of a) a pub or b) a selection of increasingly bored bandmates looking at their watches every twenty seconds.

There may or may not have been a glass of wine involved, and my girlfriend may or may not have been pretending to be asleep to avoid being drawn into the argument.

What I was pondering was this: What is it that makes us write off a "genre" of music as being something we just don't like? I'm not judging anyone for doing so in any way, I swear, I'm just curious.

Country music is an excellent example. I have many friends, all of whom have demonstrated a remarkably developed taste in music, who, at the first hint of a pedal steel guitar, begin to gesticulate wildly, foam slightly about the lips and run screaming from the room, a curse on the head of George Jones zipping from their heads in a Doppleresque fashion. You may have had similar experiences. Perhaps, in your case, it was rap, reggae or the heavier varieties of metal.

Now I wouldn't suggest, for a moment, that personal taste in music is even remotely quantifiable. I accept, wholeheartedly, that a song that can leave me weeping in a soggy heap or dancing badly atop a kitchen surface may cause you, in turn, to vomit long-forgotten pies. Within the band, for instance, I have known veins to throb in barely concealed annoyance depending on whose iPod is plugged into the stereo system. That much is writ. Music either hits you where you live, or is misdirected to the central sorting office to lie untouched and browning.

But to disallow an entire subgroup of music - however arbitrarily genre umbrellas are erected - seems strange to me. I'm the kind of Elvis Costello fan, frankly, who isn't bothered whether he's making a rock record, or writing a ballet score. I listen because I find his methods, his ideas and his execution persuasive. Like all artists he will, from time to time, stumble at the gate, but I never think to blame the form. And I'm never as frustrated as when I read reviews that denigrate artists for daring to stumble blindly out from their supposed area of expertise into another. To me eclecticism is a badge of honour, not a sign of weakness.

Of course, arguments are made on behalf of the power of playing to one's strengths and against artists trying too hard to be taken seriously. Warning flags are raised to alert us to the dangers of dilettanteism. So far, so sensible.

To me, a song is a song is a song. It's either - within my own specific taste parameters, of course - a good song or a bad song, a fine piece of music or a clumsy, malformed one. This is not to say I have never found myself falling prey to my own personal prejudices - I'd put fallible on my passport if I could only spell it consistently. Nonetheless, as I've said, I've been pondering, and while no good can possibly come of it, I ask the question again.

What is it about certain "types" of music - and I'm going to stubbornly contend that musical "genres" ought to be abolished - that make you turn off before you've really given them a chance?

I raised another question to myself in the course of this argument as well. Where is the dividing line between passion towards a subject and blind polemic? Very often, these days, I find myself tacking "of course, that's just my opinion" on to the end of every conversation, for fear of being branded intolerant, inflexible and, let's face it, insane.

There are times, however, when I despair of the phrase, "not my cup of tea" or "just not my kind of thing". It's polite, it's sociable and it shows an agreeable willingness to compromise.

Sometimes, however, just sometimes I would like to say and hear the sentence, "I hate that in its face, and I'll tell you why" a little more often, or, indeed, "I adore this like a newborn child, or well-groomed puppy and I can barely contain myself from sharing my joy."

Passion isn't reasonable. Love isn't reasonable, whether it's for a woman whom we worship yet who appears to our friends as a shrieking haridan who has been beated soundly around the chops with a claw hammer, or for a piece of music that has made our spirits soar but our listening companions gnaw off their own arms just to have something to throw at the CD player.

Do we pretend to be grown-up a little too often, to survive within ordinary social circles? Has "High Fidelity" given us a fear of becoming cliches when we wax lyrical about, er, lyrics?

I fear I have dropkicked myself into the middle of a tangent, so I shall depart. But please, feel free, in your replies, to rant and reign in said rants in equal measure. As the spirit takes you.

The Girls Nearby The Man

There appears to be an unwritten rule that demands, when one is expecting children, that all one's friends and relations must gather to tell horror stories regarding their own and others' bouts of birthing and parenthood.

Pregnant woman, of course, get the worst of it - gleeful retellings of various tearings, stitchings and clampings, described in vivid Technicolour detail, and qualified with an insincere "But I'm sure YOU'LL be alright."

Fathers, on the other hand, are offered a friendly slap on the shoulder and the knowledge that "Your life will never be the same again."

I recall one well-meaning friend, when my daughters were near birth, saying, with all seriousness, that I was "obviously going to give up this music lark, now that I had responsibilities."

I didn't - and I can't even begin to pretend that being a father has prevented me from doing anything I wanted to do, other than have a bed containing only adults for more than 15 minutes at a time. It is true, however, that my life changed forever.

For instance, when I slipped my brand new copy of Elvis Costello's Momofuku on to my regrettably dusty turntable this morning, the song that leapt out at me first was "My Three Sons", a classy and catchy paean to fatherhood that I dearly wish I had written. Of course, my two daughters might take rather badly to be referred to as three sons, but my point stands.

I have had children as long as I have been a professional musician, and they have been, perhaps, the single greatest influence on how I work, yet I have never written a song about them. I've thought about it, often, but every time I do so, I find myself terrified of venturing down a maudlin, saccharine road, from which I would then have to beat a hasty retreat, derisive hollers echoing in my ears.

Then again, I find uncomplicated love songs difficult to stomach for the same reason. Thankfully, my love life has never been simple, so I've always been able to throw in a twist without reaching too strenuously. But my children... well, that's a far less complicated love.

They're six now, and, having been exposed to music all their lives, are starting to form their own opinions, and exhibit their own sense of style and taste, and it's the first time I've ever found being a parent and being a musician to be a difficult combination.

