ist side story

The Adult Tree

2010-07-31T21:47:00.003+01:00

The Adult Tree (Extended Edition) – Liner Notes

* To celebrate ist’s 10th anniversary, we’ve been poring through the archives for each of our albums and EPs and compiling new versions, complete with the unreleased tracks, demos and rarities on which re-releases thrive. These will, over the next few months, be available on a “set-your-price” basis (okay, free to most of you spongers then) from the good people at Bandcamp.com. Doing this, of course, means I’ve had to listen back to a lot of ancient history. (I resisted saying ‘istory’, aren’t you proud? Oh, damn it.) The following is the first of a series of what would be liner notes, if we could afford to print them. *

The Adult Tree
12” Picture Disc originally released by Pink Box Records, March 2001

Extended Edition available now from http://istianity.bandcamp.com

The year 2000 was a big one for me… On the one hand, I finally shed off the psychotic religious upbringing with which I had been saddled for so many years. On the other, it cost me my marriage to do so. On a third hand, hopefully belonging to someone else, I ended it in a new relationship. The fact that there is now a fourth hand should lessen the surprise that I, largely due to the emotional weight of the first three hands, went a lot crazy. Yes, there is a medical term, but it doesn’t look as good with the word “bat-shit” in front of it.

How I found time to write songs, locate a band and record two entirely separate versions of this EP, I do not know. But I did, and through the kind offices of Pink Box Records – and the timely arrival of what would become the first line-up of ist, the second of these two versions was released in March 2001.

There were four songs on the vinyl and a naked woman in a tree on the cover. Now there are 13 on the official re-release, and 2 more, which, due to being covers, I shall give away exclusively to readers of this blog. Naked women are, increasingly, less forthcoming.

Here, however, are my thoughts on revisiting our earliest work.

Amnesia Cocktail

This song hung around for ages. If I had the patience to start rummaging through cassette tapes as well, I know there are at least two other solo versions that predate anything here. Unlike a song I will come to in a moment, I can see why I held on to it. The lyric is working hard – I’m still learning my trade – but it’s a decent stab at a character study. My love of terrible puns is much in evidence – I’d spent most of the previous year listening to Elvis Costello’s “Armed Forces” on a loop. Lines such as “She’s sitting on his lap and taking his dic-tation” are, at least, partly responsible for travesties like “But she won’t recall, that bloodstained wedding dress at all. Now she’s beyond the veil…Amnesia Cocktail.” Everyone plays well here, but I think it’s obvious on all four tracks that we’re still feeling our way both around the studio and as a unit – we’d only been together for two weeks – and as arrangers. It’s a start, although I do sound as though I’m singing through razor blades. (It was, in fact, a combination of nerves and whisky.)

Disadvantaged Kiss

This song was written in the declining days of my first marriage, for a certain someone. A certain someone for whom I was developing very strong feelings that I was never, ever, going to act on. The children call her “Mummy”. I don’t, ‘cause that would be weird. I still like this song – although it’s FAR too long. All my songs were far too long at this point, something I’ve consciously worked on ever since, which partially explains the brevity of “I am Jesus (And You’re Not)”. I always imagined Kiss in a straighter, more traditional country vein, but this was a band searching for its sound – which, of course, eventually turned out to be taking a little bit of everything and hitting it with a big stick. It probably wasn’t until the second (technically third, I suppose) line-up and Toothpick Bridge that we managed to get our hybrid country ya-yas out properly, on tracks like Headache and You Should Be Ashamed.

Little Insects

Let’s be honest. Little Insects is a shit song. And, worse still, this diabolically excremental song exists in about nine different versions, taunting me, because for some unknown reason, I wouldn’t let the damned thing die. The lyrics are rubbish, the riff is just wrong and I can’t even sing it in tune. The band gave it their best shot but there’s only so much you can do with material this poor. In the words of the Tenth Doctor, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Winter Coat & Whisky

This is my favourite song that we could never quite get to work. My ambition outstrips my ability, then as now. Lyrically, I like it, and the band bestow upon it more nice touches than it deserves. It is, of course, another speculative tale of adultery. (In some ways, they all are – hence the title.) I was, at this point, much better at speculation than action. I remember this being hellish popular at gigs. I even received an email a couple of years ago enquiring if we still did that one about “skiing and fucking”. To this day, I wish I’d called it that.

Bonus Tracks

Amnesia Cocktail (Demo)
Disadvantaged Kiss (Demo)
Moment of Release (Demo)
Little Insects (Demo)
Winter Coat & Whisky (Demo)

These five demos comprise what was, at one time, the first version of The Adult Tree. Recorded with previous Pink Box signing Kyoka standing in as my band, the recording was beset with problems, not least of which was the unavailability of the drummer, which necessitated overdubbing his parts last. Overdubbing drums over my timing: the horror, etc. At one point, I had hoped to build a band out of Kyoka’s remains, but after a while – distance and a particularly disastrous incident involving Yorkshire, white wine, Seroxat, hedges, windows and police dogs – it became clear that forming a new band was the way forward. The newly formed ist, quite rightly, pushed to re-record the EP rather than tour someone else’s work.

Listening back to the original versions, I’m struck by how much they don’t sound like ist. We’ve had two and a half line-ups of the band now, and very different animals they have been too, but these don’t sound like an earlier version again. It’s a guy in a room with some musicians. Good musicians, certainly, but they were a band - with a random Canadian foisting some songs at them. There are some lovely bits and pieces, to be sure, but it’s not yet ist. The Adult Tree will always be a bit of a poor, simple cousin in our catalogue, but it’s still where we cut our teeth. For Flash and I, it was the first step towards annoying the fuck out of each for 10 years.

Stranger still, a version of Moment of Release – which wouldn’t resurface until 2003’s Freudian Corduroy - also features. It’s too fast and too long, which is a nice trick on my part. The violin is lovely, but my God, the song goes on. I also don’t know why I would request quite so many cymbal swells, but it’s the kind of thing I used to do. (Used to? Hah!)

Little Insects? Still shit.

Apologia (Home Demo)

Still called “Fall Asleep” at this stage, this is me (with additional guitar by ist mk. I’s Chris Ilett/Jack Bomb) at home, laying down a newly written song, around the time my children were born. It does what it says on the tin, offering a musical apology for the oh-so-very many stupid things I had done while being, I think I mentioned, bat-shit crazy. I think this version – much simpler and slower than the eventual King Martha recording – has its charm. The sound quality is as dodgy as you’d expect. That’s what makes this a reissue!

Audrey Hepburn (Demo)

Written on a napkin and delivered with a gin-and-tonic. The subject of this song would continue – for better or worse – to influence and hijack my writing for some time to come. This song is why, briefly, she liked me. Elegiac on King Martha, it sounds much starker and sadder here. If you listen to both versions back-to-back, you have a pretty good picture of the relationship in question.

Sinning (Demo)
Psycho John (Demo)

Two tracks from our first post-Adult Tree demo sessions, the first an old song I had previously recorded with a previous band Wake and which was co-written with my Canadian writing partner Chris Bolduc. Sinning nearly made it to the Freudian Corduroy sessions before making way for newer ist-written material, although it was in the set for some time. As far as the demo goes, some nice playing, but the first note is really flat. That’s my fault. I was still figuring it out as I went along.

Psycho John was one of two songs (the other being Freudian Corduroy’s Boyfriend) charting a very strange relationship indeed. I hadn’t heard this in years and I have to say, one or two lines made me smile, if only for how much teenaged angst I’d managed to hold on to at 24.

Overall, The Adult Tree still isn’t our best work. It’s the sound of a band finding its feet and learning to work as a unit. But I hope you find something to enjoy in it, if only as a document of where we started.

Now to wade through the first full-length album… Oh, lord…

Blog only bonus tracks

Indoor Fireworks

In which I get my revenge on Elvis Costello for aiding and abetting my pun addiction by covering this song from King of America. Available as a free download here… http://drop.io/adulttreebonus1/

Psycho

This cover of the classic country song, written by Leon Payne, closed our set for several years, becoming increasingly demented over time, and usually resulting in my injury. Originally recorded for the limited edition “The Unusual Suspects” EP. It was a very limited edition. I think there were five copies pressed. Download it for free here: http://drop.io/adulttreebonus2/

Sex and the Shitty

2010-07-15T11:33:00.001+01:00

Nothing amuses me more - and I'm including my recurring daydream about Elvis Costello castrating Simon Cowell with a heat-warped sliver of Robson & Jerome's "Unchained Melody" - than hearing about other men's sexual shortcomings.

Please ignore the word shortcomings. That's not what I mean. Nor am I overly concerned with male genitalia which is unnaturally shaped, pubic hair which has been treated akin to topiary or any unseemly odours which may or may not be the result of poor personal hygiene.

What I enjoy hearing about is blokes that that are just shit in bed.

You know the sort of thing. For instance, a female friend bemoaning some outwardly God-like creature who - to your great relief - proved to be as gifted at foreplay as Douglas Bader was at country dancing.

It's sad, true - and indicative of thesis-level psychological issues - but, nonetheless, I should imagine that I am not alone in garnering an enormous amount of satisfaction from the knowledge that many of the man who pull with the smallest amount of effort don't really know what to do once they've sussed out the front-fastening bra.

(I do worry, however, that I care about this much more than they do. They're already on to the next oestrogen-raddled conquest who fancies dangling from a bicep for five minutes before reaching for the Ann Summers bag.)

And why shouldn't it? You spend your life attempting, in vain, to become erudite, cultured and witty - only to find that the opposite sex is more in favour of vacuous, six-packed near-racists with the IQ of topsoil and the sensitivity of a chain smoker's taste buds. It is desperately reassuring for my type to discover that, despite their ability to build shelves as soon as look at them, in bedroom matters, such Philistines have barely progressed beyond insert tab 'A' into groove 'B'.

All we have to do is wait patiently for the decent women to drink a lot of gin and shag against type out of curiosity. Then we'll show 'em. Haha! (We're at the end of the bar, wearing mostly black, and reading James Thurber, if you need a shortcut.)

There are times, however, when I envy the traditional male's uncomplicated outlook on sex in general. I read too much, frankly. My animal instincts bounce from ovary to Bovary in a fairly confused and frenetic manner - and, at times, I have distressing intimations that the act over which we all obsess is a faintly ridiculous thing to want to do. However, biology will out. (I'd wear clown shoes and a set of Venetian blinds, if I thought it would help.)

Still, I am convinced that, in a way, I lucked out when the insecurities were distributed. Feeling as though one is lucky to get a shot at all is perhaps essential to do a thing well. Nothing is more depressing, in such a case, than the suggestion that the other person failed to enjoy themselves. My God! To blow it after working SO bloody hard to get that far in the first place? Pure laziness.

Of course, you'd also be worried about the next guy along who was being terribly amused by tales of your inability to locate certain gynaecological landmarks with the aid of a sat nav and a large print edition of The Joy of Sex. Not a happy prospect.

Perhaps I'm overstating the issue. Perhaps, indeed, I thought this blog entry would be longer and now I'm vamping.

My point, such as it is, is this. While on the one hand, I often think to myself: "Guys! Sort yourselves out. All you need to do is show a little respect, a little care, a little selflessness and your report cards will be much less damning", on the other, I kind of hope you carry on being so fucking useless, because it a) makes me laugh and b) makes me feel much better about myself.

And that, in all honesty, gives me the horn a little bit.

Celebrating the X-Factor NOT being at No. 1 This Christmas

2009-12-20T19:36:00.002Z

I hope this speaks for itself. It can, of course, be bought from all the usual outlets, but merry istmas...

Pass it on.

http://drop.io/thexfactory

Lights! Camera! Traction! - Father to Fall Production Diary #1

2009-12-09T17:15:00.005Z

It is Monday, the 4th of January, 2010.

(These are the kind of fascinating insights that keep my readers and listeners flocking back for more. That and some very powerful psychotropic drugs.)

As some of you may know, over the last few months, production has been gearing up on a film what I wrote - "Father to Fall". I'm always one for a new challenge - even if a large part of that challenge consists of trying to make sure that my performance is more Tom Waits in "Short Cuts" and less Sting in "The Bride". We shot the first scene just before the holidays, and will be heading into full-on film madness over the next couple of months.

I'm hesistant to give away too much of the story - NO SPOILERS! - as I'm assured by the cast that the ending is a bit of a surprise. Not in an M. Night Whatthefuck stylee, but... No, you'll have to wait and see.

Seeing something you conceived in your head slowly becoming a reality that can be shared with other people is, and always has been, a strange sensation. With the band, for instance, there is always the joy of hearing a song over which I've been agonising over suddenly being played properly and rewritten so that it no longer causes spontaneous nosebleeds.

With the film, it's - dare I say it - even stranger. In some ways, however, I am finding the process familiar. When we were recording Toothpick Bridge, we were blessed by a producer, Jay Burnett, and a cast of supporting musicians that brought so much to the table of themselves. It was an intensely creative time and shit-loads more fun than setting it loose and dealing with the idiotic vagaries of the music industry (however necessary).

With "Father", we have a wonderful director, Clare Speller and an excellent cast. We're growing and learning together and, so far, even in these early, stressful days, I'm having a ball. Yes, the downside of setting up one's own projects is not getting paid upfront - or, often, at all - but you can't beat it for a feeling of bringing something new into the world.

Some notes, however, to the aspiring screenwriter: Try to remember how many nude scenes you've written for the lead character before you decide to play it yourself. I've been at the gym since November and I'm still begging for those scenes to be moved as far down the schedule as possible. It's not vanity, well not completely, but I would rather not make you throw up into your popcorn. This isn't Saw XIV or anything starring Miley Cyrus.

On the same point, more or less... I never realised it would be even more nerve-wracking to persuade women to PRETEND to sleep with me as it used to be to try and get them to ACTUALLY sleep with me. Especially in the context of an audition. Finding myself in a situation of sitting demurely at a table whilst one woman, our director, asks another how comfortable they are with taking their clothes off and NOT enjoying it - well, that's just cruel. But it's an emotional story, and the scenes in question ARE necessary and tasteful. It's just that if my 15-year-old self realised that if they WEREN'T, I'd take them out, he'd beat me to death with the well-worn Betamax copy of "Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down!" that he used to keep hidden under his bed.

So, yes. I now go to the gym every day - which still feels a little like being an undercover journalist. I've lost track of the number of people who have said, "Hmmm. I wouldn't have pegged you as a gym person," in the same tone of voice they might employ if asked to comment on the revelation that their next-door-neighbour's cellar contains a number of unmarked graves.

I may have worked a little too hard on the development of my Dylanmoranesque persona.

And yet, I have not yet injured myself at the gym. Not anymore than my pride, anyway. However, I am still recovering from the first shoot of the film, in which I was shoved to the ground repeatedly over the course of about 912 takes. In true method fashion, I did little or nothing to break my fall, which has left me with a spot on one of my elbows that makes me jump a foot or two in the air amd shout in Italian when I rest it on a table.

Okay, it's hardly a De Niro level anecdote, but it fucking hurts. And frankly, suffering for my art and whingeing about it afterwards are two sides of the same Kentonesque coin.

The ist boys and I are, of course, writing some brand new music for the score... which sounds - so far - utterly unlike anything we've ever done. New challenges abound.

I shall endeavour to keep y'all up to date on progress as we go along. Well, provided the next scene - in which I get a brick thrown at my head by a rabid dental assistant* - goes to plan.

Cut!

K. x

* Not really. But I'd kind of like to see THAT film now.

Kenton's Xmas Challenge

2009-12-07T12:49:00.007Z

Hello boys and girls,

Well, it's that time of year again, where I batten down the hatches and point you at some music with a batting of eyelids. It's Christmas though, so I'm going to give you a little present in return.

Download and review these 3 singles in which I had a hand and possibly a foot and I'll record an exclusive acoustic version of any song of your choice, either for you or as a gift. ANY song. *cowers in fear* : )

A personal X-Mas gift from a mad Canadian for under £3.

Just let me know when you've done it and your song choice, and I'll start learning!

These are Amazon links, but all three songs are available everywhere, so just point me at where you picked 'em up.

ist - Pep Talk
Chris Difford - Let's Not Fight This Christmas
Anonymous - The X Factory

Update! A convenient iTunes iMix of all three singles. ist's Three Single Xmas Challenge on iTunes

Merry istmas!

On Manic Depression

2009-09-30T15:48:00.005+01:00

There are many things that prompt me to sit in front of the computer and write, despite the fact that I can not smoke at my desk. Most of them are written quite quickly, so that I can nip outside and enjoy my carcinogens in the knowledge of having accomplished something or the other. Nonetheless, by and large, they've usually been rattling around in my cranium for a while, sparked off by a dozen seemingly unconnected threads weaving themselves together into a narrative scarf of which Tom Baker would be proud.

First off, you will note I have chosen to title my piece "On Manic Depression" and not "On Bipolar Disorder". I am fully aware that the latter is currently more acceptable, but as it sounds far too much like an accident suffered by Michael Palin, I'm kicking it old school for the moment. Also, I suffer from it, so I can call it what I damn well please. I could call it "Winona Ryder", if I wished, but a blog entitled "On Winona Ryder" would likely distract both of us too thoroughly for the piece to be completed or read.

At any rate, I was asked recently to delineate the character motivations for the lead in a short film script I had written. It's a personal piece, emotionally if not specifically, and I had pretty much - as writers often do - drawn heavily from myself when writing the lead. Why? was the question I was being asked. Why would this seemingly normal person suddenly adopt such extreme behaviour, even under tragic circumstances?

My response was telling, "Cause I would." Now I have, it would seem, been bipolar for most of my life. I'm USED to the way I am. I've developed coping skills to allow myself to remain unmedicated, as meds remove my ability to write or compose.

I'm not even one of those people who say, "But I'm not crazy!" I am crazy. By any current, sociological standards, I am a nutjob. I am not DANGEROUS, except to perhaps myself and the nerves of those closest to me, nor am I currently delusional, psychotic or prone to vote Conservative. But I am certainly crazy.

Actually, in all honesty, it's YOU lot that I don't understand. Now, I'm aware I'm ill, that my brain isn't meant to be wired this way, and you're not actually SUPPOSED to bounce from elation to despair and back again over the duration of the fish course. Nonetheless, it always seems to me that those who have healthy, functional minds - well, I'm not being rude, but your emotions seem a bit flat to me. Whither the valleys? Whither the peaks? Whither the nonsensical use of the word "whither"?

Now I don't mean to suggest that Hollywood's "Hey, Look At the Inspirational Mentally Ill Person! See How They Wackily Subvert Society's Norms!" brigade are to be encouraged. They're not. They don't know a goddamn thing about it. They don't understand what it is to exist like this. On the other hand, I don't understand what it's like be underworked and overpaid, so I suppose we're even.

Stephen Fry has described it as being "just them but with something extra." I happen to agree. It is painful. Sometimes unbearably so. It's also inordinately frustrating, which for some reason always makes me resent it more. For instance, I believe that the way that I am - who I am - is what drove me to become a writer and musician. However, it makes me almost exactly the wrong person to thrive in an industry where you have to fight tooth and nail even to be listened to, let alone break through. And never mind taking criticism personally - that's part of the job - you don't want to know what happens when I have to deal with apathy or ignorance. You would not be surprised to learn that it takes up a large portion of my day.

And yet... and yet... somehow I wouldn't be without it. I'm not sure I'd take a cure if it were offered. It's such an intrinsic part of my nature, I fear that I'd - and this is the same I that I spend so much time loathing and wishing to cease its ridiculous existence - disappear in a puff of medical self-congratulation.

There are days where I wish I could be less unpredictable. There are days where I wish I could plan my activities around something more concrete than how I'm feeling at this moment. I've had to learn to hide it, to work around it, to survive it, simply because there are things I need to accomplish, people I don't want to disappoint, and people for whom I am responsible.

However, I have a terrible feeling that if I ever became completely well, I would be crushingly dull.

Crazy, isn't it?

On Seduction...

2009-09-28T11:04:00.009+01:00

I spend a lot of time trying to figure out what's wrong with the world. Primarily because I enjoy nothing more than a good rant, and the world is - generally - quite generous with its catalysts.

But let's be honest, when I say I enjoy NOTHING more than a good rant, I am dissembling, as they say, like a motherfucker. Being a human male of no fixed weight or hairstyle, and sprinkled liberally with low self esteem, there's at least TWO other things I enjoy more.

Which brings me to our subject for today: Seduction.

Our story begins in a pub toilet. Not in the way you might imagine, but only because you have filthier minds than I have toilet-related opportunities. No, I was merely present for an act of urination, when I glanced - as I often do - at the machine which sells contraception. My feelings were, as usual, a mixture of bemusement and envy - for despite the fact that I am often in said toilets whilst plying my trade upon the stage and shaking my verylittlemoneyreallymaker, I can not recall a time when I have had need to make use of them in an spontaneous, carnal emergency manner.

However, last night, what I saw was this:

"A Seduction Kit! Well, that's more like it!" I thought. Nice to see a little old-fashioned seduction creeping back into play, rather than the time-honoured method of both parties drinking until the other becomes attractive.

So intrigued, I read on - curious to see what magic ingredients were to be considered essential to modern seduction. Was I to discover aphrodisiacs? Tickets to the theatre? Instant floral bouquets? A pocket guide to the most sincere and least-worn compliments to be paid to a potential sexual partner?

As it happens, no. What I was being offered by way of transforming my bloated Canadian bulk into a modern-day Casanova or Don Juan, was the following:

1 X ID Glide Sachet
1 X ID Juicy Lube Sachet
1 X Skins Natural Condom
1 X Skins Dots & Ribs Condom

(And, of course, the wise, if somewhat lacking in romance, advice: "Never Go In Without A Skin". I mean, I've never been hit on by anyone that didn't at least have skin, but I can imagine it is unpleasant.)

Stop me if I am being overly fussy here, but this doesn't sound terribly seductive to me. Were YOU to be approached by a stranger with the opening line, "I just wanted to say that you are the most beautiful man/woman/androgyne I have ever seen, and as it happens I have a sachet of Juicy Lube with your name on it", I am willing to bet that - even if you decided, in a moment of what the fuck - to go home with them, you would not considered yourself to have been seduced.

Now I'm no expert here. Apart from one friend of mine who considers me, despite all evidence to the contrary, to be an unrepentant lothario unfettered by moral rectitude, most people who know me would not call me a seducer.

Nonetheless, I'd like to think that even with the handicaps of my looks, mental strangeness and general hobo-on-an-off-day dress sense, I could do better than offering my potential conquest a choice of condoms and lubricants. I would, at very least, start with "Hi".

It seems endemic to the modern world, this sense of romance and wonder being surplus to requirements. Lyrics have no poetry, music has no soul, sex has no subtext and television has no fucking writers or actors.

You may think I am inferring a lot from the contents of a contraceptive machine, but these things do matter. Words like "seduction" shouldn't be bandied around by just anyone, you know. They should stand for something, they should be - if only in the moment - transcendent.

Also, I really shouldn't have spent the three pounds. Anyone need any Juicy Lube?

Your reviews wanted!

2009-09-25T11:27:00.002+01:00

Today, I shall be mostly trawling the internet polling you – the music listener – on ist’s Toothpick Bridge. We want your reviews. Fire up your speakers and let’s go. You can hear it for free at Spotify (Europe) and Last FM (Pretty much every damn where)

Spotify Link
Last FM

You can either send your reviews to kenton.ist@gmail.com , post them on a blog or website and send us the link or at, say, iTunes or one of these fine establishments…

Amazon UK

Amazon US

CD Baby

Play.Com

Rolling Stone

etc, etc. We look forward to hearing from you.

A Skint Musician Speaks on Filesharing

2009-09-22T12:32:00.006+01:00

Ah, yes. The eternal debate. The one that rages through that business that is show like a dose of gonorrhea through an isolated public school.

What the fuck is with Phil Spector's hair? (Honestly, nutjob or no, he'd have grounds for a mistrial if he simply flagged up the fact that not one of those jurors put him away for murder. It was for weird hair. Really fucking weird hair.)

But seriously, folks. We're here to discuss filesharing.

Now, I could simplisticly summarise the opposing arguments on the issue - turning back and forth from Radiohead to Lily Allen with an MTV microphone and a vacant expression, but I shan't.

Because as with just about everything that warrants debate, it isn't as black and white as everyone would like to make out.

I quote a seven-year-old product of my loins, who in her time has watched many DVDs, and has therefore endured the cringeworthy "You wouldn't steal a ferret/handbag/Map of Bolivia" ads on many occasions:

"That's not piracy, Daddy. They don't even have hats."

But I digress.

Look, here's the cold, hard truth at one end. I'm a musician, I make records. Records cost money to make, to release, to promote, to tour. Making music is my job. It's the career I chose at the same time as you decided to become a bricklayer/lawyer/doctor/erotic cake manufacturer. I really don't think it's asking an awful lot to get paid for going to work and doing my job. (I'm also looking at promoters and venues here with a steely Canadian eye. Many of you are bastards, and ought to stop being.)

I require food, drink, housing, shoes, shirts, a bi-yearly haircut and all manner of other necessities. I have children who require and desire many things of their very own.

So, yes, if you like our records, I would very much appreciate it if you'd buy them, please.

On the other hand, I'd rather you hear them than not. Considering how insular and panicky the entire music, publishing and radio industry seems to be at the moment - new music (that is to say, music which does not fall into the category of one or more of its makers have a) been busted for drugs, b) shagged a celebrity or c) been overhyped within an inch of their value) is the most likely to fall by the wayside.

Getting songs on the radio, an album reviewed, a gig attended, a name and fanbase built is increasingly difficult. Because everyone's afraid of making a mistake and losing their jobs, so very few risks are taken. They've actually reached the point where they don't even know if they LIKE something or not. That is, if you can find the time, energy and help to poke them with a sharp stick long enough to get them to even listen.

So, when they (Radio, Labels, Magazines, Journalists, et al) have ceased to do their jobs properly, we musicians will take any route necessary to get you to listen. And if that means you'll take a shot at an illegal download to decide if you like it, so be it. It shouldn't be that way, and we just hope that if you DO like it, you pay to see a show, or eventually repent and pay your money down.

Thankfully, services like Spotify, etc, are making it slightly easier for us to direct people to a handy place to listen before you buy. It's certainly not lucrative, not for artists, but it is at least, for now, mostly respectable and handy. And half-pennies do add up, if you're prepared to put in the effort.

I certainly wouldn't SUE someone who I found had downloaded our album illegally. I'd ask them to review the bloody thing and tell a friend. I might go round their house and lick them till they at least bought me a pint, but I do that a lot anyway.

Ms. Allen's point seems to be that it's file-sharing that is hurting the emergence of up and coming artists. I have to say, from personal experience, that just isn't the case. It's the reluctance of the industry, on all sides, to take new artists seriously, to spend the time promoting them, or least giving them a shot - that is causing a cycle of dumbass. The industry AND filesharing are BOTH cause and effect.

Demonising downloaders does no good. You not buying OUR album, or anyone else's album does no good. A supposed war between the BIG GUYS and the LITTLE GUYS accomplishes nothing but too many words sung to the converted on either side.

What we need is a real change in attitude from both those who listen to music and those who promote it. You might actually find that if you stopped concentrating on the money, and started concentrating on the music, the money would take care of itself.

Just a thought.

In fact, in the face of such frustrating lunacy, I'm tempted to take a lateral approach and start breaking into people's homes and leaving our album there for them to listen to. Let's see how that spins in the media.

Toothpick Bridge Review Round-Up

2009-09-22T11:00:00.007+01:00

Just some quotes from recent reviews of Toothpick Bridge...

Full, original reviews can be found at ist's Official Site

"Kenton Hall is an orginal, creative writer. And he sing good too." - David Quantick

“A band whose sound is as fresh and raw as the morning's catch.” – Kerrang!

“Essential” – Vexed Mag

“The most audacious yet sensational album, you’ll hear all year” – MyBrumTV

“This is the kind of work that everyone should have” – TheTrueJoe90

“An eclectic record which contains something for everyone.” – The Shields Gazette

“A diverse and developed sound that is incomparable” – RedHotVelvet

“A top album that is going to give you more each time you listen to it” – The Beat Surrender

“ist’s space is most definitely to be watched” – Die, ShellSuit, Die!

“A fantastic album with 14 tracks and no fillers – recommended” – Get to The Front

“A sparky album… with the added bonus of fabulous lyrics” – Memorable TV

But now we want yours... Email YOUR review of Toothpick Bridge to kenton.ist@gmail.com or, ideally, post it on a website or blog and send us a link!

To write your review:

Listen free at Spotify (Europe) or Last.FM (everybloodywhere)

Spotify
Last.FM

OR

Buy it:

Downloads:

Amazon
iTunes
7digital
Emusic
TuneTribe
Play.com

And wherever else downloads are sold...

For CD's try:

US/Canada...CD Baby
UK/Europe.... Rough Trade

Thank you,

K.

Toothpick Bridge Liner Notes, Part One - The Boy's Not Right

2009-08-18T13:44:00.008+01:00

So I’m sitting in London, in a restaurant, with Tom Robinson, having dinner.

Outside, that girl from Shameless, who used to be in Dinnerladies, is having coffee with friends.

At the table next to us, Graham Linehan, comedy writer extraordinaire, is dining alone, deep in thought. Well, I’m assuming he’s deep in thought. He could be planning a bank heist for all I know. I’m just trying to keep my voice down, as for some reason my Canadian accent mutates into an impression of Ardal O’Hanlon’s Father Dougal when a drink has been taken.

We’re here because I have been invited, following the release of King Martha, to discuss with Mr. Robinson what he thinks is right and is wrong with our career to date, and where he thinks we should go.

We had struck up an email correspondence, when I had sent him our bisexual cowboy song “Fag Break” thinking he might appreciate the love story at its centre. He is very kind, encouraging and forthright – at one point, I was fairly convinced that he’d have me standing on the table shouting “I WILL BE NUMBER ONE!” or, perhaps, “Captain, My Captain!”

I end up only slightly annoyed that he doesn’t appear to be flirting with me at all. I mean, I put on my best shirt and everything.

In essence, our conversation ended with me going away – HOMEWORK! - To consider an ist single that would put across what we do in a classic single type of way.

Seems a simple enough assignment, doesn’t it? Unfortunately, my brain doesn’t necessarily work in straight lines. And it is, thankfully, utterly impossible for me to write in a prescribed manner. Factor the other three into the writing process and something that comes in as a jazz ballad invariably exits the room as a rockabilly shuffle and vice versa. It keeps life interesting.

However, what stuck from the initial conversation was that I wanted to discipline myself to tell my stories with brevity, without losing anything that I wanted to say.
This is a recurring bugbear with me. Now I love experimental music, and I like to play with form when a song demands it. But goddamn it, I LIKE form.

The traditional shape of song shouldn’t restrict you, it should push to invest it with what you have that no else does, YOU. Make them songs that resonate for you and the audience. And I really believe in the idea of learning the rules before you start breaking them. Nought wrong with craft, in other words.

Anyway, the band and I set to writing a single and before we knew it we had many, many songs. And we also had, in my mind at least - the shape of an album. I’m old-fashioned here too. I like ALBUMS. Songs that belong together: That can stand alone, but are improved by the company of their fellows.

This concept changed as we went along – at one point, even with the same songs, we thought this would be our punk album – but a thread of lost childhood, lost innocence, and generally lost-ness started to creep into the material. I mean, there’s literally hundreds of other things going on, but lyrically there was definitely a sense of me finally dealing with some shit, albeit not, hopefully, in a hand-wringing way.

Best still, when you work in a group, all those other influences and personal takes on the songs to hand add layers to the enterprise. I think if, without prior conferral, you asked the four of us what the songs were about, you’d probably get four very different answers, and yet all pointing in the same direction.
The opening track – and this is WHY it’s the opening track, (other than the big fuck-off harmony with which the band kicks in) – is – to me – foreshadows all that follows.

Having suffered all my life from bipolar disorder, I am simultaneously fascinated and frightened by it in others. When – often in combination with other factors – it either temporarily or permanently derails a life, you feel both empathy and a desire to look away, lest you follow suit.

And so, The Boy’s Not Right is ABOUT Adam Ant. It was his story that kicked off the lyric, and I’m a huge admirer. “Ridicule is nothing to be scared of” is pretty much my goddamn mantra.

But The Boy’s Not Right is also about me. And a lot of other people, I should imagine. There’s just something about the phrase which sums up how people treat people who suffer from any kind of mental health problems. Crazy! Mental! Not Right in the Head!

Trouble is, when you perform for a living, not only are your mood swings, manic episodes and generally laterally thinking considered par for the course, but you start to accept them as part of what makes you different. And sometimes you start to believe that being the “crazy” guy is all that you have.

I’ve liked how Stephen Fry has recently referred to it as “having a little bit extra”. Some days, that’s how it feels. Other days, well… I try not to think about those other days.

When you think about it, this is a pretty serious song, with serious intent. You might imagine it to be a downbeat dirge. Something a sensitive singer-songwriter might intone before chugging an alco-pop and overdosing on children’s aspirin. But we like to be sneaky – which I know confuses the hell out of the lazier type of music “writer” who want things to be ONE THING, DAMN IT! (And God forbid you play more than one style. That confuses them so much that they ignore it and pick one out of the air at random. : ) ) So, instead Boy is all drums, bass, Hammond, jangly stuff, and the introduction of a brilliant new instrument known as the guitoon.

(It’s half-guitar, half-bassoon and does not actually exist outside the studio, or in fact, outside Brett Richardson's and Jay Burnett’s heads).

But then it’s up to you to judge the song. I can only tell you how it came to be, and why.

I’ll leave the rest up to you.

K.

The Boy’s Not Right – from Toothpick Bridge by ist

Out Now!

Amazon... http://bit.ly/1EuDGr Itunes... http://bit.ly/s9w39 7digital... http://bit.ly/iVRHR Play.com... http://bit.ly/zWtRP Rough Trade (CD!) ... http://bit.ly/7bRjF.... Emusic... http://bit.ly/2KaRG

Toothpick Bridge Out Now!

2009-08-17T13:08:00.000+01:00

Toothpick Bridge is out TODAY!

Here are some convenient places to pick it up:

iTunes,
Amazon UK
Amazon US,
Play.com,
7digital,
Rough Trade
Also available at Napster, eMusic, and all good record shops.

Pep Talk - Behind the Scenes of the New Single

2009-07-29T11:46:00.003+01:00

Well, ahead of the imminent release of the new single "Pep Talk" on August 10th (stand by your Digital Music Stores, folks!) I thought I'd revisit what I wrote about the song, shortly after it's completion...

***

Track number two on our new magnum opus (which I believe is a combination of chocolate and walnut) is the song "Pep Talk". It was written shortly after the completion of the last album, so the fact that we still have any enthusiasm for it at all must mean something. Something other than we've all lost our minds.

And now it's the first single, currently worming its way into the ears of radio producers the nation over... Probably shouldn't have packed the promo copies in dirt, really.

Pep Talk

Everyone's crammed like sardines in the bar, still they're waiting for somebody else
And only the subway conductors and perverts are feeling themselves
Lonely as village policemen they tap out a mayday in Pidgin Morse Code
And only tomorrow's tabloids will complain
When then unattended suitcase explodes

It's just a matter of time before you check out
It's just a matter of time before you check out

Your gravity's pulled in the comfort of skin, no surprise at the speed you revolve
She drinks like a fish, but she's good for a hump,
Guess you have to cross breed to evolve
You can call it hedonistic joie de vivre, or just two dozen lemons and port
When all she leave is a vague memory
To Filofax through come the doctor's report

It's just a matter of time before you check out
It's just a matter of time before you check out

There must be a higher purpose
Nothing springs to mind

The new White Hat Factory chimney's on fire,
So they're selling the stock in the streets

Your supper's delivered in yesterday's news and the TV is showing repeats
The hippies next door busy arming themselves, against rumours of yuppie revolt
And you'll barely have to time to sound out the word "peace"
As those freshly tattooed knuckles snake round your throat

It's just a matter of time before you check out
It's just a matter of time before you check out
It's just a matter of time
It's just a matter of time before you check out

(c) 2009 ist

I'm sure that some of you are hugely interested in what buttons were pressed on the shiny Neve desk during recording, and what combinations of mics were placed around Flash in order to make him sound even louder, but it's not my job to remember that shit. What I remember is Brett playing my acoustic guitar part because, in Jay's words, "it needs to be in time." Although I do get a bit of shiny chaos on my treasured hollow-bodied John Le Voy.

I do recall listening to an early mix and remembering - finally - what the damn thing was about. Which is, in order of appearance: terrorism, sexual transmitted diseases and post 9/11 America. I think. At any rate, I hope it serves as a tiny reminder of the preciousness of moments, cause we're all going to peg it eventually.

If only I'd had the forethought to include a verse about swine flu, or the credit crunch.

We in the band would especially like to pass on this message on to any men or women planning to wait for us backstage. "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may". Or in simpler terms, "What exactly are you saving it for?"

I jest, I jest. I think.

Another strange and unusual occurrence surrounding this song is that I now have the memory of a certain pop star (who was, to give you a hint, thrice moist) playing it on his laptop in the middle of an Italian field to much acclaim. He liked the horns. And you will too.

Pep Talk by ist:

Produced, recorded, mixed and mastered by Jay Burnett

Kenton Hall: Guitar, Vocals

Brett Richardson: Guitars, Vocals

John McCourt: Bass, Vocals

Flash: Drums

with

Gaz Birtles: Alto Sax and Mystery Instrument

John Barrow: Tenor Sax

Dean Sargent: Trumpet

Jay Lyndsay: Trombone

Assistant Engineers: Luke Buttery, Matthew Hodson, Brett Richardson, Kenton Hall and John McCourt

Assistant Mixing Engineer: Marco Perry

Recorded at The Way Studios Hackney and mixed at The Beat Farm @ The Premises Hackney.

Oh, How He Updates You...

2009-07-22T12:48:00.001+01:00

Well, here I am sitting amongst sheaves of paper, many crumpled, others torn - some even containing words with which I am, for the moment, pleased.

There's a lot of coffee in my veins, a slight ache in my muscles as I try to revive my mistreated body so that I may once again take the stage for more than ten minutes at a time without copping it in a Tommy Cooper stylee, and a twitch on my face which has developed over the last couple of years since the smoking ban came in and I have to go outside to smoke.

I am incredibly aware of time at the moment. There are a grand total of 16 days left until "Pep Talk", the first single from the new ist album "Toothpick Bridge" is released. Which means 23 days until the album itself will be released.

Part of me is incredibly relieved. As many of you know, it's been a marathon few years writing, recording and releasing this record. And now, finally, it'll be out there for all the world to see, hear, smell and comment on. Hurrah!

On the other hand, IT'S GOING TO BE OUT THERE! Our demanding new child will be out of our hands and living its own life. I hope it doesn't turn to crime. Lawks! Oh Lordy lordy!

Here's a couple of places, you can preview the single:

Amazon US

Amazon UK

And the first of the places where you can pre-order the album. More to come, as we get closer to release date, including places to pre-order the CD version.

7digital

Obviously, the key to having you all help us out with this release is for you to actually know what's going on. So keep checking http://www.istianity.co.uk and all other points ist.

We have, as we've mentioned, some excellent people working with us on this release, the immense talents of Joanna Burns PR and Lander PR are currently working to arrange a raft of press and radio support for the single and album, and I want to extend huge thanks to everyone in the offices for their sterling work so far and to come.

The faith shown in us by them and so many others (another shout-out to all the people who worked on the record, to the friends and family who made it possible, to the songwriting community led by a certain Mr. Cd who have made me realise we're never alone in trying to write real songs, and to everyone who has and will put their mouths and money where their hearts are to get the word out) while writing, making and promoting the album has made a very frustrating experience bearable and, indeed, rewarding.

But, for all the help we've received and receiving, it's always going to be down to you, you brilliant people who have stuck with us for so long. Sometimes, I've been rubbish at keeping in touch... something I hope to rectify. So thank you too for all your hard work to come... for your purchases, your live whooping and dancing, and your frankly evangelical approach to bringing others onboard the ist bus. There's a party at the back.

As always, we're always at our Facebook and MySpace pages to converse with, insult and generally proposition. I'm also at Twitter, wibbling away, if you like that sort of thing.

Facebook

MySpace

Kenton on Twitter

Please do pop by and say hello. And if you want to help us over the next few weeks, volunteers are now being taken.

Taken roughly.

Ahem.

Love,

Kenton

Theatre, Dahling... Part One

2009-06-15T11:44:00.000+01:00

I've always wanted to write a theatrical memoir. Something spicy and profound, full of reflections on The Seagull yet enlivened by gossip, rumour and the more genitally-focused exploits of the celebrity set.

("Richard? Are you there?" I called out. I only half-expected an answer even if he was in residence. The sun, after all, was well over the yard-arm, and I knew for a fact that several dusty bottles of Merlot had been delivered to him with his morning paper. Following a perfunctory knock, I opened the door to his dressing room and peered inside. There he was, oblivious to my arrival, feverishly buggering a stuffed elephant which had been left for him by an admirer.)

You know the sort of thing.

The closest I'd come to treading the boards before this week had been a rather disastrous audition when I was 18. My agent at the time - an entirely mad woman who had survived cancer and discovered Jesus - was fairly good at procuring extra work and small speaking roles for her coterie, but often we were sent out for things for which we were entirely unsuitable, and - in my case - wholly unprepared.

She sent me - at 18 - to read for the part of Felix Unger in a stage production of "The Odd Couple". Now, I adore Neil Simon (apart from his traditional greeting, whereby he grabs you by the testicles and refuses to let go until you recite the entire opening scene from Lost in Yonkers - See! I'd be brilliant at this) but even I know that an 18-year-old Canadian with appalling taste in sweaters was unlikely to be the director's first choice for the role.

Eventually, however, songwriting began to edge out everything else and between that and my move to England, the dream of an acting career slowly fizzled.

Also, I think - especially when trying to establish oneself - you can only really concentrate on one career at a time. I don't think I could have handled rejection from both the acting and musical communities. This is also why I could never be a full-time bisexual.

However, it always lingered in the back of my mind. I wanted to prove that I could still act, if given the opportunity.

About four or five months ago, feeling a little spent (in every possible way) by the making of Toothpick Bridge I received an email from Mr. Garland at our old label, Pink Box Records saying that a theatre company were casting for The Full Monty and wouldn't it be funny if I went along...

At the time, I was concentrating on putting deals in place to get the album out properly, which primarily consisted of endless emails and phone calls - hardly the most creative aspect of my job. I was restless, and felt I needed to spread my wings a little.

So I went, I auditioned (badly, frankly) and, much to my surprise, was cast in one of the smaller roles of Teddy Slaughter, obnoxious new boyfriend of the lead's ex-wife. This soon blossomed into several other small roles throughout the show.

Of course, whenever you think you have time on your hands, life conspires to disabuse you of the notion and, within a few weeks of starting rehearsals, I found myself with an album and single coming out in August, a week-long run of a musical at Curve, five charity concerts in which I would sing and dance, a six-part radio series for the Internet to write and act in and a job writing lyrics for one of my teenage heroes. Amongst other projects and co-writes which required, if not my attention, at least for me to glance in the right direction from time to time. Sleep was no longer an option.

I learned a lot from doing Monty. Not least of which was my seeming inability to say the words "show" or "block" in an American accent (this being the Broadway version of the story, relocated to Buffalo, NY). As I was the only North American in the cast, this was, of course, a matter of some amusement (and undoubtedly frustration) to our brilliant directory, Greg Pichery.

I enjoyed being directed. I kind of enjoyed being shouted at when I screwed up as well. Mr. Pichery has a way of castigating you that leaves you with the definite impression that he doesn't want you to show yourself up. Unlike another person I've worked with recently who clearly only cares that you don't make them look bad. But that's a story for Part Two.

It has been an absolute blast, however. I'm sure I'll expand on this soon enough, but off the top of my head, some highlights.

We even met the Mayor, which makes two Mayors I've been presented to now, one Italian and one English. (Although on the Italian occasion I was much more impressed to have performed for Angus Deayton.)

I ad-libbed on one line in the first show - which was basically a dress rehearsal to 800 people, considering we only had a day and a half to stage the bloody thing - and deserved a slap from the lead actor that he was too kind to deliver.

I studied the script intently until I and my on-stage girlfriend had worked out exactly when we could disappear from stage for a smoke without being missed.

I discovered orange boiler suits are possibly the least sexy costume of all time. Unless you are George Clooney in Out of Sight, which of course I am not.

And I danced. Oh, how I danced. I danced like I've done before. In time, and without falling over. And I invented a cha-cha-cha head flick that will live in the memories of all who were unfortunate to witness it.

I've got nothing but good to say about the entire company. By closing night, we were really putting on a SHOW. (I typed that in an American accent, Greg, just so you know.)

I shall check back in later with more reflections on my sojourn in Theatreland, but I've just had an email requesting back-story on The Adult Tree EP's cover and, frankly, I really need to sling a guitar back around my neck and return to my real job.

Oh, but then there was the charity concert... Oh dearie me. No, no. Still a story for another time.

A Quite Extravagant News Update

2009-05-29T18:48:00.000+01:00

I have been, once again, remiss in my duties as host here at ist Towers. No blogs, no mass messaging sprees, no nude photographs of myself holding a less than strategically-placed mandolin, no utterly random short stories, no over-the-top cries from the heart about the state of the world, the music industry, or even YOU (you bastard!).

I've been silent. Suspiciously silent. This is, you'll be happy to hear, that I and my fellow istian soldiers have been busy cooking a veritable feast of oddness and goodness for you over the next couple of months.

The biggest and most important news is the imminent official, worldwide release of Toothpick Bridge - finally - on August 17th, 2009 - preceded by its first single, "Pep Talk" on August 10th.

It's taken sometime to put the pieces together for the full release, and we apologise for the delay. Rest assured, we're very proud of the album and we hope you enjoy it as much as it nearly killed us to make it and get it released.

Those of you who have heard the album already... please feel free to ramp up your hyperbole machines and tell your friends.

We're joined in this pursuit by the fine folks at Lander PR and Joanna Burns PR, and we'd like to thank them in their advance for all their hard work in helping to get this album heard. They're good people and we're in good hands.

We hope to be out and amongst you in late summer to support the release as much as humanly possible.

In the meantime, there is more stuff both ist and ist-related to which you may look forward. Various members of the band will be appearing on albums by other artists, whether as players, co-writers or members of the production team. And there's a bonus ist (with special guest) project in the works as well, which I damn well wish we could tell you about now, because it is quite incredibly cool. But no jinxing.

There are also radio series and films in the works, musical theatre appearances and, of course, music, music and more music. And, Flash is still trying to fill the world with drummers. flashdrums@gmail.com is your portal to find out more about that. (Although I'm sure James Bond will be along in the moment to stop him. The dastardly swine.)

We intend to be very busy boys. But never too busy for you lot.

So, let the circus recommence. I'll bring the clowns, you bring the utter lack of morality or inhibition.

: )

Songs in the Key of Life Sharp

2009-04-23T10:15:00.003+01:00

I am a serious music listener.

By which I mean, of course, that I am an anorak. I hunker beside the stero, clutching the sleeve notes in a sweaty fist and nod knowingly everytime I convince myself that I, king of the fans, understand every allusion, reference and sly invocation projected by my favourite artists.

I think the term "wanker" also applies.

I've been this way all my life. I like to be in on the joke - thus side-stepping much of the worry that I am the joke.

(Yes, I am aware that a light dusting of professional help would not go amiss on the Kenton cake.)

After several years of writing and releasing songs, however, the shoe is now on the other foot. I, less often than I'd like actually, have people asking me what songs are ABOUT, where and how were they written, how do I feel about them in hindsight?

My answers are, usually, in order:

1) The Aftermath of the Korean War
2) Inflagrante Delicto
3) Tuesday

Yes, "wanker" is as good a word as any.

Documenting one's inner life is a dangerous pastime, though. There's a reason people wait decades before serialising their diaries.

As I write more with other people, it gets even stranger. Not simply because things are often sung and performed in a very different manner to how I or the band would have approached the material - that can be immensely rewarding - but because unexpected self-examination is the most jarring and discomforting of all.

There are many ways in which this can occur. For instance:

1) A song that obviously meant enough to you at the time to put pen to paper has, nonetheless, been living with its other parent since conception and therefore reappears unexpectedly in your life all grown-up, asking you to co-sign a loan.

OR

2) An old song suddenly catches on with new listeners and, in a fit of idiocy, YOU decide to revisit it.

Songs are like photographs. They capture the moment at the time, sure, but over time they become embued with all manner of emotional baggage.

Hearing a song unexpectedly, therefore, is like finding that bundle of old pictures you'd imagined lost, while you were actually looking for electrical tape and a flat-head screwdriver.

With music, however, you have an added "bonus". While you're looking, misty-eyed or rattled - at the shaky Polaroid of you and your ex-wife in a brief embrace between blows, someone else is looking over your shoulder and passing comment.

There are two songs on our last album: "Apologia" and "Audrey Hepburn" for instance that I adore, but which, at different times, I have found difficult to listen to. They are very intense documents of two very intense relationships. I remember exactly where I was when each was written, exactly what I was thinking and exactly what motivated me. And late at night, when the whisky flows like vodka, you can find yourself catapulted back in time - not always in a pleasant way. Everyone has songs that remind them of the past. Think what it's like when those songs are about your past.

Since the ist back catalogue showed up on Spotify, and I noticed people listening for the first time to some of those songs, amongst others, I took a trip down amnesia lane. Sure, I've performed a lot of these songs live, but songs mutate live - the meaning grows, sometimes changes all together. The recordings are of their time and bring back so much more. Memories of recording them and the grand dramas that always seem to surround me - well, all of us to be fair.

Over the last few months as well, I've started to see co-writes appearing in various forms. And I'm finding that experience even more peculiar, because it hasn't been me that's spent months/years living with the song.

Also, the very experience of releasing songs sometimes changes them.

"Let's Not Fight This Christmas" - the Chris Difford Xmas Single that came out in December (when else?) is a prime example. Now, the song is a bit of fun (albeit with more depth than it is given credit for, IMHO) and personally I have a great deal of affection for it. It conjures memories of a very strange and inspiring week in Wales... it conjures memories of seeing it performed at The Thompson Family Christmas Show in London with so many of the people who had inspired me to take up music in the first place on the stage that I promptly burst into tears. It has an added dimension for me as due to familial lunacies, I grew up without Christmas. It's a loaded gun of a song for me, emotionally. And so on, and so on.