Do you know how hard it is to listen to a six-year-old warbling a Westlife song she's heard on the radio and reply, as one should, "That's beautiful, darling!" instead of what I'm really thinking, which is, "Out Demon! In the name of Jesus, I thee expel!"?

Mind you, I remember when my daughters were three and we were working on our second album. I used to play them the mixes to see if they'd dance, because the automatic response of a toddler is pretty much identical to that of your average Radio One listener, so it's a good commercial testing ground, if not an artistic one.

One particular song came on, of which I was, and am, very proud. It moved nicely, the band played exceptionally, I didn't want to rewrite more than 1/4 of it after it was finished... it was a good one.

My marginally older daughter (by minutes), however, stopped dancing and tapped me on the shoulder.

"That one's crap," she said, "Don't play that one when you go to work."

I laughed on the outside, but on the inside I was thinking, "What the hell do you know? YOU like High School Musical!"

Do you see what I mean? They think I'm mental because I throw things at the television when yet another haircut and testicle-strangling-trouser band appears on the screen, or another vapid, soul-destroying talent show. They honestly don't understand why I, like them, can't enjoy Elvis Costello AND watch the mentally challenged audition for parts in Oliver!. Why, they ask, am I so vocal about the need for someone to punch Andrew Lloyd Hobbit very hard in the face?

Maybe they're right. Maybe I'm crazy. But I just may be the lunatic they're... Damn it! How did Billy Joel creep in there?

All I know is, they're my real audience, and I think that 98% of my drive to succeed has shifted, over the last six years, from the belt-stretching bloat of my ego to my desire to please them, to make them proud. And if that's not a good enough reason to put up with the slings and arrows inherent in chasing a dream, I don't know what is.

They're still not getting Leona Lewis for Christmas, though. They can have Joni Mitchell and like it.

Qwerty Weekend

There are times when I wonder if, by the time I became a musician, the rock and roll dream about which I had read so much had long been buried under an unmarked stone in a hitherto unmapped stretch of desert. On the bookshelf behind me sit countless biographies detailing the mythic feats of musical heroes and villains. Handbags are defiled by mischievous imps, cars driven into swimming pools, Marshall stacks used for far more primal acts than the simple amplification of guitars.

There are other times when I wonder if it has always been thus. We're just coming to the end of the long recording process for ist's new album and while it has been an incredible journey creatively, I feel as though - in rock and roll terms - I might as well have spent the last year locked in a crate with only my own increasingly unruly hair for company.

Half my time in a band is spent writing emails, which concerns me no end. The other half, showing up to fulfill the responsibilities planned IN those emails.

This weekend has been a prime example. Freed from any other responsibilities to family or friends, I spent the entire three days working on the music. O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!

However, not one iota of this time was spent frolicking with dancing girls, injecting vodka into my perineum, or shoving a tire iron into the mixing console just to see what might happen.

Two days were spent locked in a room, mixing - a procedure which, especially initially, consists of listening to 30 seconds of our drummer's snare work repeated ad infinitum until I want to either leap out of a window screaming, or take up the zither and move to the Swiss Alps. In between, I mostly sit nervously on the couch as our producer, Jay Burnett ably assisted by Marco Perry, twiddles at dials and knobs in a purposeful manner.

Somewhere in the middle of each day, you are presented with a finished song, all its component pieces in place and I will admit to a swell of parental pride as our compositions pop newly born from the bakelite loins of the mixing desk. And yes, it is at that moment that I would glad leap on to a passing groupie, grubby syringe and Rolls Royce keys clutched in either hand. But I don't. I look at the clock and shout "NEXT!"

We did have a short break on Sunday to attend a charity event, put on by Chris Difford at The Albany in Deptford, raising money for the Magdi Yacoub Institute, in memory of his brother who sadly passed away last year. Boo Hewerdine, Chris (from whom we have been slyly borrowing guest musicians over the last few months, shout out to Dorie Jackson and Melvin Duffy), The Overtures, and, in a beautiful surprise appearance, the reformed Squeeze all made for a very moving evening, which made up, at least a little, for my two day confinement.

But again, there were no backstage shenanigans to speak of. I had a can of Red Stripe at the aftershow, I hugged the two members of Squeeze I know well enough not to be maced by, and I kissed a female friend on the cheek. This is life in rock and roll? I'm growing concerned.

Still, on Monday, I had a reunion with my bandmates to look forward to, for a brief television appearance in the wilds of the digital universe. Surely, the four of us, this rock and roll force would be able to do some damage?

We mostly drank beer, tuned guitars, discussed the album progress and tried to determine if smoking was still allowed OUTSIDE, or whether that too had been taken away from us. (I used to use a trick I picked up from reading about Noel Coward - who wrote cigarettes into his characters' hands when performing in a play, so that he could nicotine up at the necessary moment, and always put a song on which I didn't need to play the guitar in the middle of the set so that I could smoke and sing at the same time. But no more.)

Yes, those are the filthy habits we have left to us: cans of Stella, B&H gold and the occasional filth-ridden discussion designed to alarm passing members of other groups.

I don't feel, particularly, grown-up. I have two kids - both 6 - and we're pretty much on a par emotionally speaking, so much so that when their mother arrives in a room, we all three look up with a guilty start, no matter what we've been doing. Nonetheless, sometimes I feel that being at the front of a band has matured me, and I'm sure that can't be right.

Maybe it's just the overwhelming desire to get this album that's doing it. Perhaps when it's all over and we return to the road, you will find me one morning running naked down the motorway screaming about invisible bees, an accordion strapped to either leg.

God knows, I need to screw my life up in some new way. The swines will be wanting a new set of songs out of me soon.