Releasing it, however, was an almighty pain in the ass. There's nothing quite as disheartening for a struggling musician than realising that as one climbs higher up the ladder, the air simply gets thinner and many of the people around you become even dumber from lack of oxygen. It's an important lesson, but not a fun one. I was still up every night working the net, driving myself mad, and dealing with the very real fact that one does not always get credited for one's work, despite the best and valiant efforts of those with whom you wrote the thing in the first place.

Still. C'est la vie. It was an honour to be involved with it, and if it didn't quite go to plan at the time, it's a part of my life now which can not be taken away from me.

Now there are other songs coming out of the woodwork. "Grace" by Madelaine Hart, which we wrote, almost as an afterthought, in a hammock-festooned room in Italy. Madelaine started playing a piece on the guitar that for some reason wedged the words, "It's been seven hours and a packet of Luckies..." into my head and we were off, telling a very dark relationship tale which may not seem autobiographical on the surface, but comes from a part of me I can't afford to visit unless I've had my shots.

Sometimes, you don't even discuss this stuff with your co-writers. You work on the story, on getting the emotion out, but you don't always delve into what's driving you to do so in the first place. I'm sure I'd find that these songs are equally about things, places, people about whom I know nothing at all.

Heard one yesterday, first recording of a song called "Night Train to Milan", which I wrote with a lovely man called Jan Bijker. He started telling me a story about a train journey and I started writing (in my head) another story altogether so it must mean completely different things to both of us. Which is quite wonderful, in its own way. Mine had all sorts of life panic, girl trouble and repressed Canadiana going on... : ) In Italy.

I hear tell of more collaborations coming to a headphone near you as well which I shan't mention by name for fear of jinxery, not to mention the "actually happening finally thank Christ" release of Toothpick Bridge this summer, which contains songs covering the two and a bit years I've been hidden in a variety of studios and writing sheds and which, I'm sure, in a few years' time cause me all manner of introspection.

There is every possibility, however, that I am just in a peculiar mood and this song-inspired revisitation of a life lived weirdly is just some kind of early onset mid-life crisis. Mind you, I had my first of those when I was 12, so I've been on borrowed time for a while now.

In what should have been Enrique and Willie's words: "To all the girls I've loved before. I am SO sorry about that."

There must be a song in it somewhere.

The Windsurfer's Tale

2009-02-17T13:29:00.000Z

by Kenton Hall

Literary scholars around the world were astonished this morning when a portion of a lost and hitherto unknown chapter of Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury Tales was discovered in the lunchbox of a small child from Stoke-on-Trent. The fragment had been used as wrapping for a Gouda and mayonnaise sandwich and was only discovered by a sharp-eyed teacher as the child was beaten senseless during recess for eating posh cheese.

Critics were, of course, sceptical at first, but were convinced of the document's authenticity over a long, expensive lunch. By the end of the seventh bottle of Chablis, the more glaring anachronisms, including the fact that the story had been written on lined A4 paper with green crayon were easily explained away. In the words of one historian: "Pass the salt, you Irish bastard! And get me some more horseradish sauce!"

The following excerpt, complete with commentary, demonstrates the importance of the finding, and further illuminates the genius whose work has tortured school-children for generations:

***
PROLOGUE

Thus the Parson, his tale ended
Long-winded tosh, though each ear bended
In trying to decipher verse
And discover each sexual curse
Yet found no bawdy reference that
Might help young scholars shed man-fat
In this most boring treatise shared...
Then gnashed their teeth and tugged at hair

So Chaucer, his readers' interest waning
Concocted this most entertaining
Epilogue to close his Tales
The cum-shot, set to balance scales

COMMENT: It is clear from this lost fragment, that even Chaucer was aware that for all his poetical genius, his readers were far more interested in the fucking, than in some bizarre essay on Patience and Virtue. In fact, there is a note in the margins that suggests that Chaucer was growing increasingly desperate to up the smut factor... and reads thusly: "Perhaps a tryst between two womyn and a horse?"

Vs. VI

Their wrong course led them out of reach
Of anything but Echo Beach
Far away in time,
Echo Beach,
far away in time
And there a windsurfer appeared,
No pilgrim he, but wild of beard
His shorts packed tightly with a staff
Of manhood, swollen not with wrath
But of the memory of the tale
He had to tell of how love fails

COMMENT: The exact location of "Echo Beach" will undoubtedly be disputed amongst academics for years to come, although the refusal of the male pilgrims in Vs. V to ask directions at a service station, may have something to do with their having strayed so far from the London boroughs.

And yea! Now spake windsurfer true
Of travelling to work on the tube
Well, all at once, the train stopped dead
Passengers by shadows fed
Our hero, joined in silence, by
Three Blondes, with cups of ample size
Who took to shedding outerwear
And showed no signs of pubic hair
"I could not believe my luck,"
Said the surfer, lucky fuck
"They were equipped with baby oil"
"With dildos, strap-ons, fitted coils"
"And stole my chastity from me"
"By sucking my cock valiantly"
"Adopting postures on all fours"
"Frolicking like unhinged whores"
"Produced most inhuman grunts..."
"By licking at each other's..."

COMMENT: At this point, the fragment runs out. As has the commentator.

Agnes - A Love Story

2009-02-17T12:53:00.001Z

By Kenton Hall

To this day, I’m not sure what first attracted me to Agnes. It wasn’t her name, pinned to her lapel like a laminated corsage. This conjured up images of wizened old nuns, rapping knuckles with rulers in some faint and unrealistic hope that the swelling might discourage masturbation.

It certainly wasn’t her face, which was, frankly, lop-sided. Her skin might be described as milky, perhaps (if the milk in question had been left out in the sun over a long weekend) but then there was the scar. It ran the entire width of her forehead and, in a certain light, resembled Robert Kennedy being savaged by an anteater.

Her body, though, now that was something. I had no idea that medical science had made such advancements in genetic engineering. She was clearly half-weasel and half-kettledrum. One arm was significantly shorter than the other - although, oddly, not always the same arm.

Her legs were shapely, I must admit. Never have I seen such perfect dodecahedrons in nature. And long? They went all the way up, which is far more disconcerting to look at than one might expect. Her stocking-tops showed just under her chins.

She had breasts like melons that had been finely chopped and pureed into a health drink, an arse like two doughnuts going stale in a forgotten briefcase and , when she finally opened her mouth to speak, a voice that sounded like a drowning cat being flung at a blackboard.

Her first words to me, however, took my breath away.

“I’m SOOOO drunk,” she confided.

We celebrate our fifteenth wedding anniversary this year. I love you Agnes.

Kenton! - The Musical, Part One

2009-02-13T10:09:00.003Z

As is very often the case, it took me a long time to discover what it was that I wanted to do with my life. In the environment in which I grew up, there were only really two career options: window-cleaner/preacher and janitor/preacher. Anything else was considered a threat to the most important half of the equation: The Preaching. I was damned good at the preaching, selling fantasy in an over-the-top manner comes easily to me, but I knew in my heart that what truly inspired me were films, music and literature.

Obviously, at the most tender ages, playing guitar in a band was not sold to me as an actual job one could do. I strung badminton rackets with elastic bands and sang Elvis songs around the house, but it was play, not preparation. So, I initially turned to writing as an outlet, my mother contending that this was something that I could do quietly, at home, without venturing into the evils of the entertainment world.

Until, that is, she read my work. I've never been particularly pre-occupied with fluffy bunnies.

(Incidentally, it was my father's warning about the music industry that planted the seed that would eventually find full flower. "Son," he said, "The music industry is full of nothing but illicit sex, drugs and debauchery." "Really?" I replied. "Is there a recruiting office of any kind?" Some people just don't know their own children.)

At the age of 12, I was a saxophone-mangling short story writer. At 15, I traded the sax for my first guitar and began to write my first songs. So, it makes perfect sense that at the age of 17, I became an actor, appearing in glorified extra roles in films like "Little Women", directed by Gillian Armstrong.

For fun, check out the teenage me with enormous sideburns standing at the bottom of a flight of stairs in a scene with Trini Alvarado and Christian Bale. (Lovely to all, polite and impeccably behaved, as far as I could see. Everyone has bad days, people.) I only went out for the part because I had a massive crush on Winona Ryder and had a script in mind for her. Never met her. But the work was fun, scary and brilliant, and the film remains, for me, a document of another lifetime, in another world.

I studied hard, had smarmy headshots taken, and went out for all the auditions my crazed agent arranged - she had gone mad after a long illness, during which she found "God" and decided her destiny was to find "The Next Big Thing". Mostly, she was just crazy. My acting teacher was brilliant though, and, in front of the class, gave me a piece of criticism that has stuck with me to this day: "When Kenton gets it, he is absolutely brilliant. When he doesn't, he REALLY sucks." I can't speak to the good half of that critique, but I know that I have to watch my laziness in everything I do, and try to ensure that if I ever DON'T get it, it's not for lack of trying. This critique has been repeated over the years, in various situations. (This is, of course, ignoring the deluded people who will insist that I suck ALL the time.)

I fled Canada about a year later, and set off on the English adventure that has been my adult life. The move meant the acting career went on hold and eventually, a series of accidents, divorces and brain-fires led me to my current songwriting career, with all its peaks and troughs.

Which was a very long-winded way of introducing this new series of journals about my return to acting, this time in a production of "The Full Monty".

I received an email a few weeks ago from our old label boss, with a link to a newspaper article about open auditions for the musical. With my New Year's Resolution to explore as many different work avenues as possible ringing in my ears, I went out for it. You only regret what you don't try, I believe. Unless, of course, you're determined to try walking in front of buses in the nude.

And so, I found myself in a room, several pages of script learned and two songs with ridiculous and unnecessary high notes thrown into them more or less at random rattling around my head. God bless falsetto, that's all I have to say.

I was asked to repeat the first song as - beset by nerves - I did something I always try to avoid and always tell other singers to avoid. I closed my eyes in front of an audience. Goddamn it. Thus rattled, I threw myself into the remainder of the audition and several hours later, I found I had - to my astonishment - been cast as Teddy Slaughter, the boyfriend of the lead's ex-wife, along with a collection of other smaller roles. I shall, as the director put it, be wearing a variety of hats.

Now I was faced with my greatest fear. I am fairly confident that if I put in the work, I can play the part and play it well. And, obviously, singing in front of an audience holds no special terror for me. However, it struck me that in my haste to prove myself I had neglected to consider one area of the musical theatre experience that would be much more of a challenge.

I am going to have to dance.

Even my kindest, most supportive of partners in love, music and life would be hard pressed to say, with a straight face, "Kenton is a lovely mover." As a rule, I dance, shall we say, enthusiastically. I love to dance. But I am not the most coordinated of men. The band, in fact, have suggested on many occasions that perhaps it would be more honest for me to replace the word "rhythm" in my guitar credit with the word "other" or "additional".

Nonetheless, if I have a virtue (and this is an unproven theory), it is that I seldom shirk from a challenge. And so it was I found myself this week, in first rehearsals, learning a long and fairly complicated ballroom dancing routine for one of the show's songs.

I was only injured twice. Once when another dancer clothes-lined me in an ill-timed out-flinging of arm and once when the same dancer punched me in the mouth, again, apparently accidentally.

Sad to say, the first thing that occurred to me during both incidents, wheezing and bloodied of lip was "They noticed me!". Clearly, therapy should still be considered as an option.

I can already tell that it is going to be an interesting experience and I'm hoping to bring you the full experience over the next few months, between reports of my usual musical endeavours. (Of which they may be much to tell again soon.)

In June at the Curve Theatre, Leicester, for a week's special engagement, I make my not-at-all-awaited return to the theatre. Whether this, from my viewpoint, turns out to be all singing and all dancing, or audience all gagging, all leaving remains to be seen.

In the meantime, I hope it amuses, entertains and that as little as possible ends up on YouTube.

Chris Difford and the Decorations - Let's Not Fight This Christmas OUT NOW!

2008-12-05T16:58:00.002Z

The video is debuted tonight on The One Show, BBC1, 7pm

The single is up at iTunes... download it now!

Chris Difford and the Decorations - Let's Not Fight This Christmas at iTunes

More links to follow.

Thanks to everyone who has supported us and made this possible along the way!

Love Kenton

And don't forget if you're in Leicester tomorrow (Dec 6th) to come and say hello at The Donkey, Welford Road, for the istmas extravaganza. Kicks off 8pm.

It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad Week....

2008-12-04T11:21:00.005Z

Thank God, it's Thursday. I never thought I'd type those words. Historically, for me, Thursdays occupy a hitherto unsuspected circle of hell, one from which Dante's eyes were shielded, less he vomit up his own feet. What is the POINT of Thursdays? Thursdays are just Wednesdays REALLY taking the proverbial. Fact.

This week, however, I am simply glad of every day that passes. Because I have a big weekend ahead of me. Quite possibly, a very big month.

You may have heard me mention the Chris Difford and the Decorations extravaganza (which along with Mr. D, Kevin Malpass and Tom Houston, I am hugely proud to have co-written) "Let's Not Fight This Christmas" being launched on The One Show, and featuring its fine coterie of presenters. Well, it takes its first televised bow tomorrow on BBC1, sometime between 7 and 7:30. Incredibly exciting.

The next day, you can hear Mr. Difford speak on that subject and others on Radio 2, with Danny Baker and Zoe Ball, at approximately 11 of the AM.

Later that night, if you wend your way to Leicester - The Donkey on Welford Road to be precise - you can join ist for our annual istmas blow-out. With our very special guests The Swinging Laurels Horns and support from the fine M48, we're going to make a brilliant noise... just for you.

I missed Thanksgiving due to having been in the wrong bloody country in October (I'm Canadian, before someone says Duh, November.) but I'm feeling very thankful to a lot of people personally and professionally at the moment. They each deserve an entry of their own... between the new ist album and the Christmas single, I don't think I've ever felt more excited or more indebted in my life.

For the moment, I'll start by thanking The Daily Dust, who have taken up a campaign on behalf of the little Christmas song that could. I'll be popping in with daily updates from the Christmas trail over there, and no doubt wibbling about a great many things. Thanks to them and everyone else who has offered their time and support. Let's Not Fight This Christmas (except with X-Factor. Who decided they were allowed to sing Leonard Cohen songs? As both a Canadian AND a human being I'm outraged).

The Daily Dust

Bring... as they say... it on.

Kenton

Countdown to Let's Not Fight This Christmas

2008-11-27T11:35:00.003Z

This makes me happy.

Chris Difford and The Decorations
"Let's Not Fight This Christmas"
(Difford/Malpass/Houston/Hall)

For Children In Need

Watch The One Show, 7:00 pm nightly on BBC1, from Monday, December 1st to find out all about it, and then download it from December 8th, link to follow.

In the meantime, please join us on Facebook at:

Let's Not Fight This Christmas

We shall roast chestnuts, sing songs, and countdown the hours.

Let's Not Fight This Christmas for Christmas Number One.

You know it makes sense. : )

Kenton

Christmas Difford

2008-11-18T10:29:00.001Z

I've long held that writing songs is like having children. Sometimes you plan for them, erecting cribs in the spare room before she's even got her jeans unbuttoned. And sometimes you're just too lazy to reach for the bedside table, and events take their own course.

It's been like that for me recently. In the midst of all of the craziness and joy of Toothpick Bridge (see other blogs for further details), I was honoured to take part in another project which is now coming to fruition.

I direct you here...

Chris Difford Official Site

For a boy who never had Christmas growing up... or much of a childhood of which to speak... to be involved in the writing of a Christmas single, to benefit Children in Need., well it's a big deal.

I'd very much like to thank Tom Houston, Kevin Malpass and Chris Difford - marvellous chaps, all of them - for having me along for the ride. And to everyone else that has worked so hard to make this happen.

As Mr. Difford exhorts, watch The One Show on BBC1 from 1st December.

Let's Not Fight This Christmas.

America the Pitiful?

2008-11-05T13:25:00.003Z

It would be difficult, I should imagine, avoiding the single story that is dominating the world’s news outlets this morning.

Yes, that’s right; Georgina Baillie has forgiven Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand.

I, for one, am breathing a sigh of relief. I really had begun to fear that the whole affair was about to spiral out of all control, possibly ending in bloodshed. Some manner of vitriolic action group was bound to be formed, undoubtedly headed up by mothers. Mothers are much like Captain Spaulding in that regard. Whatever it is, they’re against it.

But I’ll come back to that later, unforeseeable tangents permitting.

No, of course, I am speaking about the election of Senator Barack Obama as the 44th President of the United States.

In the interests of full disclosure, I will hang out my tattered flag immediately. I am – prepare to hiss in an exaggerated pantomime manner, my conservative readers – a liberal. I know, I know. Shocked and stunned. Who would have imagined that any of those itinerant musical types pulled for the pinkos?

Yes, I am a card-carrying, Bush-bashing, gay-loving, long-haired (sometimes) hippie-assed son of a bitch.

Apparently, anyway; the truth is far more complex.

Growing up in Canada, under the truly dictatorial regime of my psychotic religious family, I always had a bit of a hard-on for the ideals that America purported to represent. Freedom! Oh, yes! Give me some of that. Of Choice! Of Religion! Of Marriage Partner! (Oh, wait… No. Apparently there are some restrictions on that.) I remember, for instance, weeping like a stockbroker on my first viewing of Moscow on the Hudson. But then any film in which someone escapes or rebels against a repressive regime always leaves me in floods. The climax of Dead Poets Society has the same effect to this day, so maybe it’s just Robin Williams. No, wait. I know I didn’t cry in Patch Adams. At least I hope not.

Obviously, as I’ve grown older, and despite appearances to the contrary, a little wiser I understand that hyperbole, as attractive as it is, is never the whole story.

Which is why, while I think Barack Obama has the potential to be very good for his country, and by extension the world, I certainly don’t buy into the Messianic fervour evidenced by some of his supporters. But I admire them for feeling it, because it is still considered deeply unattractive to care that deeply about anything. Cynicism rules supreme. I can’t help but warm to people who are unashamedly in love with something: be it political idealism, music or Doctor Who.

Obviously, there are limits to this. Those who are unashamedly in love with sticking the heads of their neighbours on spikes aren’t likely to attract me to their fan forum, however nattily designed.

On the other hand, I have been deeply amused by the comments on “right wing” blogs across t’Interweb this morning. (Don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to join the mass liberal gloat – except, perhaps, drunk in private. There are some fair-minded political commentators out there who have weighed up the issues carefully and impartially and for some reason have come down on the side of a disingenuous Navy Brat and Tina Fey’s evil twin. It’s not for me to judge.)

Fair play to anyone who supported the other side and is disappointed, perhaps even fearful of the future. I say this because I understand. Four years ago – during the most horrific and emotionally devastating period of my life personally – I still lay awake all night blood gushing from my eyes with every state that fell to Dubya.

However, comments such as:

“I have spent 35 years of my life hunting and killing communists across the globe. Now, we’ve elected one as President…”

And:
“Well done, America on electing a President who favours throwing live babies in the trash.”

Make me laugh out loud.

On a more serious point, however, the biggest bone of contention I could find, recurring across approximately three gazillion posts was this:

“He’s going to raise my taxes.”

Oh. My. God.

Now, I admit that changes in the economy have never really affected me unduly. I’m flat broke most of the time, so I find it hard to tell the difference between the varying degrees. Still, no one wants to pay more tax. No one. But what, in an era of terrorism, dubious wars, complete financial chaos, lingering racial issues, homophobia, big questions on the rights of man in the modern age, enables these people – who clearly care very deeply about the Republican Party to condense the entire debate into: “He’s going to raise my taxes.” How utterly selfish and narrow-minded.

Not: “Well, I disagree with some of his policies, but I can understand that this is a historic moment for my country, and I shall watch with curiosity, my hard-fought right to dissent on call whenever I feel it is needed”

But: “He’s going to raise my taxes.”

The left are no better though. We have idiots on board in spades. The people who also completely refuse to engage in communication with the other side and are prone to making drippy, wishy-washy pronouncements that treat anyone who disagrees with them like mentally-challenged children who have just received a traumatic head injury.

At least, I say what I mean, and I’ll back it up with research.

The real problem is that we feel the need to split into teams in the first place. And then, rather than advancing the proposition that no party is ever going to completely reflect the views of that number of complex, idiosyncratic individuals, decide to adopt the views of their chosen party, come what may.

Personally, I like to take the viewpoints of individuals on a case-by-case basis, and then decide that they’re assholes.

But it is as it has always been.

Proposition 8 and the Ross/Brand case – to return to promised subplots – are both microcosms of what’s wrong with everybody, frankly. In very different ways.

To start with the less serious, Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand made tits out of themselves, and some idiot somewhere fucked up royally in letting it air. How is this front page news? Andrew Sachs was rightly upset. His granddaughter was rightly pissed off. It wasn’t particularly funny, and it certainly wasn’t particularly clever.

But moral outrage? Jesus wept. You hear worse down the pub every night of the week. Doesn’t make it right, and they probably want to consider whether what they said reflects a lack of respect for women that should be privately addressed. And Miss Baillie should not neither be praised nor censured for her part in it. What she does for a living doesn’t affect the respect she deserves, nor should being the centre of such a idiotic row entitle her to the vilest, and unfortunately most common strain of fame: the tabloid star. On the other hand, having been around the industry for the last ¾ of a decade, I’m inclined to wonder what I would do if handed a golden opportunity to engage with the press. Hopefully I’ve learned that it’s no route to a lasting career, but I’ll admit the jury’s still out on that one.

Moral campaigners offend and outrage me. Due to the simple assumption that their morals must be my and, by extension, our morals. I support gay marriage, a women’s right to choose, I accept the endless grey areas that blanket human existence and try to judge people on their whole, rather than their component parts. I try to raise my children to accept people of all colours, creeds, religions and sexual orientations, provided they’re not twats. I’ve made a lot of errors of judgement over the years, and I can be a decadent, hedonistic rabble-rouser when the mood is upon me, but I’d like to believe that all of it combines to make me a moral person. And they’re my morals, hard-won through experience, emotion and thought, not out of an outdated religious text with enough sex and violence between its pages to make Harold Robbins blush.

This is the great divide between left and right, in stereotype: The right believe their way is right, and therefore should be enforced. The left believe that everyone is entitled to their own viewpoint and way of life, and that should be enforced.
How do you work with contrasting ideologies of such magnificent idiocy?

This brings us to Proposition 8. I don’t even know where to begin on this one. I’m trying to keep my feelings under control, and my response balanced.

You brain-dead, homophobic, anachronistic, bible-thumping motherfuckers. What in the name of holy fuck gives you the right to impose your views on other people’s love lives? They want the right to be themselves and you want the right to stop them. This one is not a two sides to every story situation.

You are WRONG. Not only that. You are cruel, stupid and worthless. I hope you all meet up with the fuckers who think that their penile obsession with guns obliterates the qualification about a “civilian militia” from the second amendment, and I hope they shoot you in the fucking face.
And while they do that, I will be ACTIVELY teaching my children about how two people of the same sex can fall in love and get married. And they will be better than you. They already are.
It’s going to destroy SOCIETY if same-sex marriages take place? Are you fucking insane? HAVE YOU LOOKED AT SOCIETY LATELY? It needs as much love and commitment as it can eat.
And that seems a good enough point on which to leave you. I shall be trying to calm down and forgive those mentioned above. I hope you can do the same for me.

***
Now, please buy our new album, just in case someone raises my taxes.

ist - Toothpick Bridge

An Addict Writes...

2008-11-04T11:38:00.001Z

It seems a veritable age since I sat down to a keyboard to write about anything other than the new album.

“Toothpick Bridge” has, of course, been a consuming passion, with all the nervous anticipation and desperate attempts at organisation that such a pursuit entails. We put pretty much everything we had into this one, so you’ll have to excuse us if we become, on occasion, evangelical in our pursuit of your aural compliance.

That being said, those of you who have already purchased your limited edition copies have been very kind in your comments, for which I thank you. Please feel free to encourage others to do the same. “A song’s not a song,” as Neil Hannon once sung, “until it’s listened to.”

But, for the moment, on to other things:

For the last few weeks, to a greater or lesser degree, my poor addled Canadian brain has been whirling and hissing like a bad CGI tornado. Frustration is the drunken, womanising brother-in-law of ambition, after all. The closer you get to realising a life-long dream, the more irritating and ire-inducing the inevitable set-backs, delays and idiocies can become.

Part of the problem is that people like me - who, for reasons best known to leaders in the psychiatric field, choose to pursue artistic expression of any kind as a career - are as temperamentally ill-suited to the business end of their endeavour as they are suited to the creative.

Take a for instance. No, please. In fact, take two. They’re small.

Somewhere in a bedroom, hunched over an acoustic guitar and fresh from a bout of frenzied, tearful masturbation, is a young aspiring songwriter. The curtains are drawn and a mournful sound that may, or may not, be singing is leaking from lips, pock-marked with newly squeezed pimples. The words are simple and concern a boy and/or girl who has torn our protagonist’s heart from their metaphorical chest and stomped merrily upon it, whilst wearing a pair of steel-capped work boots. The music is clearly “Tears in Heaven” played backwards and badly.

Nonetheless, in that moment, something happens. The ability to turn their private aches and hormonal surges into something approaching art (albeit by a circuitous route, where there is little or no parking) forever alters the path of this person’s life. Whether they succeed or fail in the pursuit of the rock and roll dream – or, in fact, even pursue it – they have just tapped into a well of emotion down which puppies and small, moronic children have been tumbling since the dawn of time.

Flash-forward a few years and you may find that this feeling was, on the surface, fleeting. They are now working in a bank, their hair slicked-back in a grotesque parody of responsible adulthood and their eyes empty of all love, awareness or hope. Waiting at home - in the arms of an inordinately over-priced child-minder with lamentable views on race relations – is a small child conceived 18 months previously under a pile of coats at a party thrown by friends. Its mother, whose penchant for screaming hissy fits is matched only by her inability to stop screwing motorcycle policeman, is at her own job, waxing the eyebrows of middle-aged women whose one goal in life is to die before they are stricken with an original thought.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, there may be a lingering feeling that something has gone wrong, somewhere – that there was another way, a better way. But it is subsumed by the hard-wired fear of not living up to their responsibilities, of not being a useful member of society. And so they drink themselves into a stupor at the weekends, and learn to switch off the screaming voice at the back of their minds which is begging to die.

Some of us, however, can’t switch it off.

It’s an illness. No matter how dire circumstances have ever become in my life, no matter how foolish and unlikely the dreams of success have seemed, I’ve never seriously considered quitting for more than one pint at a time. Money has not been so much thin on the ground, as bulimic six feet under it. Relationships have been complicated, to say the least. Responsibilities have grown. I’ve aged, put on weight, lost weight, lost my mind, inflicted pepperings of grey upon the natural colour of my hair and still sometimes find myself sleeping in train stations in shoes that I appear to have stolen from a transient’s corpse.

I’ve considered, and in my younger years attempted, suicide. But I’ve never, ever wanted not to be a songwriter. Never ever wanted to give up that feeling you get when something you’ve written punches a listener in their solar plexus, moistens their loins, drags a howl of pent-up sorrow from the depths of their being or even just sets their well-shod feet to dancing.

That’s mad, isn’t it? It makes Sarah Palin look like a poster child for the intellectually acute. It’s nuttier than the swapped-for sandwich that made Little Jimmy’s glands swell to the size of barrage balloons.

And yet, there you have it. I’m a lifer. I see band after band drop out of the race because it gets too hard, because it didn’t work out, because they never made it. And everyone, quite sensibly, says to them, “We completely understand. Shame, but there you have it. At least you have your priorities straight.”

I do not have my priorities straight, and I probably never will, whatever happens next. If all of these irons in various fires start a conflagration of achievement hitherto unrecorded in the annals of history, I will be somewhere working on new songs. If I continue to be miserable and poverty-stricken, wearing my charity shop wardrobe and cutting my own hair, I will be somewhere working on new songs. And I will, in my heart of hearts, continue to believe that it’s worth it.

I know I’m not the only one who feels this way either. I think a support group may be in order. My name is Kenton and I am a music addict.

Goddamn it. That sucks. I wonder if David Duchovny will swap with me.

ist @ The Octagon Theatre, Bolton - Saturday October 11th

2008-10-10T11:33:00.000+01:00

Hello all,

Just one last, last minute reminder that ist will be taking part in Cityscape Presents at The Octagon Theatre, Bolton tomorrow night.

If you're up north, come along and say hello. Toothpick Bridge will also be on sale after the show.

More details can be found here...

http://www.cityscaperecords.co.uk/cityscape-presents-11th-october-press-release/

and you can buy or reserve tickets on 01204 520661

K.

Pep Talk

2008-09-04T12:33:00.001+01:00

Ah, another day - another track to dissect. You are such lucky people. Being so blessed as to be able to listen to me ramble on, and on, and on... I hope you're drinking while you do it. It makes it much more palatable, I'm told. And remember to email us at istianity@gmail.com to reserve your pre-release copy!

Track number two on our new magnum opus (which I believe is a combination of chocolate and walnut) is the song "Pep Talk". It was written shortly after the completion of the last album, so the fact that we still have any enthusiasm for it at all must mean something. Something other than we've all lost our minds.

On Pep Talk, we are again joined by our long-time collaborators The Swinging Laurels on brass: this time expanded to the full original Laurels brass section of Gaz Birtles, John Barrow and Dean Sargent on trumpet, with special guest Jay Lyndsay on trombone. Gaz also doubles up with a special appearance later in the song... but you'll have to wait and see on that. All I can say is it catches me off-guard everytime.

Everyone's crammed like sardines in the bar, still they're waiting for somebody else
And only the subway conductors and perverts are feeling themselves
Lonely as village policemen they tap out a mayday in Pidgin Morse Code
And only tomorrow's tabloids will complain
When then unattended suitcase explodes

It's just a matter of time before you check out
It's just a matter of time before you check out

Your gravity's pulled in the comfort of skin, no surprise at the speed you revolve
She drinks like a fish, but she's good for a hump,
Guess you have to cross breed to evolve
You can call it hedonistic joie de vivre, or just two dozen lemons and port
When all she leave is a vague memory
To Filofax through come the doctor's report

It's just a matter of time before you check out
It's just a matter of time before you check out

There must be a higher purpose
Nothing springs to mind

The new White Hat Factory chimney's on fire,
So they're selling the stock in the streets

Your supper's delivered in yesterday's news and the TV is showing repeats
The hippies next door busy arming themselves, against rumours of yuppie revolt
And you'll barely have to time to sound out the word "peace"
As those freshly tattooed knuckles snake round your throat

It's just a matter of time before you check out
It's just a matter of time before you check out
It's just a matter of time
It's just a matter of time before you check out

(c) 2008 ist

I'm sure that some of you are hugely interested in what buttons were pressed on the shiny Neve desk during recording, and what combinations of mics were placed around Flash in order to make him sound even louder, but it's not my job to remember that shit. What I remember is Brett playing my acoustic guitar part because, in Jay's words, "it needs to be in time." Although I do get a bit of shiny chaos on my treasured hollow-bodied John Le Voy.

I remember, six months after recording it, listening to an early mix and remembering - finally - what the damn thing was about. Which is, in order of appearance: terrorism, sexual transmitted diseases and post 9/11 America. I think. At any rate, I hope it serves as a tiny reminder of the preciousness of moments, cause we're all going to peg it eventually. We in the band would especially like to pass on this message on to any men or women planning to wait for us backstage. "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may". Or in simpler terms, "What exactly are you saving it for?"

I jest, I jest. I think.

Another strange and unusual occurrence surrounding this song is that I now have the memory of a certain pop star (who was, to give you a hint, thrice moist) playing it on his laptop in the middle of an Italian field to much acclaim. He liked the horns. And you will too.

Pep Talk by ist:

Produced, recorded, mixed and mastered by Jay Burnett

Kenton Hall: Guitar, Vocals

Brett Richardson: Guitars, Vocals

John McCourt: Bass, Vocals

Flash: Drums

with

Gaz Birtles: Alto Sax and Mystery Instrument

John Barrow: Tenor Sax

Dean Sargent: Trumpet

Jay Lyndsay: Trombone

Assistant Engineers: Luke Buttery, Matthew Hodson, Brett Richardson, Kenton Hall and John McCourt

Assistant Mixing Engineer: Marco Perry

Recorded at The Way Studios Hackney and mixed at The Beat Farm @ The Premises Hackney.

The Boy's Not Right

2008-09-04T10:50:00.002+01:00

Yes, boys and girls the time has finally come. ist's new album Toothpick Bridge is finished. Recorded, mixed, mastered and in the final throes of arriving to your ears in a variety of formats, almost of none of which contain free ice cream. (I know, what were we thinking?)

Within the next couple of weeks, we will have information on how you can get your hands on a limited edition pre-release version, and also where and when it will released worldwide. (If you are particularly keen, feel free to email us on istianity@gmail.com to secure a copy ahead of the pack, physically or digitally). All very exciting, I'm sure you'll agree.

In the meantime, now that I know exactly what's on it, and what you can expect to hear, I thought over the next few days I would try to tell you the story of the songs and the recording. As no one else is planning an ist anthology, for the moment, it falls to me to document what has been the highlight of our career to date. Other than that night with the exotic dancer and the melon, but that's another story.

I should imagine I have now told the story of how this record began about a million times now. It contains a prime piece of name-dropping, so I'm always happy to trot it out. It all started in the Summer of 2006, when in a fit of self-promotion I sent the song Fag Break from our second album, King Martha to songwriter, broadcaster and bon vivant Tom Robinson - thinking its themes of elastic orientation fit nicely in with his Having it Both Ways project. I then promptly forgot about it, until I received a message on MySpace from Mr. Robinson, inviting me to join him for dinner in London to discuss where he felt ist should go next.

I was both excited and skeptical. After all, MySpace is not necessarily known for the veracity of its purported celebrities. The day I spent answering idiot messages from someone claiming to be Lindsay Lohan is a good example of this. Unless Ms. Lohan actually can't spell, in which I'm very sorry for doubting you, and my girls loved you in "The Parent Trap".

Long, annoying story short, I met Tom in London and we drank and talked. (I call him Tom, you understand. He really doesn't like being called Mildred. In fact, he spat on me.) His take was that Auntie Beeb was waiting on us to deliver a definitive ist single, a short, sharp "Oliver's Army" style hit. He also pointed out that really short songs were in demand and short supply on radio playlists. I should think about going away and writing such a single, a real proper two and a half minute pop song.

Around the same time, we were introduced to producer Jay Burnett by Christine Kellogg of TuneTribe, then of Wippit, who was masterminding our A&R for Martha digitally. She played the first two albums to Jay, he thought he could do a much better job than US at producing ist, and armed with Mr. Robinson's decree to go away and write a short, catchy pop song, we wrote 25. One, the track we'll deal with tomorrow, was already long in the bag, but the majority of the songs that made the record were written and endless re-written over the next six months.

In the interim, we released the first fruits of our new thinking, I am Jesus (And You're Not) as a digital single. Here was the short, punchy song as ordered, we thought. Blasphemy, however, is still a frightening proposition to some people - regardless of kick-ass surf guitar - and radio play tended towards the underground.

However, I'm here to talk about "The Boy's Not Right", the opening track on "Toothpick Bridge". This was one of the very first songs I brought in, and was originally a Tennessee Two style country number, sparked by a late-night drunken viewing of the Johnny Cash biopic, "Walk the Line".

I think, long-term readers will have cottoned on to my fascination with mental health and the degradation thereof. (Although, I do suscribe to the view that, as my countryman Steven Page sang, "mental health is overrated.") This may or may not have something to do with my own battles with the mad.

The original version of the lyric was quickly rejected by Mr. Burnett as not quite getting to the heart of the story - that of a singer slowly losing his marbles and several re-writes later, I finally cracked it. It became a strange collision between my own experiences and news stories I had dug up about the battles with depression waged by Adam Ant, who is strangely enough the only artist for whom everyone in the band has an equal soft spot.

Now, there's a face you'd recognise
But for the missing greasepaint and this unforgiving light
He used to be your ideal man
Now the Devil works your idol's hands

He's not right
He's not right
The boy's not right

The flashbulbs burst, the papers fawned
Until the money ran out and the gold discs had been pawned
As we filed out, childhood returned
Now there's glass to break and tyres to burn

He's not right
He's not right
The boy's not right

We hang our heads and say that, "It's a crying shame"
We light our candles then we join him in forgetting his name

The guttersnipes all caterwaul
Beneath the Marble Arch, he takes a bow as midnight falls
In the realm of the misplaced mind
He's a one-eyed man amongst the blind

He's not right
He's not right
The boy's not right

The boy's not right
The boy's not right
The boy's not right

(c) 2008 ist

The recording of the song, one of the first we attempted as we set up camp at The Way Studios in Hackney, was a very good example of how we developed the arrangements in situ, in a Revolver-type stylee. Everything on Toothpick Bridge was recorded live, as a band, something both we and Jay were very keen on - to capture the energy and, indeed, synergy, of us playing as a unit. Vocals and overdubs were then added later, and we crafted the final versions of the songs as we listened and relistened. For Boy, this meant calling on Brett Richardson to pull double-duty as we created our own hybrid instrument - the guitoon - by mirroring his original guitar riff with his first instrument, the bassoon. The bassoon has actually become an incredibly integral part of our recorded sound since Brett joined us full-time, and is also a wonderful thing to have on stage. Particularly when he plays his version of the theme from "The Muppet Show".

And then there's that bit at the... No... wait...

I am wary of describing the sound of the song in too much detail, as I want you to experience it for the first time when the record finally hits your shiny ears. But I do hope that I can at least whet your appetites for the album to come. There are some things I'd very much like to tell you about the songs, but more than that - in my deepest heart of hearts - I want you to buy the bloody thing.

Until tomorrow....

The Boy's Not Right by ist

Kenton Hall: Vocals, Guitar

Brett Richardson: Vocals, Guitar, Bassoon (aka the guitoon)

John McCourt: Bass, Vocals

Flash: Drums

with John Budding : Hammond Organ

Produced, recorded mixed and mastered by Jay Burnett

Assistant Engineers: Luke Buttery, Matthew Hodson

Assistant Mixing Engineer: Marco Perry @ The Beat Farm

National Security Blanket

2008-05-21T11:58:00.002+01:00

Not only can I "say Saskatchewan without starting to stutter" but I was born there. It's a flat, strange place, surrounded entirely by wheat and its smaller towns and cities, like my hometown of Estevan, are flat, strange places, beset by special effects-style weather and rife for any number of "strange drifter wanders into town and is kidnapped by inbred locals" scenarios.

My parents, however, were English, and I soon became a pint-sized Anglophile. It all seemed so exotic. The Beatles were from there. Monty Python was from there. It was somewhere other than HERE. I couldn't understand a word my northern grandparents said when they called, but that was cool in its own way too. When I was six, I came back from visiting England and was promptly beaten up for six months for my new, obsessive pronunciation of tomato.

As I got older, of course, and music became my guiding passion - my Anglophilia introduced me to Elvis Costello, Squeeze, Ian Dury, Billy Bragg, Ray Davies, Richard Thompson - all incredibly powerful influences on me. But I was also surrounded by the big Canadian bands of my adolescence - The Tragically Hip, Tom Cochrane and Red Rider, Barenaked Ladies, Crash Test Dummies and an array of other artists who were daily radio staples for me, but either unheard of or one-hit-wonders elsewhere.

Still, even when I moved to England at the age of 19, I thought of myself as somehow English. I wanted to be an English songwriter, part of a long tradition I'd worked out in my head. I worked then, and work now, with English (and Scottish. Really must learn to edit what I write, cause I'm never going to live that one down now. Sorry John. Mea maxima culpa.) musicians.

When our first album was released in 2004, however, one reviewer very kindly took the time to berate me, at length, for carrying on the horrific tradition of adopting a North American accent whilst singing.

Suddenly, I felt very proudly Canadian, and also began my life-long irritation with journalists who don't do research.

The capper occurred a couple of years ago, when I found myself riding a bus to a dead-end pay-the-bills job I hated, my children living elsewhere, my relationships in tatters.

A song came on the iPod. A Bruce Springsteen song. And I found myself in floods of cathartic tears. It wasn't my precious EC, it wasn't wit, wordplay and mentions of girls from Clapham. It was The Boss. I felt every inch the aspirational North America male, driving down a dusty highway in a car that Noah might think over-roomy, and dreaming of a better life.

I listen to a lot of Canadian and American artists again now, and I even wrote a song about Saskatchewan. I think it's helped me find my own voice, remembering from whence I came. I hope so, aynway. I do not, however, and have never said the word, "aboot".

What's your take on the national divide in songwriting styles? In playing style? In musical taste? Is there one?

Eh?

Working Class Heroes

2008-05-12T13:22:00.001+01:00

When I first moved to England from my native Canada, *cough cough* years ago, I had been brought up in an environment where the only real musical arguments that ever ensued were over exactly HOW Canadian a given piece of music was, and whether it qualified under the content percentage laws.

When Bryan Adams released "Waking Up the Neighbours", substantially co-written by the Zambian-born, South African-raised Mutt Lange, for instance, a national debate erupted as to whether it was quite Canuck enough, although I suspect this was largely motivated by those of us who were trying to pass responsibility for Adams to ANY other country.

So I was ill-prepared to arrive in England in the middle of Round 5,734 of the Class War, with Oasis and Blur seemingly battling for ownership of the public's hearts and minds. In the working class corner, the Gallaghers and co. Representing smart-arsed middle class student-types, Damon, Graham, Alex and Dave.

Frankly, I didn't know where to look. (Happily, at the time, I preferred Pulp, which allowed me to abstain from a lot of heated pub discussions.)

Now, I am, by any definition, working class. I was the oldest of six children, we were comically poor - insert favourite we were SO poor that... joke here and I got through a lot of menial and underpaid jobs before I decided that if I was going to be broke and depressed, I might as well be a musician.

However, I take no pride in being working class. I take pride in having something approaching a work ethic. I take pride in not being afraid to get my hands dirty, but in all honesty, being poor mostly sucks. And it certainly isn't a guarantee of talent or authenticity, any more than an expensive education makes you interesting to be around.

In pure terms, though, I will almost always take any artist deemed, in that bizarre turn of phrase, "too clever for their own good" over someone who pens the immortal couplet "Get on the Bus and Cause No Fuss" any day of the week. Then again, that's just me.

It's not about class, it's about CLASS. And that's an individual thing, that's about the person, who they are and how they've drawn on where they come from, not just WHERE they happen to come from.

I'm thinking of downgrading to Economy Class anyway. You still get where you're going, but you're surrounded by fewer nuts.

I'm With The Fan

2008-05-11T12:12:00.002+01:00

One of the most mystifying elements of being involved with music, as a performer, a writer or, indeed, a listener is the concept of fandom.

Now, I admit freely that I have been a fan, with a fair degree of obsessive compulsion, of a great many things over the course of my 31 years. I'm a reader of album sleeves, a collector of rarities and the first one to point out factual flaws in any given piece of journalism. I am a geek of the highest order, out and proud.

Many people, fine, decent people, appear to be able to manage their enthusiasms without owning seventeen separate but barely distinguishable mixes of each song by their favourite artists and I envy them. I am not one of these people. The things I truly LOVE are so few and far between that I latch on to them like a nymphomaniacal limpet, usually for life.

In this modern age, however, this age of forums and Facebook, one is confronted by one's fellow fans much more frequently than may once have been the case. And, at times, it is deeply disturbing, like looking at yourself in what you pray is a particular distorted funhouse mirror.

"My God," you think to yourself, "Please tell me I'm not THAT crazy!"

(This happens in real life too, of course. I remember attending an Elvis Costello concert and hearing a woman shout out "Go, Declan!" during a guitar solo, which made me crawl under my seat in embarrassment.)

The flip side to the coin, however, is that, as a performer - particularly one who is still working his way up the rickety ladder of success - hardcore fans are an essential commodity, both to one's fragile ego and to one's career. And bless them, those we have, are wonderful. I dearly wish we had 100,000 more like them.

I've never been comfortable with the idea of groupies, though. Don't get me wrong, I like the attention. Let's be honest, I CRAVE the attention. I'm not a secure person, I admit it. I require tremendous amounts of validation. Sickening amounts, in fact. And I've always said that the difference between me and my stage persona is that for 45 minutes after each show, HE knows how to talk to girls.

But there is something - and perhaps this is just a sign of my rapid descent into geriatric senility - deeply off-putting about the fact that I clearly become 1000 times more attractive simply by setting foot on a stage. The same woman (or man. This is the 21st Century afte all) who drunkenly hangs around to speak to me, would be ignoring me like a potentially cancerous mole if I were simply stood next to her in the audience.

I know for a fact, and there's no self-pity in it, that were Buster Bloodvessel on the stage and I behind, say, the bar, I'd be the one going home alone.

I feel bad when I turn anyone down under those circumstances, because as much as I am aware that it's a false attraction, I've been rejected enough times to dislike returning the favour. (I don't even like suggesting that this has ever happened, it types as vanity.)

But I digress, because that's not strictly fandom. Fandom, at its best, is people who lack that restrictive embarrassment gene that prevents the rest of us from exhibiting our passions for all to see.

When you care passionately about something you've created, there is nothing more electric than when strangers share that passion. Yet, there does appear to be a chasm between those who consider themselves rational, cool-headed commentators on the one side, and the rabid supporters who would do anything to see their team get ahead on the other.

As a(quasi)grown-up man, there are times I'd like to pretend I'm one of the former, when I long above all else to be taken seriously and to be serious. As a fan myself, I pray for the day when I can count on an army of obsessives like me, googling us in the early hours and choreographing attempted conceptions to our music.

Naked photography can still be sent to the usual address.

Both Kinds of Music

2008-05-09T12:42:00.000+01:00

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

2008-05-09T12:41:00.003+01:00

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

2008-05-09T12:41:00.001+01:00

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.

Muppet NewsFlash

2008-02-18T12:03:00.001Z

Morning campers,

It seems very strange to be putting calloused fingertips to muck-encrusted keys once again, and I'm sure it will take a few entries before I regain my full ability to waffle like a starving Belgian, but breaches must be leapt into, as my, admittedly deranged, tailor is fond of remarking.

It's been, what, three months? Jesus. And what a three months it has been. I spent some of it mad, so I can't say it was amongst my favourite quarter-years, but it's led nicely into the final stretches of the album, so I won't complain.

A note on Toothpick Bridge. I know, for those of you who have followed our fortunes for any length of time - all seventeen of you - it must seem as though we have been working on King Martha's follow-up for longer than most bands' entire careers. Although, these days, that's not saying much.

All I can say is, I hope it's worth the wait. It has been for us. We started recording back in February 2007 and we will be finishing the final overdubs over the next few weeks, but in that time we've had the opportunity to work with some amazing people - and we hope to announce a couple of very special guests very soon. In fact, it's killing me not being able to tell you yet, but I refuse to jinx a dream come true.

When and where the album will be released is, too, still in discussions, but I am pleased to report that reaction to the finished tracks from folks that certainly wouldn't have even been taking our phone calls this time last year has been extremely positive. (Maybe I shouldn't have always called collect.) More on that as it develops.

Big thank yous go out to a number of people:

The actual musicians in the band: i.e. John, Brett and Flash for making this such an enjoyable and truly collaborative experience, on all counts. There has been work above and beyond both in and out of the studio. We've been locked in a series of small rooms together for a year, and yet I'm actually looking forward to getting back on the road with these people. But then, we've promised Flash won't ever have to drive again, so he'll be in a much better mood.

Interactive Bit 1: As we plan to get off our collective cheeks and tour these new songs, we need to know if there's anywhere we haven't thought of that you want us to be. We'd like to tour in a very different way to previously, so all suggestions welcome.

Our producer:

I've delighted in the talents of Jay Burnett in this blog before. He's been there, done that, as I'm sure you know, yet every day felt like an adventure. He has brought a whole new outlook to the band, which has often included the phrase: "Naah! Do it again!". Whatever you think of us, this record sounds great and that's all down to our man Burzootie, ably aided and abetted by Luke Buttery at The Way Studios, and Marco Perry at The Premises, Studio B - gentlemen and scholars both.

Our tremendous guest musicians:

1) We finally got to reunite the whole Swinging Laurels brass section for this album, Gaz Birtles, John Barrow and Dean Sargent and just watching them play was a joy. With the addition of the masterful Jay Lyndsay on trombone, we've been able to use our beloved brass in a completely different, and utterly more soulful way this time round. They are just insanely talented folks, they don't eat much and considering one of them spent 19 years in The Beautiful South, the rounds aren't too dear either. Long may they Laurel.

2) Melvin Duffy. Melvin is such a humble and lovely man, who came in to play a little pedal steel for us, on the recommendation of Mr. Birtles. We almost refused to let him leave, and he ended up on far more tracks than we'd originally intended. And not a one sounds the same as another. Not only did he blow our minds with his playing ability - and there simply aren't enough words to describe said cranial explosion - but he has also been responsible for introducing us to some other equally incredible people, who for reasons of not jinxing matters, I shan't mention quite yet - but let me put it this way - I'm am over the moon at even the possibility of them appearing on this record, and you will be too.

3) Paul Swannell. I always said one day I'd poach Paul for ist, and one day we'll manage it. Just need to pry him out of t'North. Remind me to tell you sometime how we recorded Paul's marvellous contributions to this album, cause you'd never be able to figure it out from listening to the final results. He's that good, and again lovelier than a very lovely thing being scratched behind the ear in that way it likes. How do we attract such nice people? We're bastards. I fail to understand it.

4) John Budding. Also guesting on keys, and a newcomer to our little enclave of nutters with instruments. I was just listening to some of Mr. Budding marvellous playing in the studio the other day, and, to be sure, he's got the touch. Do check out his own stuff when you've the time.

Oh, and there are more names to be thrust in here very shortly. And I am very excited. (You might have guessed). Watch this space.

So, yes... we're nearly at the end of the road for the making of this record, and we hope to be able to share some of the results - and the process - with you shortly.

Interactive bit No. 2: We're in the opening stages of revamping our official site (www.istianity.co.uk), which has been sorely in need of update while we've been away recording, to offer you a lot more content, and some fun things with which to mess about while you wait so patiently for the new material. So, again, suggestions welcome. What would you like to see?

So, yes, exciting things afoot. People to see, palms to grease, records to fracking finish (sorry, halfway through a Battlestar Galactica marathon).

I hope now that the strike is over, I can get back to posting here most days to talk absolute rot, tell peculiarly long and involved stories, spin terrible puns, employ tortured similes and metaphors and generally confuse the hell out of myself and others.

See you soon.

K.

Detour - The Writers' Strike

2007-11-07T16:58:00.001Z

Those of you who have been following the various diaries that have cluttered this page for the last couple of months will have noticed that I've been AWOL for the last few days. The reasons for this are many and varied.

One, I have been manfully struggling against a bout of oncoming flu, which held off just long enough to get in our hometown warm-up gig and a very productive session on the new album - which, against all evidence to the contrary, is actually nearing completion.

Two, I have mixed feelings about writing at all at the moment, what with the current writer's strike in America having just begun.

This is not, I must stress, because I am a member of the Writer's Guild, nor because the issues under discussion immediately affect me. In fact, if the strike carries on for any length, there's less chance of my placing songs on shows, and getting paid myself. God knows, "She Clears Her Throat" ought to be soundtracking every melancholy scene on television, if only to give us a break from that bloody Evanescence song they still seem intent on flogging to death. Besides, as no one is paying me for these blogs, in fact, even if I were a member of the Guild, I'd be perfectly within my rights to carry on scribbling.

I am, however, fully behind the strike. I may be at the bottom of the writing totem pole, but that does not preclude me from giving a damn about those within a profession, at the coat-tails of which I scrabble, being handed a raw deal. I'm a little biased, having worked as an actor, writer and musician in my own scattershot and even more underpaid way since I was 16, (£5 to the person who can spot me in "Little Women", alongside Trini Alvarado and Christian Bale. Seriously, blink and you'll miss me), but as I am the very epitome of struggling "artist" I hope it will ram home that this strike isn't about money, per se, but about fair pay for work done. Something of which I am most definitely in favour.

Until today, it has been something I've simply been following with interest in the press, feeling as though, overseas and without any manner of industry clout, there was little of concrete value I could do other than wish my fellow scribes well.

However, having being exposed to the media coverage of the strike for several days now, I'm both moved, on one hand, and sickened to the heart on the other. Most of my regular readers will be aware of my geek credentials, and I am a regular reader, and irregular poster over at Whedonesque, the fine home of Joss Whedon fans the world over. For all hardcore fans of anything are used to getting a kicking from the supposedly superior press, as a creator of things artistic - and as a fanboy of many things myself - I'd kill for those type of fans. People who appreciate work enough to put their mouths, hearts, money and time on the line for something that has meant something to them. Members of the aforementioned group have, as an example, having been sending pizzas to the picket lines in LA, as a show of support, and that makes me glad to be a fan.

Because the vast majority of fans are just that - ordinary people who have the humanity to care deeply about things. I won't claim for a moment that are not those amongst us who bring the crazy - and even in my limited sphere of influence I have been at the end of a very odd, and occasionally explicit email or two - but they are few and far between, and more than worth it for the support of those who just care.

The mainstream press, on the other hand, have repeatedly - in the weeks leading up to the strike and since its official beginnings - made me want to poke them in the eyes with sharp, rusty objects. Joss Whedon himself pointed out a New York Times article which took great pleasure in describing the "arty glasses and fancy scarves" of the protestors, as if it was rather ridiculous and a bit pathetic for those who made their living "making stuff up" to want to get paid properly for the privilege. Surely, dear God, they should be paying the studios! For LETTING them do their job.

Frankly, it's the same damn things over and over again - and the music business is no different. The seemingly endless fascination with celebrity in the press has led to the denigration of the crafts necessary in order to bring such things to life. Yes, there are terrible writers out there who are paid FAR too much for their talentless vomitings into the entertainment abyss. Likewise "actors" and "musicians" who only belong to those groups by dint of inverted commas.

That doesn't mean that everyone should be tarred with that brush, and fair has to be fair for everyone, or it isn't, you know, fair.

Not one of us who works in or near entertainment, from the ultra-famous down to, say, me, are doctors, nurses, firemen, teachers or police officers. We're not necessary to sustaining life, in its barest sense. But, when one of us does the job properly - and before those who like to think me pretentious starts putting in the boot, I'm talking about someone else, anyone else - it makes life worth living. It certainly does for me, at any rate. Again, to borrow from Mr. Whedon, storytelling may not be an "animal need" but it is certainly the oldest "human need."

A strike is not a pretty thing, it has a knock-on effect to all who work within an industry - not all of whom are comfortably off to begin with. But unfair business practices, and corporate greediness, have knock-on effects as well, and, even in purely business terms, short-term profits rarely trump long-term profitability, or quality. In fact, never.

If you want to learn more about the strike, I direct you here, as a good starting off point for one side of the argument:

United Hollywood

And, of course, read up on both sides as much as you can, to make up your own mind.

If there were any real appreciation of the art of writing within the industry at large - rather than just fear for one's own jobs and a desire to grub as much filthy lucre as possible - newspaper writers, blog writers, cartoon writers - authors of every shape and stripe would all down pencils, pens and keyboards simultaneously, causing a complete non-essential information blackout. The strike would be resolved in a week, because we'd all learn that we need more than just the essentials.

Yes, I know it's not as simple as that. These things rarely are, and there may be many of you reading this who feel that there are worthier causes to support with your very little and undoubtedly precious time, and perhaps rightly so. But it takes a lot of different threads to make a sweater worth wearing, as no one has ever said before.

So, while it's not as though it'll have a huge impact on anyone, I'm subscribing from a distance to "pencils down" and I hope that there are people out there reading this whose lack of words will cause more uproar than mine and who will follow suit.

See you all on the other side of this. My best wishes go out to all on the picket lines.

A Round And A Bout - The Chris Difford Retreat Diaries, Part Seventeen (The Epilogue)

2007-10-09T16:22:00.002+01:00

So, my friends, we've finally reached the end of this accidental novella.

For now.

I was going to write a song-by-song breakdown of the week, and I still may, but I'm feeling in a "dancing about architecture" mood at the moment, and I think I'd prefer to let the music speak for itself. I am hoping that some of these songs will see the light of day on various albums by various combinations of the artists involved over the next year or two, and I almost don't want to spoil the surprise. Who knows? When, in two or three days' time I can't think of anything else to write about... What's a little hypocrisy between friends?

However, if you scroll to the bottom of this entry, I have provided links to all of the musicians who took part in the week, along with the names of all of the commercially available albums that I know about. I'm sure there' s more, and I hope you find a trip around our various musical universes enlightening. There was some serious talent in evidence, and only one demented Canadian letting the side down.

September 11th, 2007

I've been home approximately 36 hours and I am in a foul mood. I'm not sure why this is, but I know many musicians who suffer from serious post-tour depression and I am no exception. I was absolutely overjoyed to be reunited with my family - two five year olds jumping excitedly on your head puts a lot of things in perspective - but I still feel as though, to a certain extent, I have been ripped from my ideal working environment and plonked straight back down into ordinary life.

So much to do, so little money.

I placate myself slightly by continuing to eat pasta for every meal until I stumble on a late-night showing of Raging Bull and decide that I am not yet famous enough for my weight problems to be interesting, and quicky shift back to the coffee and nicotine diet.

My trip back had been rather uneventful, if extremely long, and was mostly spent exhausted in a variety of trains, with the iPod on shuffle and railway sandwiches rampaging through my lower intestines.

And it's not over yet. For now, two days following my return, I have one last journey to make:

I'm Brighton bound.

Mr. Difford had kindly extended an invitation to anyone who wanted to come down and sing a couple of songs at a showcase he was putting on, in his current stomping grounds, for four of the writers who had attended April's writing week: Melvin Duffy (already a friend and a guest on our new album), Vivien Scotson (his partner in work, rest and play), the agonisingly talented Chris Simmons and our own Danielle Gasparro, who had attended both.

Now, frankly, after a week-long, exhausting and emotional trip to Italy, a sensible person would have said, "A very kind offer, Mr. Difford, sir, but really I should probably rest, regroup and figure out where and why the hell I am." I am, I hope you've noticed, not a sensible person and I booked a train to Brighton for Tuesday afternoon without a second thought. Or really, enough money for a hotel. I just grabbed a guitar and leapt, like a particularly musical lemming. (Yes, I know, I know... it's a myth about lemmings, the people at Disney faked it for a documentary... but I'm not going to let the truth get in the way of a good simile. "The Truth", as someone once said, "is not my middle name." )

I have a slight moment on the tube between London stations, where the train stops dead and the lights go out. It is only at that moment that, I, in my self-absorbed way, realise that today is, in fact, September 11th. I'll admit to a moment's pause, until the lights flicker back and we continue on our way.

Sometimes the world is a collision of the big and the small, and I have a private moment mourning the further loss of innocence we've suffered in the last decade.

Even the layperson amongst you must be thinking at this point that "come and sing if you want" does not amount to a gig booking, per se, and I admit to a little trepidation on my eventual arrival in Brighton that perhaps I might be treading on various shoe-ends.

The Joogleberry Playhouse in Brighton is an excellent little venue, which, to my surprise, I find easily. I have a method of navigation that I've used from the age of 16, of looking briefly at a map and then just walking in the direction that "feels" right. I don't always get where I meant to go, but I've been to some interesting places.

I slip under the velvet rope that leads to the downstairs venue, and slip into soundcheck. Now, as I have no idea what the plan for the evening is, I feel a little conspicuous. Melvin is on-stage, with his Weissenbourne, and Vivien with her guitar, so I decide to sit quietly and not try to make too much of a fuss for the moment. The sound is amazing, and I'm getting that tingle I get whenever I'm near a stage. I must be ON IT. NOW!

This is why I hate going to other people's gigs. Much as I adore music, if I'm not playing, I find it a struggle. Not because the music bores me, although I'm not saying that's never happened, but because I become so deeply upset at the idea that I am a audience member and not a performer that I can't concentrate. I'm sure, as I get older, I'll crave the former more than the latter, but for now, give me the damn spotlight, turn up my guitar and shut your face.

Soundchecks gradually wind to a close, and I already know I'm going to have to pull my weight to keep up with the other performers. Everyone is polished and emotional. It's going to be hard work.

Good. Never met a musical challenge I didn't like. I am, however, performing solo - in front of a paying crowd - for the first time in a good long while. I am used to having a band. There's something about between four to ten men, each playing their part, that excites me. Right, that sentence could have come out better. Ah well, I'm open-minded.

I say my hellos to Melvin, Vivien and Danielle. I'm dying to hear Melvin play one of our songs again, and so I ask him if he minds joining in during my set. Being Melvin, a big warm heart wrapped in a pedal steel player, he says yes. Unfortunately I also notice that he has been asked to play by just about everyone, which on top of his own set and the fact that Chris Difford is due to close the show... but I'm too wrapped up to notice this yet.

I head upstairs to for a beverage and yet another outdoor cigarette.

In the loneliness of the tobacco devotee, I am well-placed for a mini-reunion as first, Dorie and Emma-Harry arrive - Dorie to sing with Mr. Difford and Emma-Kendall, like me, come to ply her wares.

Then Chris arrives. His daughter Grace and son Riley are also in attendance. Grace is, I'm sure I mentioned earlier, a photographer of some talent and also very good at blowing up sheds. Riley, I believe, is himself a musician. He is later very kind to me in his comments about one of my songs, which I repay by picking up his drink instead of my own in the clumsiness act of thank you ever committed to memory. I am very sorry, sir.

Meeting the younger Diffords is almost odder than meeting their father, as I have seen their names in a dozen thank you lists over the years. Chris himself is, somehow, simultaneously every age between 18 and actual in my head, depending on what I'm listening to at the time, and I find the evidence of his real, ordinary life both pleasing and disconcerting in a way I can't quite explain.

Chris clears up the confusion of the running order and asks me if I will open the show with a couple of numbers. Of course, I am more than happy to, and before long we are all seated downstairs - at an artist's table in the corner, waiting for the show to begin.

I had hoped to alleviate some of my dribbly awe in the course of writing these diaries, but for a lyricist of any stripe, being introduced on stage by Chris Difford is still an honour that makes me squeal happily on the inside. Having been used to performing as "ist", I almost don't respond to my own given name being called, but I get up nonetheless for my short set.

We've all, with a gentle word from Chris, let poor Melvin off the hook to concentrate on just the two sets - his own and Chris's - and we all feel a little guilty for trying to stretch his good nature so far. Melvin is a lovely man. Can't say no.

I like speaking to audiences, which, obviously, in a band setting I am encouraged to keep short and punchy. The first song, chosen earlier in the day, is ironically, partially a response to all the madness in the world, that response being primarily, "If you're going to die, you might as well live." I decide, quickly, that dwelling on that aspect, on this of all days, might be more than a trifle insensitive, and instead I keep it general and give the song a country overhaul befitting my solo abilities.

It was left, later, to Danielle, a New York native, to sum up the audience's feelings today much more eloquently than I could. There's a time for ironic commentary and there's a time for soothing words.

The second song is another from the new record called "This Must Be The Desert" and is another my explorations of the fragile male psyche... this time a man refusing to bemoan the loss of a love. It's an anti-love song. It's about the gap between the statements "She's the best thing that ever happened to me" and "I don't know what I saw in her, anyway."

For some reason, it just clicks tonight, and it's nothing to do with the solo performance. Quite the contrary, it's because I can hear the band behind me in my head. When you've heard the whole band, with Melvin, perform this track, you'll understand why my solo excursions will never replace ist as a unit. I can barely wait for you all to hear it. Soon as we get a deal inked... until then, it goes in and out of meetings. Meh.

I get a thumbs-up from Dorie, and sit back down next to to Chris. He leans over and the following exchange takes place:

Chris (whispered): I love that second song. Excellent lyrics.

Kenton: I'm sorry, I appear to have to cum on your shirt.

Well, not exactly, but I'll admit to melting a little on the inside. Sometimes a boy just needs a little validation. Riley D. too offers his compliments, followed by my profuse thanks and thievery of his drink. Again, I'm really sorry. I was a bit taken back by all this pro-Kenton vibe.

I stop drinking about half-way through the evening, partly because my train back is at 3:50 a.m. and I really don't want to travel drunk, and partly because when I'm around Mr. D, I feel odd about drinking too much, him having been sober - and to his benefit - for so many years. Seeing someone enjoy themselves without alcohol is, and I can't believe I can't think of a different phrase - a sobering experience.

I don't drink a lot anymore, but I do drink when I'm nervous, and when I feel I need to loosen up... which isn't necessarily a good thing. Hmmm. Food for thought.

Eventually, the night - and the first stage of this new journey - ends, following tremendous sets from Ms. Gasparro (singing much louder than I got used to Italy, and with storming set), Mr. Simmons (who never appears to leave the stage, and with good reason, he's brilliant), Melvin and Vivien (Lost in You makes me cry everytime) and Mr. Difford himself complete with, once again, me singing along in the front row.

(You tell me how you're supposed to resist singing the Paul Young/Elvis Costello "Out with a friend" bits from Black Coffee in Bed when they come up... It's impossible. I'm just saying.)

I've opened for Chris Difford. He still hasn't fallen on my neck and offered me the Squeeze support, but we have made plans for some future work together on the other side of the musical coin, about which I will stay schtum for the moment, for fear of jinxage. Trust me, it's killing me, but then it's early days and I don't want to say anything I have to take back.

Anyway, I've decided, Squeeze aren't allowed to stop performing again UNTIL we've supported them, so it's fine. I can wait.

Once again with the goodbyes and the swapping of contact details. Also, a entirely flummoxing number of people being extremely kind about my performance. I'll admit that this is one of my favourite things in the world, cause, at the end of the day, I'm a big whore. Plus it makes up for the crushing silence on the nights you know you screwed up badly.

Got to get out of the studio and back on the road. I miss live performance so much.

My night from this point on is rather odd. I have four hours to kill before my train - which turns out to be a bus - and two and a half until the train station re-opens.

I eat a bag of horrible chips from nearby chip emporium, until it too closes and I am left wandering Brighton, to the amusement of the railway station guard, who approaches me at one point and says, "Been waiting a while, haven't you?" Ah, a comic. Thank you so much.

Melvin, again with the bless him, was horrified that I was even considering such a thing and kept trying to cross my palm with silver. But I needed one more night alone, to take this all in, get myself back on track and prepare for the future.

It's late, I'm exhausted, but I know what I have to do now.

This. Much, much more of this.

***

And that's it. That's the story of the next stage of my musical evolution concluded. I'm thrilled that so many people seem to have enjoyed it, and I hope you keep coming back. Just let me know what you want to hear about next and I'm there. Thanks to all the Squeeze fans and reviewers (in particular Helen at Glennreviews and the marvellous folks at Squeezereader who have, off their own backs, posted links to this diary. I hope you stick around. Thanks to my band, John, Flash and Brett for getting me this far, and putting up with me waffling about other musicians in such an adulterous way for the last few weeks. Thanks to Jay for moving us forward. Thanks to Chris and Sue G. for getting me and then us started. Thanks to all the long-time ist fans, and all the new people who've just stumbled upon us. Thanks to all who were on the week: Dorie, William, Riley, Geoff, Danielle, Emma-Jane, Rich, Darren, John B, Helen, Amber and Rachel. Also, Sean, Phil, Alessio and Valeria at Daltonico and Monestevole.

Thanks to Chris Difford for everything. And thanks to Chris AND Glenn for being amongst the elite that made music this important to me in the first place. And, following that, to: John Bentley, Jools, Paul C, Harry, Gilson, Don (Jon), Chris H, Keith W, Kevin W, Matt I, Andy M, Pete T, Chris B, Nick H, Ash S, Hilaire P for taking part in giving the world Squeeze. Ta very much.

Please check out as many of the following as you can find time in your little hearts. Most albums listed available physically and digitally wherever good records are sold, and so on…I apologise if I've missed anyone's recorded works out, I'm still making my way through the list myself.

ist (my own outfit, without whom I wouldn't have had any of these opportunities.)
MySpace
Official

Albums Available:
Freudian Corduroy
King Martha
I am Jesus (And You’re Not) - EP
Toothpick Bridge (coming soon)

Aberfeldy (Riley Briggs)
MySpace

Albums Available:
Young Forever
Do Whatever Turns You On

Chris Difford
MySpace
Official

You ought to know Squeeze by now… but I’d recommend starting with East Side Story, Argy Bargy, Frank, Cool for Cats, Some Fantastic Place or Play.

Solo albums:
I Didn’t Get Where I Am
South East Side Story
Another Day Above Ground (coming soon)

Dorie Jackson
MySpace
Aquarian Nation

Dorie has been a guest on a number of fine albums, some of which already appear in this list, but I am particularly recommending her solo debut.

Albums available:
The Courting Ground

William Topley
MySpace
Official

Albums available:
All in the Downs
Sea Fever
Feasting With Panthers
Spanish Wells
Mixed Blessing
Best of The Blessing
Locusts and Wild Honey (The Blessing)
Prince of the Deep Water (The Blessing)

John Bentley
Solo Albums:
The Man Who Never Was

Danielle Gasparro
MySpace

Geoff Martyn
MySpace

Darren Poyzer
MySpace
Official

Amber Rubarth
MySpace
Official

Music Available:
Unfinished Art EP

Emma-Jane Thommen
MySpace
Official

Rich Brown
MySpace

Rachel Dawick
MySpace
Official

Albums Available:
Journeys

Helen Astrid
Official

Daltonico Studios
Official
MySpace

And from the Brighton Show:

Melvin Duffy and Vivien Scotson
MySpace

Chris Simmons
MySpace

Goodbye Girl - The Chris Difford Retreat Diaries, Part Sixteen

2007-10-05T16:23:00.001+01:00

(Ed. note - Due to technical restrictions, the song by song breakdown of this week has been delayed until he can get the CD player to work properly. The author regrets any inconvenience caused to himself. He's a selfish bastard most of the time, frankly, although he is, apparently, a decent enough lay.)

September 9th, 2007

7:30 a.m.

My phone, which until this point has been useless for anything above ruining the line of my jacket, is beeping loudly and obnoxiously. I would, as is my habit, hit the snooze button, but I can't find the damn thing. And, quite frankly, as we're two scorpion sightings up this week, I am not fumbling for shit in this room.

I retrieve myself from the gap between the two single beds that have been pushed together to form my double. Ordinarily, I would have no problem with this arrangement, but, as I have remained resolutely pure, it has only served to accentuate my feelings of asexuality. Having pushed beds together once or twice in my life, the sensation of jury-rigged sleeping accommodations still carries a frisson of young romance, and it leaves me feeling a little haggard and past it.

I actually had the sense to pack last night, although I admit there was more scooping and stuffing than folding involved. I've actually seen people doing laundry this week, hanging their clothes out to dry in the Italian sunshine. This is all very well and good, and has certainly lent an air of domesticity to our home away from home, but, frankly, if no one's interested in seeing my pants voluntarily, I'm not going to force it on them. That's simply impolite. Plus, I carefully packed enough clothing so that I didn't run out of clean clothes, even if an iron might have come in handy once in a while.

I did, however, dress for dinner one night. Shiny shoes, waistcoat, shirt and tie. Trousers would have probably been a good idea, but then I've mentioned the couple of bottles of vodka I purchased, haven't I?

Like many insomniacs, I am tremendously gifted at remaining awake until a ridiculous time of the morning and almost hopeless at waking up once my body has finally decided it's had enough. This morning is no exception. I dip in and out of horrifying dreamscapes, as I build up the will to force myself bolt upright, out of my bed and into the shower.

I'm not ready for this to end. It feels like the culmination of an unfairly short set. You're just getting warmed up and it's time to say "Thank you, and goodnight" before abandoning the stage. I'm holding my breath for the encore.

I have described, I believe, the shower of death with which Rich and I have been granted, and it is particularly vindicative this morning, tiny little pinpricks of water mapping out the first uncomfortable patches of sunburn. Which is almost a relief, cause ordinarily I appear to sweat Factor 57. I don't tan in the summer, I reappear. The easiest way to put colour back in my cheeks is to wait until I pass out, and paint me.

I dress in what's left of my clean clothing, none of which match particularly well, leaving me looking rumpled and devil may care, but not in a good way. I look like my children do when left to dress themselves. Six ill-matched layers, topped off with glowing plastic shoes and a pair of fairy wings.

Well, perhaps, not quite as extreme as that. It is Sunday, after all. Nonetheless, I'm worried about what I will look like come the end of today's travels, if this is what I look like before I even started. I haven't shaved all week, which in a normal man should have produced a decent outcropping of Levon Helm style beardage. I have a face at war with itself, however, and the best I can manage is D'Artagnan after a month in a mental hospital.

As I come around the corner towards the drive, tugging my bag behind me, I feel a lump form in my throat. And it's not just because I am dreading attempting to drag a bag full of clothes, a guitar and my manbag around for the rest of the day. Honestly, who designs the fucking wheels on these bags? Two small plastic wheels, the size of Noel Gallagher's vocabulary, which roll over surfaces about as smoothly as a 1960's Dalek. I might as ewell attach a handle to a dead pig, cut it open and wedge my belongings amongst its guts.

No, it is not the insanity of luggage designers that causes me to tear up. It's the gathering of the people with whom I have shared this experience, with their bags surrounding them, waiting to be divided into groups for redelivery to Perugia Airport. Not everyone is flying out together, so there are already some goodbyes to be said. Emma-Wilfrid is taking the train, as is Darren. Amber is headed off on further travels, and Mr. Difford disappeared into the night in his rented Mini in the early hours of the morning.

William is warding off the world with a combination of headphones and sunglasses.

Cigarettes are smoked, goodbye hugs distributed and we are all piled into various vehicles. As we pull away, I take a last glance over my shoulder at Monestevole. Considering how much I've moved around in my life, I've already mentally added it to my list of former homes, albeit in the depressingly long column of places in which I've never had my end away. (I'm a romantic, really.)

The one or two emails I've had from the band while I've been away have carried a definite sense of worry about them, alongside a sense of utter surprise that I managed to get to another country without injuring myself or others, being arrested for smuggling bootlegged Barry Manilow cassettes or becoming embroiled in a top secret CIA invasion of Hounslow.

I nearly prove them right as I queue to check in for my flight back. Now, as anyone who has ever met me can attest, I am a man of many pockets. These pockets are always full to the point of contravening the laws of physics. I usually rip the linings out and just let the hem of my jacket carry the strain. At this particular moment they contain an iPod (sans headphones), two novels, an empty wallet, half a carton of Camels, house keys, my check-in information, my passport, a handful of now useless European change, a pair of wonky sunglasses, my notebook, several scraps of unfinished lyric and my mobile phone.

Except not quite. My phone isn't there.

I feel a cold chill run down my neck. Still half awake, I try to convince myself that I am being playfully iced by nymphettes, but to no avail.

I desperately try to remember if there was a point where I could have left it in the room. In the end, we rush back out to the van and check the seats. There it is, forced out of my pockets by the lamentable overcrowding. Okay, I'm ready to go home now. I am clearly useless at looking after myself.

Checking in, the woman behind the counter takes my guitar case and says, "Are you a musician?"

I'm always very careful answering this question, for fear of my band lurking somewhere behind me, ready to jump out and start laughing if I say "Yes."

I risk it.

"Were you performing in Italy?"

I demur, remembering a friend of mine from Canada who came to visit me in England as was promptly deported for idly mentioning that he and I might work on a novel together while he was over. Of course, the long, lyrical description of the acid trip in which he'd partaken on the bus to the airport probably didn't help matters, but I am now extra cautious when talking to travel officials.

But, no, she seems more miffed that she missed out. The rumpled clothing is working for someone at least.

"You must let us know when you are next playing in Italy," she says. Am I supposed to take details at this point? I ought to have an email mailing list somewhere in these Mary Poppins pockets of mine.

The break-up of the group is slow but sure. William, Dorie and I retire to the waiting area, pleased to find a bar, which almost makes up for the lack of a smoking area. Riley, Geoff and Danielle are around, and I catch a glimpse of the hatted Mr. Bentley, but for the time being, fourteen has become six, and so it remains on the flight, with a Scottish - American sandwich on one side of the aisle, and the Topley/Hall/Jackson Axis of Evil on the other.

We have returned to BobAir, for another excursion into budget travel.

This time it's William who kindly plies me with gin, as we discuss the gifts we really ought to have bought for our children by now. We thumb through the in-flight magazine, which is surprisingly filthy, and a good half-hour is spent, like small children, labelling various pictures which remind us of the people we have left behind. I'm surprised we aren't writing each other's names on our schoolbooks by now. The phrase, "grown-up musician" is clearly an oxymoron, but then I had already suspected as much.

Who buys things from the airport catalogue? It's like someone's flung Argos into the heavens. I'm beginning to believe that the reason why planes are designed to cram as many people together into as small a space as possible is to increase sales of perfume and aftershave. The ready availability of appealing scents is the only way the Mile High Club could ever have taken off, cause I'm sitting next to a female friend and I'm already self-conscious of my travel odour. You become remarkably used, when one's life is spent in an all-male band, to sweat, and removed from that comfort zone you begin to wonder whether your level of personal hygiene is actually adequate in mixed company.

But, seriously, you can order anything on a plane. Computers, time-share, alarm clocks, stocks in major Italian fashion houses... I'm fairly sure, in fact, that with a clear enough credit rating, you could probably purchase the plane, although you'd have to wait six to eight weeks for delivery.

Two things happen of note over the next couple of hours. One, there is an announcement from the captain, as the "fasten seatbelt" sign unexpectedly lights up, that there may be a period of slight turbulence. Moments later, the captain exits the cabin and enters the toilet. I wait for a flight attendant to join him as the perfume tray has just been passed around, but no.

We are being put on turbulence alert because the captain is having a bowel movement.

Now while I'm sure someone is still flying the plane, there is a moment of "Hey! Hold on just a damned moment. When I need a piss mid-show, I hold it." On the other hand, I'm pleased to think that he is going to be relaxed during the landing procedure, because BobAir have already demonstrated a propensity for a lackadaisical approach to setting down planes.

"Right, thank you for flying BobAir," the pilot on the way over had announced, "We'll be landing in Perugia...*THUMP*... now." It was the slight element of surprise in his voice that worried me most.

When we had purchased our drinks and food, Dorie and William had been given raffle tickets. I, as the beneficiary of free gin, had not. The raffle is, apparently, for a free flight on BobAir.

Dorie's ticket wins. Dorie does not, as William quickly reclaims the ticket and the prize, cackling as he does so.

It's the perfect end to this first flush of our relationship, as we return to the dreaded Stansted laughing.

We go through the dull and lengthy exercise of retrieving our rotating baggage, and head outside where we can smoke. John Bentley appears briefly to say his goodbyes, and disappears in search of his car. Riley, Geoff, Danielle and I are waiting for connecting flights, trains and buses, although Danielle, as a US citizen, is still entertaining herself in the customs queue.

Hugs and goodbyes to William and Dorie. I hope to see them again soon, but who knows? Life's a funny thing. We shall have to see. It's to the bar for the rest of us. Geoff and Riley check into their - separate - flights to Glasgow - Riley for some reason, and unbeknownst to him, on Air Berlin we are rejoined by our American, and we head - as is our wont - to the bar.

We drink and chat, and Riley gets a text about yet another piece of exposure for Aberfeldy that further illustrates the fuckwittedness of his former label's lack of support.

And then, slowly, we peel off... Riley and Geoff for their planes, Danielle for her bus, and me to kill a few hours until my cheap train back to Leicester.

I get a call from Jay Burnett, with news of an upcoming label meeting. I'm both pleased at the prospect, and feel slightly as if I've been thrown directly back to the wolves.

But, the adventure isn't quite over, and I don't mean the endless cups of coffee and bad airport food I am about to consume in order to pass the time over the next few hours, before I return to hearth and home.

In passing, Mr. Difford had mentioned a gig in Brighton, the Tuesday after our return, where some previous retreat attendees, including my friends Melvin Duffy and Vivien Scotson, as well as Danielle, and some others would be performing.

"Feel free," he says, "to come and play."

I'm going to stretch this out as much as possible.

But for now, Leicester beckons, with its crooked and ill-smelling finger. Life beckons. Family beckons. Now I just have to make sense of all this, and figure out how I'm going to use it to move forward.

Also, I should probably sleep at some point.

I step into the great outdoor, and light a cigarette. About what happens next, I have no idea. But, for the first time in a long time, I'm extremely keen to find out.

Points of View - The Chris Difford Retreat Diaries, Part Fifteen

2007-10-04T16:57:00.002+01:00

September 8th, 2007

11:30 p.m.

There was a moment today that stood out for me particularly. At the end of the field in which the horses frolicked amongst the flies, Dorie, Rachel and Amber are sitting at a long today, composing and rehearsing. Women with guitars. *sighs*

Half-way down the field, a selection of the "boys" are standing around. As with these fleeting moments, the memory quickly grows hazy, but I know it was at least me, Geoff, Riley and Christopher Henry. It's the first time this sort of divide has really happened while we've been out there. Deep down, we're all such touchy-feely artistic types, there has been no real battle of the sexes.

As though sensing this, we smoke our cigarettes, sip our stale beer and try to conjure up the most laddish conversation we can.

I will stress at the outset the amount of irony intended, and I shan't name names.

"So," someone says, "do you prefer tits or fanny?" (For my American readers, we are NOT referring to the derriere here. In fact, as a warning to anyone who may be considering a visit to any part of the Untied Kingdom (deliberate misspelling), please do not go into any retail outlet and ask for a "fanny pack". You may not get the response you expected.)

"If you were stuck on a desert island, like," adds another.

"Well," a third chips in, "I'd take the tits, cause they can always double up as a fanny."

The cream of several nations' songwriting talent here, people... Not a grown-up in the pack. It's brilliant.

We then, seemingly quite seriously, compare the relative attractiveness of the two sets of pigs on the farm, the normal pigs, and the wild boar, who just aren't doing it for us. They are the ugly pigs.

"That's no way to talk about the girls," someone says, and we're off again, like we never left the bike-sheds.

I'm not a particularly manly man, in fact, I'm extremely girly, but every so often it's nice to talk absolute rot while women look at you as their next purchase on returning home is most definitely a turkey baster and a membership to the Sperm of the Month club.

The week has been full of moments like these, and I wonder if, through my seemingly inability to stop analysing myself, I've really captured the flavour of what it's like to lock 14 songwriters in a farmhouse for a week.

As I sit at the table at the end of the day, listening back to the MP3s that we have FINALLY managed to coax out of the studio upstairs and into Emma-Simon's laptop and then, again, into the stereo system downstairs, I feel a montage coming on.

I see Chris, Dorie, William and myself sitting at a picnic table.

Dorie: Do you dye your hair, Chris?

I sense a running joke.

Chris D: Fuck off, bitch. (Said, of course, with the utmost affection.)

I see myself sitting in the middle of the night on a striped and slightly damp porch swing, staring at the stars and nursing a glass of vodka and lemon soda. I always think of myself as quite a solitary, pensive sort, but as I have two 5-year-olds at home, time for serious thought is restricted to quick baths and other matters of the human frame.

Mind you, as you can not lock a bathroom door against small children, their bladders having not quite yet learned to communicate effective with their own heads, this time is usually interrupted as well, by blurs of jeans and t-shirt, rendering it necessary to keep a washcloth to hand to keep their natural curiosity about the human body from translating into a visit from Social Services.

I am forever dreading a letter from school:

"Dear Mr. Hall,

It was necessary to remove Scarlet from the playground today as she was running around in circles yelling, "My daddy has a willy" at the top of her not inconsiderable voice.

You may be receiving a call from the proper authorities within the next few days."

So I tend to err on the side of prudishness.

So, yes, a little personal time was, at first, quite an acceptable novelty. Unfortunately, left to my own devices, I have a tendency to slip into depressive thoughts. A wide expanse of stars, however, helps to keep these thoughts on the right side of inspired.

So I bounce back and forth from my late night musings to the silliness and bitchiness inherent in any group of musicians. We bemoan the beer, we worry at the fact that mine and Rich's room smells - to those sensible enough to notice such things, i.e. - alarmingly of gas. We watch and wait, almost desperately, for romances - or at least lust-fests - to spring up between someone, anyone, so that we can amuse ourselves vicariously.

I swing in an indoor hammock sipping gin, trying not to wake those who have decided that perhaps an iota of sleep might be quite refreshing.

We talk a lot of shit, we swap stories of our lives within music and without.

And now we sit around the table in the middle of the night, listening to the fruits of our labours.

Chris is driving through the night to get the train back to England tomorrow, so he retires early. Upstairs in the studio, he gives each of us a big hug, which leaves me feeling sad. Even though he has not been with us to the early hours, I've really enjoyed his company, and I'm glad that we've made plans for future embroilment. (More on this later.)

It's quite moving to hear all of the songs we've all given birth to over the week, complete with our applause and laughter. Surprisingly loud is the crackle of the fireplace, which we'd taken to lighting around the second night. It sounds like gunshots, and we giggle as we mime Chris culling the group, like a shotgun-packing Simon Cowell.

We've been prone to strange mimes the whole week. From the unzipped face revelation that one of us is, in fact, Glenn Tilbrook in disguise, to Dorie and Geoff's marvellous flute faces, we have laughed a lot. I almost wish we could just purchase an enormous tour bus and head out, Stiff Records-style, as the Chris Difford Travelling Circus.

I don't know if the week is what I was expecting. It's been such an enclosed experience that's it's hard now to judge it against anything except itself. But I've loved every second thought.

I can't help but wonder what will happen to the songs that appeared here for the first time. I know I've written in a completely different way, and the songs in which had a hand are occupying a completely different headspace from the ist album in progress. But then, every group of songs I've ever written has, so far, always been different to the last, so who knows?

It has been interesting, however, how many of us have gone for the witty line, even the out and out funny line. Not all, there have been some pieces of pure beauty as well, but it's clear that the immediate reaction of recognition, a smile or a laugh is terribly addictive. That, in itself, says a lot about why we all do this... God knows, I'd trade all the late night fumbling in the world for a room full of people singing along. Although, if that could be followed by a little late night fumbling, I won't complain.

I take a last proper look at everyone's faces and realise, probably quite late in the day, that I have at least one pin-stripe sharp memory of each of them that were this a film would be re-played over the strains of an uplifiting ballad about moments and magic.

Amber: sleeping in the studio, the World's Biggest Dog at, on and round her feet. Playing the guitar with such easy grace.

Danielle: master of the outraged double-take, and prone to carrying a dictaphone recording of a drum roll to punctuate jokes at the lunch table.

Rich: Quietly and slowly coming out of his shell until we finally plied him with gin. He was the dark horse of the week, by a country mile. A true star, with too much humility for his own good. (His sudden exclamation as someone went off to bed of "Wait, we're going to skull-fuck you!" a prime example of how much he surprised everyone, in a good way.)

Riley: Oh, Riley. Where to begin? You bought me gin and cadged me fags. You drank with me to the early hours and then encapsulated my skewed, romantic nature in a welter of 80's synth. You're the reason I now can't hear The Brakes without becoming violently angry. (Before I used to just vomit. My god, they're shit.) You are, in your own words, a guid cunt.

Geoff: How the same person can co-pen the beautiful "Birdsong" and a brilliant line concerning the mounting (not like that!) of kittens, bewilders and excites me.

John B: Master of the hat, jamming off his face, phone pictures of outrageous Cheap Trick guitars and not beating me to death as I deconstructed the entire history of the Catholic Church, loudly, in an otherwise sedate National Gallery. More than that, the way you talked of your daughter and wife was wonderful. Oh, and the first person to be impressed by my Ardal O'Hanlon impression in sometime.

Rachel: Natural Reverb. Unfair. Giggling as I once again said yoghurt in my slurred Canadian accent. You make me remember why I've always been so fond of kiwi.

Helen: Those are, indeed, some kinky shoes.

Emma-Jane (I shall grant you your real name, just this once): Our ad hoc performance of "Walking in Memphis" was a highlight. Your delight in showing Difford videos of me dancing and singing show tunes, was not. Meh.

Darren: You made me play lead guitar! And I almost got it right. You're a miracle worker. : ) In our matching hats, we played some blues.

William: You rant like no one I've ever known, and sing like you were born on a bayou. I was in stitches in every conversation, and in tears at nearly every song. You kept me sane throughout the week, with your partner-in-crime, Ms. Jackson.

Dorie: For some reason, at this second, all I can see is your face as I let out that ridiculous cackle at the table. The shock and horror will be burned on my soul forever. I don't think I've ever enjoyed someone's digust at the insect population more. You thought my name was Tomkin, and I didn't mind. Says it all really.

Christopher: I bought East Side Story in 1996, and, in the interim, I've purchased every single piece of music you've ever been involved with. Which means, calculating your royalty share, that in my life I have probably given you a grand total of £11.75. You gave me so much more, by inviting me to come, by simulataneously encouraging me and taking the piss out of me, and for a host of other things I can't even begin to put into words.

There's so much more to say. So many things I haven't written down.

Happily, there are the songs... So much more is coming back to me as we listen to the songs.

Hourglass - The Chris Difford Retreat Diaries, Part Fourteen

2007-10-03T16:59:00.001+01:00

September 8th, 2007

I can't believe it's the final day. I'm not sure what to do with myself today, knowing that tomorrow I'll be on a plane home. I miss my friends, my family and my band, but the turmoil and toil of establishing myself in the music industry whilst still paying the gas bill can frankly get to fuck.

That is, however, life. But not until Monday.

I have been appalled with myself on many occasions in my life. The chasm between the person I want to be and the things that I do is often so vast, that I am unable to bridge it without recourse to a lumberyard and a team of trained mountaineers.

I think this has a lot to do with how much I identify with Chris Difford's lyrics. He and Mr. Tilbrook always pulled the neat trick of marrying singable tunes to often heartbreaking words, something I always hanker after in a song. I wouldn't pretend that we are now best friends forever, or anything even close, cause I know that I've taken more from our time together than he has. He gives off a sense of having not always done what he thinks he ought to have done or wished he had done, and a sense of having evolved over time. He also seems like a very caring man, although not without a wicked side.

He is, in an ex-girlfriend's phrase, "3-D", that is to say, he is a mess of complications and contradictions and therefore comes across as very real. My hero worship has deepened into respect, admiration and fondness. I still want to support either of his bands, with every fibre of my being, but I shan't regret this week even I never do.

Which brings me back to being appalled with myself. I admit I packed both songwriter Kenton and hungry young artist Kenton when I came out here, equally eager to advance my skills as my career. To my eternal benefit, it hasn't been that kind of week, and for that I am eternally grateful. I've been able to be a songwriter again, without worrying about impressing anyone (outside my normal pride and ego) unduly.

Shortly before I left, I read an article about Chris taking Ron Sexsmith (another favourite of mine) to Paul McCartney's (goes without saying) house for breakfast.

I did think to myself, "Well, if that's the Chris Difford Young Canadian Songwriter Package, I'll have a bit of that." And, Chris, if you're out there... Brunch with Elvis Costello would be fine as well. Supper with Tilbrook. A snack with any of the fine musicians you've had the good fortune and talent to work with. I ain't turning anything down... (Wait, I think that was my ex's phrase as well).

But all that stuff has been washed away by the revelation (I know, long time coming) that I love what I do, and, when I'm paying attention, I'm pretty bloody good at it. And, do you know what? I'm not in competition with other people that do it. We're all in it together.

I wouldn't say it's felt like a family, cause my original family were useless and my new and adopted families are beautiful, but we do function in our own odd little way. I feel as though I've added a few people to my extended family, but more than that, I feel like I'm in the game.

There's been moments where I've both thought, "I wish you could all meet the rest of the band" and moments where I've wanted to hug my new friends to myself, all for ME!

I've been in ist for six years, and I love it. We function like either a well-oiled machine, or some well-machined oil, depending on the day of the week. Without them, the music I make would be poorer indeed. It certainly wouldn't be the same songs, and it likely wouldn't be in time.

But I was on the verge of forgetting my name, let alone my identity as an individual. Like any long-term relationship, sometimes you need to have an affair to appreciate it.

No, wait, that can't be right.

I am Kenton Johnathon Hall and I have work to do.

***

Today, I am writing with Manchester singer-songwriter Darren Poyzer. He and John Bentley wrote one of the finest singalongs of the week in a track called "Jammin' Off Your Face".

There is a sense of slight exhaustion setting in amongst the writers. I don't know if we're all just written out, or whether it's the pre-tiredness of tomorrow's travel and the knowledge that every drop of alcohol that passes our lips is only going to make the early rise even harder.

It's hard to relax.

Darren begins playing a slow, reflective number called "Play Me Some Blues" that speaks volumes about our respective experiences on the week. Figuring that now is as good a time as any for summation, we divide the verses between us and both sing of how the week has affected us.

I've been on the vodka, I've been on the gin

I've counted angels atop heads of pins

But I need you to play me some blues

Three lines to say much of what it's currently taken me about 25,000 words to express. And this is why I write songs as well as ramble on the page.

It's probably the quickest I've ever written anything. But the kicker is, the song is driven around a guitar figure that Darren plays beautifully, which means that in order for me not to sit there pulling Joe Cocker poses, I am going to have to play lead guitar.

Oh, dear suffering Christ.

I do NOT play lead guitar. Many musicians of my acquaintance would phrase this as "Kenton CAN NOT play lead guitar" and they'd be pretty close to the truth. It's just not a skill I've ever hankered after, which is good, cause I'm fucking rubbish at it. I'm a rhythm player. Even that description is likely to send the rest of my band into paroxysms.of laughter.

But play lead I do. Complete with solo. Which I practice and practice and practice, determined that I am, for one brief moment, going to join the guitarist fraternity and prove that I am not just a fucked-up Canadian with a thesaurus down his trousers.

I am a MUSICIAN.

On the night I play it perfectly, except for one note that howls out its half-tone displacement like a coyote being slaughtered with a teaspoon. On the recording it leaps out at the listener like a rabbit on crack, and makes me feel glad that I at least have a talent for self-deprecation. Also, makes me even more appreciative of the two fine guitarists who have been in ist over the years, and what they have had to put up with from me.

Riley and Rich throw a last comedy number into the pot, with "Can I Get A Refund?", a song I will revisit for you shortly, alongside the many other gems, from everyone of the week.

One more night. One more night of this, and then it's back to England.

We're taping all of these tracks, and I wonder what will become of them all. Will I hear a volley of familiar songs being released across the world over the next couple of years? Will I be on any of them? How will we celebrate when Tiny Cat (On The Table) finally reaches no. 1 in Belgium?

Speaking of Tiny Cat, we've all grown so close to the song over the week that we decide that it is absolutely essential to commit a version to tape - well, computer, but tape is much more romantic. The phrasing of it, in fact, has become a template for every other thing we say.

"There's a tiny nun in the painting"

"There's a wild boar in the shrubbery"

"There's no alcohol in Peroni"

and so on..

The problem is this. We have sung the song, most of the way through, several times. We have added and subtracted bits, and Dorie has even written all the lyrics down in a book.

We have not, however, done anything along the lines of rehearsing or arranging the damned thing.

Nonetheless, we decide to close the night by performing it. About eight of us. Me on the battered brick of an acoustic guitar that's been with me through a broken marriage, about 7,000 gigs and a volley of personal idiocies, Riley on the now infamous "Benton" keyboard, and everyone else on choir and vocal duties.

It's storming. Right up until the point when we realise that not a one of us knows when the bridge comes in. The sound of heads turning towards one another is actually audible on the recording.

I still think the song is fucking brilliant, but there is an element of "You Had to Be There" about it, which is made more apparent when we realise that most of the people who would find the song irrestibly hilarious are in the band.

Chris Difford is sitting on the stairs leading up to the studio, watching as I thrash out Em, G, Am and C and sing Geoff Martyn's immortal line, "Before you mount your kitten, you must always read the label."

I wonder if this will be his lingering memory of me.

Take it to the bridge, throw it overboard...

Tight Rope - The Chris Difford Retreat Diaries, Part Thirteen

2007-10-02T16:48:00.003+01:00

September 7th, 2007

8:00 p.m.

I have always maintained that co-habiting my head are three versions of myself, aged, respectively, five, nineteen and fifty. Sitting here at the dinner table, looking around at my new friends and co-writers, my thoughts are being passed between them like a particularly well-microwaved potato.

My hangover has lifted almost completely now, and, frankly, I feel the best I've felt all week. Or to put it another way, I have driven myself so thoroughly to the limits of what my mind and body can take, that the serotonin is flowing like cheap red wine and I'm on a natural buzz.

My five-year-old self is alternately bouncing up and down and sitting quietly in a corner wondering if anyone likes him. (Some of my most eye-opening and saddest moments in recent years have been watching my daughters begin to develop their own eccentricities and self-doubt, and feeling as though, genetically, I have handed them a ticking time bomb or an aggrieved snake.)

My nineteen-year-old self is exactly like my five-year-old self, except he's slightly more concerned if anyone likes him enough to sleep with him. The answer, of course, is no.

My fifty-year-old self is looking back on this as the beginning of wisdom, and wondering if there's anyone left who would still sleep with him, whether they like him or not.

This week has coalesced a lot of my recent feelings about what it is that I do and why I do it. "Being in a band" is a terrible phrase, conjuring up pictures of spotty oiks in dole queues, battered guitars in hand and a half-finished joint in their top pocket for later. Not that there's anything wrong with that - it is part of many of our natural evolutions.

But I want to make music. For some reason, more than anything else in this life, getting up in front of a crowd of strangers and singing for them is my aphrodisiac (and my poison). Said out loud, it seems ridiculous, like I'm being interviewed on X-Factor.

"I've always wanted to perform, like. When I was a child I was always putting on little shows, singing into a hairbrush...."

Really? No shit. Not like 75% of children everywhere.

It's not so much that I think I have something to say... although, occasionally I do... but that I feel the need to say SOMETHING. There is so much banality and so little actual humour in the world these days. You have singers trumpeting the fact that they love their "baby" or indeed, want to sex said "baby" up, you have the teenage and young adult experience summed up as "I'd rather be with your friends, mate, 'Cause they are much fitter" as though young people's lives consist of only the externals, the painkillers and the mating dance. (I'm all in favour of the witty dissection of everyday life, but that particular Kate Nash song makes me want to punch her parents for not condom-ing up.) Alternate experiences descend into violence and boasting, testosterone and estrogen trotted out as the be all and end all of our lives.

It's all so removed from my experiences, I feel like an alien.

I'm trying to work towards something that actually reflects what I and others like me go through - to tell stories that make you laugh and cry. This week has finally made it sink in that I am not alone in that. I needed that.

Of course, I also want to write a kick-ass chorus that people sing along with whilst waving their hands in the air (as if, perhaps, they just don't care).

I feel myself zone out of the conversation for a moment, and once again, I'm a little bewildered that I am here with all these people. Every single one of has continued to fascinate me, for a wide variety of reasons. I can't say I've become close to all of them, and I think it would be unrealistic to expect that. We're as different from each other as we can be. We come from different countries, different backgrounds, different outlooks.

Take Dorie and me, for instance. Dorie was raised in a house full of music. Her father is a musician. There seems to have been encouragement and a sense that music was something you could do for a job. I'm sure she's had her share of unhappiness, as have we all, but trauma is not heavy on her brow.

I was raised by lunatics who tried to beat me into a preacher, who discouraged and disparaged the things I loved until I no longer loved them. There was music in my house, but it became a battleground and, for me, an escape. It was probably an escape for my father, as well, who dreamt of glamour and exoticism and settled for bitterness and madness.

We're probably at the extremes, but, by and large, what we do is the same. You don't need to be damaged to make great music, you just need to care.

Of course, for all I know, she spent a year running a Taiwanese brothel, or as a serial killer, so my glib observations are probably best glossed over.

(Quick note from the present: Buy Dorie's debut album, The Courting Ground, out now.... Click Here!)

Chris Difford speaks with great affection of his parents, both in song and in life, yet you can tell that, in his life, there has been pain: heartache, confusion... It's a crap shoot, and at the end of the day, what you see in other people's eyes is as important as what lurks behind your own.

It's the same with everyone here, and I wish I had more time and less need for a gang. I wish I was a nicer person.

To Dorie, William, Riley, Danielle, Darren, Amber, Helen, John B, Chris, Emma-Quentin, Rachel, Rich and Geoff: I owe you all a tremendous thank you. You made a lot of things clear to me, just by being there, and being yourselves. That's not meant to be sickly sweet, although it is a measure of what a soft, overwrought bastard I am.

I admit to wondering what they thought of me, if they thought of me, while I was thinking all that. I'm a performer, I can't help it.

It wouldn't be too long, however, before they will all be forced to think about me, courtesy of Riley Briggs.

***

We're in the studio again, our penultimate performance. Rachel and I have just performed "The Man That She Left (Lying in Her Bed", and again, I am stunned by her voice, and revolted by mine. We are hampered only by a combination of low lighting, and absent contact lenses that render the lyrics on the page near meaningless for Ms. Dawick.

Eventually, she goes to fetch her glasses, leaving me to vamp.

"So," I say, in my cheesiest Blackpool comic voice, "Everyone having a good time?"

"Where you all from?"

This gets a big laugh, the mark of a group of people who have been attended FAR too many bad gigs in their time.

I'm proud of our song tonight, I feel as though I've told a story - mid-performance expletive from Ms. Dawick as she struggled to read my high-scoring Scrabble lyrics notwithstanding (she really seemed to worry about this. I thought it was fucking fantastic.)

But the best was yet to come.

Riley, Geoff and Emma-Fred have just performed a fantastic Meatloaf homage about the art of writing songs, complete with a full-on rock solo, performed on acoustic guitar. As they finish, Riley moves to the keyboard.

"This next song is going to get me killed," he says, before launching into a set of 80's synth chords, lifted straight from the Survivor/Hall & Oates catalogue.

The song is "Bent On Loving You" and it's about me.

Never tell new friends you just to be called "Benton" at school.

It'll be up to Riley to transcribe the full lyrics, but here's a sampler of the choicer couplets.

"He wears a waistcoat, a shirt and tie"

"He's got the old bass player from Hue & Cry"

or the one that will forever get me in trouble:

"You're the one that he loves the best-ah!"

"Forget the wife and the kids in Leicester."

Now I don't it's cruel to say that some of our party might have been deeply upset by having their character dissected in such a way, even affectionately.

What does it say about me that I was thrilled? Thrilled to the bottom of my long black coat. I felt as though I'd been noticed.

Sad, sad, sad...

All together now...

"He's bent on loving you.... What else can a poor Canadian boy do?"

I'm starting to get Sunday evening syndrome now, though. I shall be sad to leave. I don't feel like I'm away from home. I feel like I've been lifted out of life and put down in the way I imagine my ideal life to be. But there's no time to think of that now. Still another day's writing to accomplish, more jokes to tell, more nonsense to spout and more of this experience to unravel.

When the Hangover Strikes - The Chris Difford Retreat Diaries, Part Twelve

2007-10-01T15:40:00.002+01:00

September 7th, 2007

10:30 a.m.

I am dreaming and while, as usual, there is an erotic componenent to my subconscious wanderings, this times it's not in a good way. Naked women are dancing around me, rhythmically shoving red-hot skewers into my cerebral cortex with all the grace and sensitivity of a rabid weasel.

I am frightened to open my eyes, lest I discover that I have been kidnapped by a serial killer who is now proceeding to torture me to death.

Oh dear fucking God. Mary, mother of Christ, and all the fucking saints...

Even in my semi-conscious state, I can feel the headache. It feels as though my head has been hollowed out and filled with wasps. Wasps made of acid. With guns. And hammers.

Where am I? (Italy, Kenton.)

Who am I? (You're the Archbishop of Canterbury. Pay attention, you dick. You are Kenton Hall.)

Why, dear God, why? (Cause you're a dick, who thought it would be big and clever to hoover up everything vaguely alcoholic within a 60 yard radius, on the grounds that you think it makes you more interesting. May I say again, dick.)

I stumble from my bed, if only to escape whoever it is that is talking to me with such vitriol and pure hatred. That's funny, I think, I wonder what my mother's doing here.

I fall into the shower, happily remembering to remove most of my clothing, if not all. The shower is comprised of thousands of little pin-pricks of water, each making, in my current state, a sound best represented as the word "CLANG!".

Droplets of vodka are crawling from my pores and waging war with the droplets of water, causing further unnecessary noise.

I fall out of the apartment door, stepping on Vampire Toad once again, but this time without any guilt. Let the fucker suffer. Goddamn undead amphibians.

I fall back into the apartment when I realise that at no point in the previous three paragraphs have I put my clothes back on.

I've already made clear that breakfast is not a meal with which I agree, nor which agrees with me, but I feel it necessary to announce my presence, get any pointing and laughing from my compatriots out of the way, and inject as much pure caffeine into my veins as is allowed by law.

A half-hearted and painful rummage through my luggage has confirmed that I have brought no painkillers with me. On my way to the kitchen, I fall weeping upon the neck of Emma-Elisabeth-Jim and beg.

"Give... me....," I say, with all the syllables I can muster, "... drugs. PLEASE? I will do anything you ask."

She fails to ask for anything interesting, which figures. Women. But, bless her ivory-tinkling heart, she produces a pain-threatening pill which I wash down with a mouthful of beer in a vain attempt to be the first person to prove the hair of the dog theory correct. Not that there is any alcohol in our beer, mind, but there you go.

My co-writer for the day, according to the little of Chris' list that I can read, is Rachel Dawick, a charming New Zealander who - to the admiration and envy of all - appears to have had a reverb unit inserted in her throat at birth. It truly is a glorious voice. I would be very much looking forward to writing with her, if I didn't feel the need to kill every single blade of grass surrounding the house for making such a godawful racket. Little wavy, green fucks.

I pass various groups of other writers all of whom look on me with a mixture of pity and amusement. I look like a bad photograph of myself, my eyes so red I can feel bulls from Spain stampeding in the distance.

Riley does not, the fucker, look as bad as I feel, but I'm trusting him when he maintains that he too is suffering the after-effects. Dorie opts for a sympathetic, "Oh dear..." but there's a smile in it.

Everyone tells me I was very drunk indeed. Uh-oh. Cause I don't remember being drunk until very late on in the evening. I do have a vague recollection of Dorie urging me to dance with her and then giving up with a fit of the giggles after I clearly out-Ian-Curtis'd Ian Curtis.

Look, I'm enthusiastic, if not accurate. (If I had a pound...)

I decide I am not going to think about anything I have said or done, but rather attempt to read in my fellow writers' faces any attempts I have made to bite, seduce or armwrestle any of them.

It seems that everyone is still talking to me, which is good... I haven't seen Mr. Difford yet, which is primary concern, as I fear what arse-clenchingly brown-nosey dribble might have poured from my drunken face in his presence.

I can just see me with an arm perched in unwelcome fashion on his shoulder, saying something along the lines of, "YOuknow... Ilikesqueeze.... Hey, I should be in Squeeze... How come I'm not in Squeeze, Chris? TELL ME!"

Rachel and I retire to the pool to compose, or in my case, decompose. The only writing I feel at all competent to engage in is a last minute will.

I decide a bracing swim might do the trick. The water is cold, the sun is hot and I no longer give an ounce of flying badger sputum what anyone thinks of my body. All I want is for my head to stop doing whatever it is it thinks it's doing.

I dive into the water, feeling my nipples first harden and then retreat through my back as the icy water slaps me around. God only knows how cold I'd feel if I didn't have this slick of vodka protecting me from the elements.

Eventually, I lie down beside the pool, wedge a towel over my face and let Rachel play the guitar. Hungover, lying beside the pool, clearly dying, I feel like a character in a Raymond Chandler novel, and the first line out of my face is the following:

I step from the harsh lights of neon and gilt

Eventually, the incredibly patient Rachel and I construct a vodka-soaked, hungover story to go with the vodka-soaked, hungover lyricist expiring in the Italian sun. Her voice is such that I begin to come to with every line, from the sheer joy of hearing her sing the words she and I are conjuring. I even pick up the guitar to help with the music, however much it hurts.

We conceive a tale of a woman, alone in a seedy bar, telling her story to the usual bartender. Only, as it transpires, all is not as it seems.

I step from the harsh lights of neon and gilt

Into the shadows of Ed's bar and grill

It's solitary patrons, their backs to the wall

If I wasn't one of them, I'd be appalled.

Walked up to the barman and asked for a light

He picked up a bartowel and polished his lines

And played the old number 'bout "places like this"

I said, "You're mistaken. I'm not on that list."

I'm drinking now, but can't seem to forget

The man that I left lying in my bed.

It's a cracking song, and when Rachel sings it, it really comes alive.

I only wish I would.

At lunchtime, Mr. Difford looks at me and says, "Your eyes tell the story."

But I don't appear to have tried to bite or seduce him, so, in the long run, the day is actually going well so far.

What's Wrong With This Picture? - The Chris Difford Retreat Diaries, Part Ten

2007-10-01T10:34:00.008+01:00

September 6th, 2007

It seems inconceivable to me that we should have passed the half-way point of the week. I’m trying not to think about it, other than in idyllic daydreams of sending for the band and the family and living here instead. Perhaps some manner of commune could be formed. I could grow my hair and my poor imitation of a beard even longer and wait for Interpol to arrive with the tear gas.

Ah, a boy can dream.

The children could learn Italian, I’m sure. I mean they spend half their time making languages up. Also, they have a despicable Leicester accent which needs to be driven from them somehow… The Power of Christ compels you!!

Today is a day off and we are headed to Perugia to see the sights. Over the last few days, the idea has been mooted that perhaps, some of us, early this morning, could attempt a walk to the top of a large hill nearby. I had my usual reaction to any idea which sounds ridiculous on paper.

“Hell, yes,” I said, “I’m in!”

“No other group,” says Chris “Cheeses of Jerusalem” Difford, in his sultry way, “has ever managed it.”

“Even better,” says Kenton “Won’t You Shut the Hell Up, You Demented Canadian Bastard?” Hall.

William Topley sums up the feelings of many of the group on hearing of this idea in his usual succinct style.

“Fuck that,” says the gentleman Topley. And he means it.

I go to bed the night before dreaming of the morning, smoking that first, extremely necessary cigarette, looking out over Umbria and strumming a guitar gently in the morning breeze.

When I wake up at 11, a good couple of hours past the projected time of departure, I suffer from a momentary pang of guilt, laziness and regret. All my new friends are, undoubtedly, stood on top of the mountain, plotting world domination, and laughing in a carefree, F. Scott Fitzgerald manner at the decrepitude of Canadian songwriters in general and myself in particular.

I can see it, in my mind’s eye.

“I’m very disappointed with that boy,” Difford is surely saying, “I’ve half a mind to demand all of his Squeeze albums back for this treachery. And to think I was going to introduce him into society.”

“And we,” the women of the group respond, shivering at the very thought, “were intending to drink enough for him to become moderately attractive. My God, what a lucky escape.”

Of course, when I drag myself to the breakfast table, it turns out that the virginity of the hill, in terms of climbing songwriters remains resolutely intact.

Still, we have our day out to think about.

Here is what I know about Perugia:

Perugia is the capital city of the region of Umbria and the province of Perugia in central Italy and is near the Tiber River.

It is a notable artistic center of Italy. The town gave his nickname to the famous painter Pietro Vannucci, Perugino, the teacher of Raphael, the Renaissance Artist.

It is twinned, for some unholy reason, with Seattle.

God bless the solid ten minutes of research I did on Wikipedia before leaving Leicester.

We pile into a variety of cars, vans and 4X4’s and head off to the station, from where we will catch our train to Perugia.

Now it is a matter of record amongst those who know me well that I adore trains. Not, I hasten to add, in a train-spotting fashion. I couldn’t give a good goddamn what number is plated to its side, where it was built, who designed it or its historical relevance. All I need to know is that it serves coffee and will travel past fields. I find travelling past fields enormously soothing. I have written many of my best songs while passing fields in trains.

Also, I find trains deeply erotic. To this day, it is still my most trenchant sexual fantasy. I might be slightly hamstrung by the aesthetic qualities of Midland Mainlines, but with a sufficiently willing partner, I’d still give it go.

I remember an ex-girlfriend once telling me of a sexual escapade in which she had engaged, on a train, with a previous partner. Obviously, this was a story I wanted to hear about as much as I wanted to have hot knives flung at my groin by an embittered ex-NASA chimp, but I can honestly say I was as upset by the fact that she’d done it on a train and I hadn’t as I was by the thought of her with someone else.

(What is it about the beginning of a relationship that prompts men and women to talk of their previous sexual partners with abandon? We think, “Well, they want to know the real me, and these people have been an important part of my emotional and sexual make-up, so where’s the harm?” Okay, some of you are probably very grown-up about these things, and I certainly wish I was, but, frankly, while I understand she didn’t just pull that trick from last night out of thin air, I don’t want to know about the guy who taught it to her. I’m a child. I’m sorry. I’m working on it.)

The train we board is a short journey train, so it is lacking in some of the necessaries – not to mention an utter lack of willing participants for my pass-the-time-on-the-train game – but it has the benefit of being in Italy, and in good company.

The first problem we encounter is that we have been hurried on to a soon leaving train by our hosts and left to purchase our tickets onboard. We have been informed of how much they are going to cost, but most of us are banging our poor and bloodied hands mercilessly against the language barrier and the conductor appears to decide to take advantage of us, by imitating a character from Lewis Carroll.

A more surreal experience purchasing tickets, for any manner of public conveyance, I have yet to undergo.

There’s about nine of us travelling together on the train. Danielle gets landed with the unenviable job – particularly as she has spent the last few days not feeling terribly well – of conversing with the conductor while we scrabble in our pockets for the milled-edged shrapnel that is our unfamiliar European change.

The conversation, which is conducted through a bewildering combination of mime, Italian, English and modern dance, translates roughly into the following exchange:

Danielle: Nine tickets to Perugia, please…

Conductor: Oh my God, you are all musicians. Now, under Italian law, I am perfectly within my rights to hurl each of your struggling, transient bodies from this moving train and laugh heartily as you thud to the ground in a maelstrom of broken bones and gore. However, I am feeling whimsical today and will therefore sell you tickets.

Danielle: Am I right in thinking that these tickets are two euros each?

Conductor: It knows too much. (He quotes a random number) 12,000 euros, please.

Danielle: Nine tickets to Perugia, please.

Eventually, he hands out some tickets which are all marked with varying prices, ranging from one to three euros. Danielle distributes these to the group. The conductor then immediately begins to go round us, taking them away again, saying something that appears to be the lyrics to “I Should Be So Lucky” by Kylie Minogue, translated into the Italian by particularly gifted sheep.

He bids us farewell, and I spend the rest of the journey waiting for another conductor to appear and warn us of the dangerous madman who is prowling the train, masquerading as a railway employee.

On our arrival, we meet up with the remainder of the group who have travelled over in Chris’s car.

It is clear that the majority are less interested in the sights of the city than in finding a bar that serves beer with actual alcohol in it, but Rich’s eye is caught by the National Gallery of Umbria, and feeling as though a bit of culture will do us good, myself and Mr. Bentley decide to join him.

After a brief and touristy foray into the gift shop, where John and I thumb through a coffee table book of paintings the size of a dining room table and I laugh out loud at an appalling children’s book – in poorly constructed English – called, “Hi, I’m Raphael!” we make our way upstairs.

The gallery itself is guarded by a small, shrewish woman who is clearly serving out a sentence of community service and appears about as pleased to see us as she would a bout of genital warts. She clearly expects us to be trouble.

Upon entering the gallery, we are confronted by eighteen rooms depicting scenes from the life of Christ, alongside his favourite saints and martyrs. The Madonna and Child and Crucifixion are represented no fewer than three hundred times a piece, across several hundred years of Italian Christianity.

It soon transpires that Rich is a student of art history, although not of any of the periods we are viewing, and that my religious upbringing is good for, if nothing else, blaspheming my way around Umbrian art galleries at a good old whack.

The first piece in front of which we gather is a near life-size wooden sculpture of Christ on the cross, with heavily stylised pectorals, and what appears to be a large erection. This pose occurs frequently through the first few rooms. In most of the renderings of the baby Jesus and Mum, Mary looks positively hacked off, like a council estate mother on the receiving end of an ASBO, and Jesus is portrayed as a pint-sized middle-aged man who is more than likely about to be caught up in Operation Ore.

There appears to have been little or no room for personal artistic expression, likely for fear of excommunication and warmish pokers in the most nether of one’s regions.

Other recurring figures in the paintings include a very tiny nun, lurking about the corners of a great many works (There’s a tiny nun in the painting… a tiny nun in the painting) and a small black devil on a chain. The latter appears to symbolise either the constant struggle to keep Satan at bay and under control, or else an Italian predilection for mutilating cats.

Nonetheless, a fine time is had and Messrs Brown and Bentley – the latter always my favourite bass player in Squeeze, with no disrespect intended at all to Messrs. Kakoulli, Wilkinson or Penda – prove to be fine companions.

On the train back, in fact, he blesses me with stories of his time in the band, his feelings on his return, and an absolute magic story – for me especially – from the making of East Side Story, the first Squeeze album I ever bought.

Elvis Costello and Roger Bechirian were producing, and I have made my love for both the album and Mr. Costello quite evident over the course of the week, so he handed me a gem.

He related returning to the studio after a break, having purchased a handful of records, and having the bag taken from him by EC, music junkie that he is, for inspection. After discarding a number of Mr. Bentley’s choices, he eventually pulled out one and not knowing the artist, or at least well, enquired about it.

The artist was Robert Wyatt, and Costello ended up borrowing the record.

The next year, “Shipbuilding” was released. (Obviously, there’s no doubt a lot more to have happened in the interim, but I think even having ANY part in introducing Mr. Costello to the work of Mr. Wyatt is something of which to be forever proud.)

Now that is a story I will hold close to my heart for some time to come.

We arrive back at the train station, and are once more collected by our fine hosts from the house and whisked to Valeria’s parents’ restaurant for what now feels like a family meal.

The day is only just beginning. I can’t wait to see what happens next. I’m crossing my fingers for spontaneous nudity and, just perhaps, frolicking.

Slightly Drunk, The Chris Difford Retreat Diaries, Part Eleven

2007-10-01T10:34:00.006+01:00

September 6th, 2007

We pull up to the restaurant in Umbertide in a bewildering variety of vehicles, looking like the cast of the most unlikely heist movie in history. God knows what we have been gathered together by Don Diffordio to steal. Cigarettes, perhaps, or cheese.

Riley Briggs stumbles from the boot of Alessio's 4X4, looking green about the gills, his previous meal threatening a new Scottish uprising.

Alessio, one of our hosts at Monestevole, is a bear of a man, all eyes, hair, beard and teeth. In addition to his position of Lord of the Manor (a purely honorary title, as his wife Valeria, like most women, is clearly and rightly in charge) he is an actor and has recently returned from shooting an epic on a budget in Argentina. He is one of those people who oozes virility and would the first person to whom you would point were aliens to land on the planet and demand an immediate demonstration of the human concept of "being alive."

He is also, clearly, mad as a box of bees. Riley describes the journey with a mixture of admiration and horror that would seem more at home in a Joseph Conrad novella than an Italian car park. Alessio appears to have taken the "off-road" capacity of his vehicle as less of an option and more of a command from on high, and has been driving, at speed, along a route that would be stretching the strictest definitions of the qualifier, "scenic".

Just to raise the stakes, he has also has been playing baroque Italian pop music at full volume, which would be no bad thing in itself, if it weren't for Alessio's need to mime the instrumental parts whilst driving. One hand, apparently, leaves the wheel at regular intervals to tap out the keyboard parts on the dashboard. There is, according to Riley, a particularly hairy moment during a trumpet solo, when he is left steering with what modesty dearly hopes were his knees, but knowing Alessio, may have been any number of appendages.

I like him immensely, and feel that I have missed out somehow.

Over the course of the week, with our two and three course meals twice a day, we have apparently been shortchanged, for tonight we are to be blessed with no fewer than 17,000. For my body, it's a nice change of pace from my usual dietary regime:

Breakfast: Coffee, cigarettes.

Lunch: Coffee, cigarettes.

Dinner: Coffee, cigarettes.

Around 11:30 p.m: Spaghetti and a block of mature cheddar.

This is, of course, only during rehearsal weeks. On tour, I supplement this with service station sandwiches and wine gums. With my insomnia factored into the bargain, suffice it to say, I'm not necessarily a poster child for healthy living.

After thanking Valeria for both the lift and her family's hospitality over the week, I leap in the smoke-shrouded direction of William and Dorie, both sucking back cigarettes in the rapidly chilling Italian night.

I have grown very fond of Mr. Topley and Miss Jackson. What they think of me, I don't know, although they have both been very kind. William reminds me very strongly of our Mr. McCourt, a quick wit and a sharp tongue, backed by an incredibly poetic soul. Dorie is just insanely talented, and a very appealing mixture of silliness and elegance. She is one of those people that appears to no have sense of their own good looks or ability, without seeming overly self-deprecatory at all. She just seems comfortable being Dorie Jackson. Even if it's not 100% true, for this is a rare state of affairs indeed, she projects it and, in her line of work, that's a tremendous advantage.

And so, we stand, and we smoke. And we bitch and we joke.

The smoking ban, I feel, makes for close relationships amongst those who still partake of the demon weed. I know smoking is bad for me, I don't smoke around my children or in their house, and one day I'm sure I will, for reasons of age and health, pack it in. The thing that keeps me smoking, other than, of course, my raging nicotine addiction, is that I find anti-smokers so appallingly self-righteous. I believe that, in life, many of the things that are bad for us are essential to our growth as human beings, and I as I don't drink anything like I used to, and have never been overly involved with drugs, I need my vices. They keep me sane. Self-justification, I know, but those are my reasons. And very few of my other vices can be explored in public without fear of arrest.

The meal is sublime, if FAR more food than my delicate constitution can withstand. But then... then... we discover the smoking area.

Apparently, in Italy, it is - for the time being - still legal for a restaurant to have a smoking area. An area, separate from other diners, where one can smoke indoors! The novelty! The sheer bliss!

I have long held - and it's only being borne out more rapidly thanks to the Nannies and Nazis in various governments - that at least 80% of the respiratory diseases contracted by smokers are caused by being forced to smoke outdoors, whatever the weather. It's a spurious argument, without any medical basis in fact, but I maintain that this does not make it any the less true. Christianity has no basis in fact, it hasn't stopped millions of people from fucking the world up with it. So there. This is my faith.

Riley (another kindred spirit, although someone I would like a lot more if he didn't insist on being good at songwriting AND playing the guitar, the bastard), Dorie, William and I retire to this Xanadu of tobacco-laced grace and luxuriate in the stale atmosphere we had thought dead forever.

Here in Italy, where they actually embraced Fascism officially, if briefly, we finally get a break from the stranglehold most Western, Democratic countries seem to want to place on their citizens.

A little bit of politics there, Kenton. Ah well, if it weren't for authority figures, I'd only have Oasis and Russell Brand to hate.

After the meal, we return to the studio, where Mr. Difford has promised us a set of his own. I take the Alessio express, whose departure is announced by a cry from the man himself of "Who comes with me? Vomit for free!"

It is everything Riley said and more. I don't think I've ever been so happy. We take seven spins on the same roundabout at one point, and then career through increasingly narrow side streets like we're auditioning for a remake of The French Connection. It is fucking brilliant. I take the boot, for the full experience, and sway and sing to my little Canadian heart's content.

Back at the ranch, Mr. Difford has brought his guitar. With Dorie on backing vocals, and John Bentley guesting on lead guitar, we get Squeeze and solo material played as we sip Sangria, prepared earlier alongside our usual tipples of vodka, sambuca, vats of cheap wine and non-alcoholic beer.

Or at least I do...

But from Chris, we get Cool for Cats, Tempted, Up the Junction ("I'm working on a chorus," Chris quips in response to Riley's "Needs work."), Cowboys are My Weakness (more on this song at a later date), Fat as a Fiddle (a new song I've heard twice now, which I believe was written with Boo Hewerdine, and which I adore), Pulling Mussels from a Shell, Black Coffee in Bed, Goodbye Girl... It's amazing. On the recording, you can, one, just about hear me singing along at the top of my lungs to every bloody track, and two, hear me and Riley requesting increasingly obscure songs that Chris hasn't rehearsed. There is a terribly embarrassing moment where I bleat "No Show Jones", a cracking song from Chris' first solo album, and am quite rightly ignored for being such a swot.

The night begins become a blur around this point. This may or may not have something to do with the fact that earlier in the day I had commented on the fact that, despite consuming heroic quantities of alcohol, none of us appear to have been properly pissed at any point. No falling over, no vomiting on tiny cat, no orgies of any description.

I'm a man on a mission. Despite my bottle of vodka, I really don't get drunk anymore. The first two or nine ist tours saw to that. But every so often, I feel the need to loosen up and tie one on, just to see what happens. Tonight is that night.

At one point, I even wandered off to bed with everyone else, before deciding that was BORING and heading back.

Riley, up to this point, has been the record holder for keeping the party alive, so once everyone has finally buggered off, I decide to join him.

I actually don't feel drunk at this point, not in a swaying, sick-making way. I am, it seems, my other, more usual type of intoxicated - the talk absolute nonsense and spill all my most innermost secrets kind of drunk.

Every love, lust and crush is identified and dissected. My history is laid out, in chronological order and with slides. My thoughts on, well, everything are trotted out and paraded around the room in hopes of a blue ribbon. Riley responds in kind, only at slightly less hectic a verbal pace. We nod at each other's stories in a wise and understanding way, secure in the knowledge that if only, for the love of all that is HOLY, they would just put us in charge of the world, everything would be OKAY. I run out of cigarettes, I start cadging Riley's. For now, he seems okay with that, but I must remember to get him some more or else be tarred - as I usually am - as a sponger of rare ability.

I tell this man everything. He probably knows more about me now than anyone alive. He is a dangerous man and must be stopped. It's cathartic for me, but I should imagine Mr. Briggs would, sober, be thinking something along the lines of, "Oh, for fuck's sake...". He's probably thinking it drunk.

The worst thing is, we're both writers. We're both storing up all of this information and filing it in a mental notebook at the back of a mental cupboard in the bottom of a mental box, labelled "STUFF".

I must never, ever, ever piss off Riley Briggs. Aberfeldy are the greatest band in the universe, Riley the most attractive man, and his children are destined to rule the world someday. The money is in a brown envelope, behind the oak tree.

We see in the sunrise through drink-narrowed eyes, hug in a brisk manly fashion, and stumble off to bed.

It is 6:30 a.m. on September 7th, 2007.

I have a song to write tomorrow. Oh fuck.

Cool for (Tiny) Cats - The Chris Difford Retreat Diaries, Part Eight

2007-10-01T10:33:00.005+01:00

September 4th, 2007

It is approximately 4:15 in the afternoon, Italian time, and I am waiting for Chris Difford to drive me to town in his rented Mini. It says a lot about the influence of popular culture that I am sorely tempted to check the boot of his car for stolen art.

As is usually the case with me, when waiting for anything, my mind is wandering like a medieval minstrel. There are two topics foremost on my mind: the fact that I am cadging a lift with a man to whose music I have had sex and the presence in my life over the last few days of a vampire toad.

The Vampire Toad has become my nemesis since the night I arrived. As with most half-decent nemeses, it began with an entirely innocent mistake. At some point, for some reason, I returned to mine and Rich's apartment to fetch something: likely my iPod for the purposes of showing off. It was dark, as night has a tendency to be in these strange foreign countries, and as I opened the door, I was momentarily distracted by the expanse of stars, twinkling above me, like God's own powdered rhino horn.

In the confusion of silence, blackness and melancholy ardour, I stepped into the front room and stepped, with my full weight, on a toad.

I didn't mean to do it, officer, it was an accident. There was a suitably revolting sound effect, a hissed "What the fuck was that?" escaped from my lips and a single star, in absence of recently birthed Messiahs, decided to cast a pale shaft of light on to what was, quite obviously, a very recently deceased toad.

For a moment I was torn between guilt and disgust, emotions I know better than many of my friends. I fetched some manner of toad-flinging apparatus and hurled the depressed green body into the night.

The next night, I stepped on the toad again. Now I am no toad expert, and ordinarily, I wouldn't know one from another, but there was a glint in the creature's eye that sealed it for me. It was the same toad, risen from the dead, and out to exact its revenge.

It's been there ever since, lurking in the shadows. (Obviously being a vampire toad, direct sunlight is a no-no.) And this morning I woke up with two mysterious bites on my torso, so I'm just waiting for the transformation now.

The other things on my mind, of course, was that I have been cast into professional circumstances with Mr. Difford, and there was a time when "Argybargy" by Squeeze, was high on my bedroom album list. Should Chris ever stumble upon these diaries, I am deeply sorry for the nausea you are likely to experience on hearing such a thing, but I don't think you or your bandmates are entirely without blame.

The album was DESIGNED for carnal experiences. It starts with "Pulling Mussels" and ends with "There At The Top".

"I Think I'm Go-Go" is perfectly placed for the main action to begin, although I was slightly offended at the early placement of "Here Comes That Feeling"... what do you take me for? "Wrong Side of The Moon" is a handy subliminal tip towards the end there, however, and for that I thank you.

If it's a one night stand I do recommend the reissue, with its afterglow commentary in "Funny How It Goes" and, finally, "Go".

See what I mean. They've only got themselves to blame.

Eventually, Chris emerges from his room and myself, Emma-Aloysius, and Helen are whisked, dans mini, into the Italian mountains.

The sun has crept from the clouds, and we are looking over the Italian countryside, with its ruined castles and rolling hills. Chris is telling a story about Aimee Mann, another of my key artists, and I do have to pinch myself slightly.

On arrival in the town, we head to a small internet cafe, where Chris and Emma-Carl take advantage of the WiFi service, whilst Helen and I queue for an available computer.

I will gloss over my internet experience, as it was deeply boring, and only proved to reinforce my addiction, particularly after desperately trying to convince myself that I was not going to miss anything important, I manage to intercept, just in time, a message about a label meeting for our producer, Mr. Burnett.

I had planned to learn a little Italian before I came out, as I hate feeling like a tourist, communicating at a low-IQ level through a series of random Italian words, shouted English words, and gestures that would seem overwrought in a drunken game of charades.

I didn't, so I keep myself to myself in the hopes that I will be taken for a mime, and perhaps given money.

Towards the end of my email extravanganze, I am approached by a man - who in the international language of holding out one's hand - is clearly asking for money himself. I am somewhat distracted, attempting to type, listen, translate and respond simultaneously, and he becomes frustrated quickly.

Eventually, when it is clear to him that I am, undoubtedly, both ignorant and mentally deficient, he resorts to props, and digs deep into his pockets. When he withdraws his hand, he is clutching a fistful of one euro coins. There must be about 50 or 60 of them. Now, I don't have 50 or 60 euros left to my name and I am tempted to thrust my own hand into my Mary Poppins pocket and show him my lint.

As it is, I gently urge him to fuck right off, which he does, cursing my name in what, I admit, is an extremely poetic way.

Our trip was punctuated by one or two other oddities, such as a Mini full of songwriters driving extremely slowly and leaning out of the windows, trying to read the date on a Van Der Graaf Generator poster. (Saxophonist and flautist David Jackson of Van Der Graaf being the father of one Ms. Dorie Jackson, and undoubtedly responsible for the repeated impression of "flute face" to which we have all been repeatedly treated by Dorie and Geoff, to the falling over laughing of all.)

On the way back, Emma-Francine and I beset Chris with questions about all and sundry. This soon descends into an entertaining discussion on the behaviour of exes, particularly at gigs, and in the presence of current partners. It is perhaps, unsuprising, that we all have far too many stories to share on the subject.

We return to our songwriting partners, and "Scorpion Girl" is given a few more giggling run-throughs. I'm feeling much more positive about a song where I can strum freely and earn, as I do, the moniker of "loudest guitar player".

Dinner is the usual plateloads of excellent food, and then once again, we retire to the studio to perform.

William introduces the song in Italian, which is something he has clearly been working on in my absence. Happily, the song goes down a treat, with laughter in exactly the right places. I am alway astounded and gratified by an audience that can a) hear the lyrics and b) is bothering to listen.

I realise I have said little about the other songs being written and performed by my compatriots, and this is only partly because of heaving jealousy. I am planning to do a breakdown later, once I've had a chance to absorb everyone else's work with the benefit of hindsight and without my nerves getting in the way. There is some stunning work being done - some funny, some serious, some just plain knock-out beautiful. It is an honour and a privilege to be a part of it.

Once again, we sit up until the early hours - Dorie and I have, between us, invested in a couple of bottles of vodka which garnered a look from Chris, as if to say, "I have hereby identified the raging alcoholics amongst us." We mix this with cans of lemon soda, which Ms. Jackson appears to have bought by the truckload.

Songwriting games are played, with a song being passed along, word by word to each member of the group. There is a brief period after being handed the word "natural", where I refuse to sing anything but the word "yoghurt", which lasts until Dorie hires Geoff to sit next to me with a blunt object and whack me should the first syllable so much as creep towards my lips.

Rachel Dawick, blaming it later on the tipple, has until this point, been next to me, following my "yoghurt" or other nonsense, with "What?" in her New Zealand trill, before bursting into laughter and leaving the table.

Once we have exhausted the permutations of this, our attention is once again drawn to Tiny Cat, begat by Pirate Cat, who is weaving between the bottles, glasses and cans in exploratory mode.

A song begins to form, one of those stone cold classics that will forever grace the record players, iPods, 8-Tracks, and CD Changers of a generation.

"Tiny Cat on the Table" is, if I may say so, one of the finest pieces of work in which any of us have ever been involved. This haunting song, about the travails and experiences of a small feline in a world that just doesn't understand, will go down in history. We think David Bowie should cover it.

I include the complete lyrics here:

Tiny Cat (On The Table)

When I was just a young man, I was told a fable

By my Uncle Arthur and my Auntie Mabel

I thought it wasn't true, till I saw a documentary on cable

Debunking all the myths, about tiny cats on tables

CHORUS:

And there's a tiny cat on the table

A tiny cat on the table

They say you won't be able

To put a tiny cat on the table

They say it's therapeutic, for the mad and the disabled

To test their motor functions

Putting tiny cats on tables

So I had a conversation, about it with Clark Gable

He said, before you mount your kitten,

You must always read the label

REPEAT CHORUS

Tiny cat, tiny cat, tiny cat, tiny cat, tiny cat, tiny cat, tiny tiny tiny cat

BRIDGE:

Tiny Cat, where have you been?

What kind of trouble are in you in?

Have you gone outside to play?

No. You're in the ashtray.

CHORUS 2:

And there's a tiny cat in the ashtray

A tiny cat in the ashtray

Tiny cat in the ashtray

A tiny cat in the ashtray

- SOLO, Obviously -

REPEAT CHORUS 1

Tiny cat, tiny cat, tiny cat, tiny cat, tiny cat, tiny cat, tiny tiny tiny cat

TO END

I think you can all see that none of us need ever work again.

Can of Worms, The Chris Difford Retreat Diaries, Part Nine

2007-10-01T10:33:00.004+01:00

September 5th, 2007

The days are beginning to blend into one another, in a glorious way. Much as I miss the people in my life back home, I was beginning - in the run up to my trip - to become a despicably grumpy and stressed out human being. Most mornings, I was waking up with the desire to punch someone - anyone - from a very long list, very hard in the throat.

I'm sure my children are, at this moment, relishing the opportunity to charge through their mother's house without encountering their wild-eyed Canadian father ranting on the landing, mobile phone pressed against his head at an unacceptable level of G-Force.

"Cuntingarsingbastard," they are not supposed to hear me say, "Fuckityfuckfuckfuck. Goddamn bastard record labels/managers/booking agents, etc, etc."

Obviously, I am also forced to interrupt my conversation to impart pearls of paternal wisdom which, one day, they will pass to their own children:

"STOP POKING YOUR SISTER WITH THAT FORK! AND THE SPOON! WHY IS THERE JAM IN MY SHOES? THAT'S NOT A REASON!"

Making an album to the level we're attempting, on the kind of budget which probably wouldn't pay the sandwich guy for some sessions, all the while setting up meetings with those mythical "money" men and, and this is very important, without the release of live performance, is not a recipe for harmonious relations with one's fellow men and women.

So, yes, Italy is not just an opportunity to advance myself as a writer and a human being, it is also a much needed break from being a complete bastard.

And I am finding that I am, slowly, returning to a person I thought I had buried in a shallow grave in the backyard. This has its benefits and its downsides. I used to be a very shy, heart-on-sleeve young man, but I know that, over the years, I have built up walls in varying shades of jade. It's all textbook stuff.

Despite my almost constant state of priapism, I feel rather innocent today.

So when I sit down to write with Emma-Bob and Helen today, the subject we choose for our poptastic debut as a trio is: crushes.

I am afflicted by crushes. Always have been. Occasionally, they've blossomed into love or, at very least, a few sweaty, goose-pimpled and even, from time to time, memorable hours.

For me it's always the person least expected, or the person who least expects it. And every time I revert to being six years old.

There is a picture of me somewhere, even younger than that, four or five, in which I am standing at the fence which separated my back garden in Estevan, Saskatchewan from that of the neighbours. I am holding hands with the actual girl next door through the Tom Sawyer white slates, and looking perfectly melancholy. I'm not sure I ever knew her name. I certainly don't now.

As Woody Allen once wrote, "I had no latency period."

So, today I'm digging deep into the well of my soul to pen the following lines:

I saved a space for you at lunch

I offered you my sandwich and half of my Nestle Crunch

I tell a joke and hold my breath

The thought of you not laughing now is scaring me to death

A thrill runs down my spine, each time you speak my name

It's not the right one, what the hell, it's all the same

Two things strike me on writing them out again. I don't think I've ever read a truer description of myself - ironic, as it was written by three people - and for some reason we had a good half-hour discussion about whether it should be "half OF my Nestle Crunch" or "half my Nestle Crunch". I was very protective of the "OF" for some reason. I like the way it scans, so sue me.

Again with the chunky rhythm guitar.

Both Emma-Serendipity-Wallace and Helen are dab hands at the old piano, so, of course, we write a song based purely around me playing a guitar part that runs completely at counter-purposes to what I'm singing. Nice. Still, some lovely harmony work, building to a great climax in the bridge.

I'm finding something odd about my voice. I'd already being working on beating some of my bad habits - shouting not singing, the result of too many bad PA's in bad venues - in the studio recently. After a rogue comment about "our Kenton” being “a bit of a belter", however, I seem to have adopted a low Nick Cave-esque octave this week, which, as yet, I haven't quite learned to control properly.

It was very good experience, however, pouring out some things about myself to two relative strangers and asking them to put their names and talents to me spouting it in front of a whole bunch of other relative strangers.

Maybe it's my insecurity at not being anywhere near as good a guitarist as some of my peers here. No pretty little arpeggios for me, darling, I've just put one out. Whatever the reason, I keep wading into the big, bright pop song at every opportunity. What the hell, I love it. I wish I could play them properly on such short notice, but there you go.

On the performance side, there are a couple of technical glitches, from which we are mostly saved by the fact that we need to do a re-take for the recording, due to me "being louder than everybody else" and needing completely different levels.
Hmmm...

Tonight was also the night I first heard "And Then Malcolm Came Along" by Riley Briggs and Dorie Jackson. Don't get me wrong, there have been some excellent songs all round this week, and my eyes have flashed green on many occasions, but for some reason this one hits me squarely where I live.

The story of a woman's various boyfriends before finally encountering her true love... It's funny as fuck, catchy, and driven by a complex and thoughtful lyric, with added fish jokes. I decide, early on, to force both of them to write with me in the near future, at gunpoint if necessary. I hope they record it. I'll buy it. Twice.

I would give my left nut to have written one syllable of it. Sometimes songs take you that way.

But I'll get to other people's songs at a later date. Everyone deserves mention, so mention they will have.

In between the writing and the performance, I once more entrenched myself into Chris' Mini and was driven to the Internet Cafe, with Emma-Sebastian and Amber this time. It was an altogether more relaxed experience, and I realised that my addiction was easing.

Then Chris took us for ice cream. (Apparently, I am still six for most of the day.)

At an outside table, eating our various shades of dairy goodness, we mull over various subjects - house concerts, touring, the price of wheat in Bulgaria.

I finally get a chance to scope out for Chris my dissatisfaction with previous ist tours, or more succinctly ist booking agents, for placing us in venues unsuitable to what we are trying to achieve. Really, I say, what we need is support work at the moment, with audiences that might be open-minded to the smart, lyrically-driven pop music we're making at the moment.

Now, one of the major disadvantages of meeting one's heroes, one's dream supports, and finding that you like them immensely as people, is that you are no longer placed to ask for things, lest you taint the friendship.

When I email, Miles Hunt, and he asks how my kids are, I can not then turn around and say, "They would be better if you gave us the support on the next Wonderstuff tour."

I find myself in a similar and altogether more heartbreaking position when Chris Difford turns and says to me, ice-cream clasped in one hand, the sun shining on his all-too-familiar visage and says:

"What kind of tour are you looking for?"

At this point in the conversation, my head nearly fell off of my body from sheer frustration.

In my head, obviously, I was saying: "Now that you mention it, Mr. Difford, sir, the ideal band for us to support, now that you are briefly back on the road, is Squeeze. You know, one of the primary inspirations for me doing what I do in the first place."

Of course, the Squeeze support is likely all sewn up, is undoubtedly a decision which must pass through many hands, and it just isn't something you can ask for... it's something you have to earn, and be ASKED to do.

Still, I could have died at the question. ist at the Hammersmith Apollo with Squeeze sounds very nice to me. Ideal, even.

God, I hope they do another tour.

Also, this experience is not about networking - not in that cold, what-can-I-get-out-of-it? kind of way - it's about growing, sharing, bitching about one another behind the bike sheds.

I let it go, and just hope that I've planted enough of a seed in his head, that should ANYONE interesting need a mad Canadian and his merry chums to support them, we're good to go. I also disabused him of the notion that ist is necessarily a 20-piece with full orchestra and choir, lest the sheer weight of our numbers at time frighten any potential bookers off.

Anywhere from four to ten, depending on your stage and how many sandwiches you bought in, just so you know.

I think I might be having fun. I certainly know that I feel more myself than I have for years, take that sentence any way you fancy, and I can feel the slight prickings of something akin to - could it be? - contentment rattling around in my chest.

Tomorrow is a day off to see the town and then reassemble for a dinner out, so I retire at a sensible hour, three or four o'clock or whenever it was that the vodka ran out, and fall into a reverie of erotic dreams. Ah, it passes the time.

Also, Riley broke my headphones

In Today's Room, The Chris Difford Retreat Diaries, Part Seven

2007-10-01T10:32:00.001+01:00

September 4th, 2007

I have now been out of contact with life back in England for two days, and I have to admit I am growing a little anxious, primarily because I realise that I have a problem. I am addicted to checking my emails. A cold sweat pours down my neck at the thought of all of the vitally important offers of penis enlargement on which I am missing out.

I mean, my God, a Nigerian widow might desperately need my help to shift the remainder of her late husband's multi-million pound estate lest it be claimed by rebel soldiers. And where am I? Swanning about a 15th century farmhouse, writing songs and moping around because I have clearly already become a big brother/father/uncle/gay friend to all of the women within the group.

Despicable behaviour on my part, without a doubt.

I arrange with Chris at breakfast to get a lift to the internet cafe at some point in the afternoon.

It occurs to me that in trying to jot down all the big moments of the week so far, I haven't really given a suitable amount of time to the day-to-day minutiae that makes up our life here.

Today, the primary cause for concern is that, after two days of blazing sunshine, it has decided to piss it down with rain. The breakfast coffee is punctuated, in large part, by Dorie Jackson decrying her mother's sartorial advice, and praying to whatever God might be listening for a jumper of some description.

This is the effect I have on women. Two days in my company, and they start putting on extra layers.

Also, there has been a scorpion sighting. Despite a decent amount of geographical knowledge, the romantic side of one's brain still associates scorpions with much wilder, and far more eastern climes. Scorpions should be accompanied by fedoras, whips and a rousing John Williams score, not lurking about the bathroom to mentally derange Western Songwriters abroad. It's such a waste.

When I was in the fifth or sixth grade (about 10 or 11 years old, for those Europeans amongst you who can't be arsed to look it up), we had a teacher of Indian extraction, named Mr. MacArthur, who would often tell us tales of how he and his brother would catch scorpions, remove the stings from their tails, and keep them as pets. It all seemed impossibly exotic to a Canadian boy, who - despite being surrounded by majestic geography of all shapes and sizes himself - still longed for far more adventure than could be offered by breakfast at Denny's.

Here in Italy, someone despatches the scorpion with extreme prejudice.

I have started to fall into a pattern here, already, as - it would seem - have others. I wake up feeling like shit and wanting to crawl inside myself and die, fearful of what I might have said the previous night, and to whom. Happily, I'm only drinking enough to occasionally dance, rather than passing out in the lap of someone to whom I have recently declared my undying love. Unfortunately, Emma-Jim-Fred-Vera-Hyancith Thommen is filming pretty much everything, a fact we all seem to be semi-consciously aware of, but at this point, without a real sense that it may mean our off-the-cuff rendition of "Consider Yourself" from Oliver! has now been captured for posterity.

I then proceed to what, for me, passes for Breakfast - as much coffee as I can eat and the best part of whatever's left in the crumpled packet of Camels in my back pocket. I scan the list to see who I will be working with - today, William Topley! - and then spend another hour or so mumbling inanities at all and sundry while I try to jump-start my brain.

I think the oddest thing for me, especially outside my immediate group of confidantes, is that I am insanely curious as to what is going on in the minds of the quieter members of the group. Me, Riley, William, Dorie, Emma-Greg, Geoff, Danielle form a core of people who are fairly open about what we're thinking at any given moment, or at least, what we want people to think that we're thinking. Amber, Helen, Rich, Rachel, Darren, John B, and Chris seem a little more obviously circumspect. Of course, there is a lot of cross-over between the two as people cycle through their emotional make-ups and encounter situations in which they seem more or less comfortable. (That is to say, how drunk they are.)

The one thing we all have in common is that, for one reason or another, we have all gravitated towards music as more than a passing fancy. Some of us either do it for a living or are working on it, for others it's just a big part of their life, amongst other things.

I feel a small amount of envy for those for whom it is not an all-consuming career choice. Occasionally, I catch myself bitching about record companies, managers, booking agents, etc or being bitched AT about the same, and I struggle to remember the moment when I decided that this was what I wanted to do with my life. Then, someone picks up a guitar, or shifts to a piano, and you find yourself singing. A harmony kicks in, an egg-shaper drops to the beat.

I don't know how to describe what it's like, when it works.

Wait. I do.

There's a moment during sex, which I hope everyone has had the good fortune to experience, where you abruptly stop worrying about the chafing knee, the elbow on the hair, the fact that your partner really shouldn't be able to bend in quite that direction, and you're just there... smack fuck in the middle of a perfect moment. The edges blur, and you're lost. Being part of a song, when it's really working, feels exactly like that. Okay, sometimes, it's more like a rough knee-trembler up against a dorm room wall, but... it's the sometimes that keeps you coming back for more, that keeps you trying when it all seems to go wrong.

I've already started paying voyeuristic attention to the lyrics of various people's songs, in the hope of reading between the lines and garnering fresh insights into the human condition. Or at least fill a couple of pages of diary entry.

But now to work. As it is raining, Mr. Topley and I, after a couple of perspectively-challenged coffees, and a half-dozen cigarettes, repair to the comfort of his front room with my guitar and a keyboard.

I begin to do what I do best, which is big rhythmic chords. (I learned to play the acoustic guitar from the opening chord of "Things We Said Today" by The Beatles, and I'm still chasing that moment.) This seems to go down well with my co-writer.

But what shall we write about?

"I have an idea about a serial killer," I suggest, smiling perhaps too broadly, for William moves away from me and smokes out of the window.

Happily, this idea is glossed over and returned to Kenton's Big Book of Weirdass Pop Songs, to be tackled another day.

Then the strangest thing happens, William begins to sing over the chords in a note-perfect Jamaican/Caribbean accent.

"I quite fancy an old-fashioned calypso boasting song," he says.

I consult my inner monologue. Okay, I've never done that before, I think to myself.

Let's do it, I reply.

I agree, but add a cautionary note: Do you think it will matter that when I sing it, it will come out as a Welsh/Mexican/Pakistani boasting song?

What ensues is perhaps the most fun I have ever had writing a song. There is serious musical thought: "It's a bit strange going to that C there, but the structure really works... Do you think we should change the key?" "Let's just run at it, jump on it, and it'll work." "Excellent plan."

But the best bit, other than we fashion a tune we can't stop singing, is that the shape of the song and the subject matter allows for some fine innuendo, followed by some even finer dirty cackling by yours truly.

The verse of which I am proudest was the final one:

She take your rum and then she rub it better

Yeah, she's a scorpion girl

She suck the venom and apply the pressure

Yeah, she's a scorpion girl

We also work for a while on a more melancholy number called "No Fairytales" about being far from home, and the fleeting, anonymous, but by no means emotionless relationships in which one can easily fall. Both are songs I'd love to hear done properly - that is to say, with William and his big soulful voice singing them.

After lunch, we sing "Scorpion Girl", as our new creation has been christened through a few times, before I - traitorous bastard to the cause that I am - fuck off to the small, nearby town to check my emails (and end up both pinching myself rather hard and being startled to laughter by an Italian beggar).

Which seems as good a moment as any to take a short break...

Lost for Words, The Chris Difford Retreat Diaries, Part Six

2007-10-01T10:29:00.001+01:00

September 3rd/4th, 2007

The laptop in the picture below contains no punchlines:

So, here we all are, gathered around a table, in a recording studio, somewhere in the mountains of Umbria, restless, creative minds fuelled by the experience of having written and performed a brand new song in a single day.

The table is festooned with candles, ashtrays, bottles, glasses and a tiny cat. In the corner, a couch is shared by Mr. John Bentley and a fucking enormous dog. Honestly, this dog is some size. One more drink down the neck of one or two of us, and someone is going to accidentally saddle it. The last time I saw a dog that size, it was metaphorically and, again, I failed to call the next day.

(Before I wake up tomorrow with the word "misogynist" tattoed across my forehead and a pair of outsize panties wedged into my mouth, that was a joke. I am no fan of the male gender, and I think we can safely assume from my previous entries, that self-love is not a problem from which I suffer. It's a hobby I enjoy, but that's another story.)

Very often in my life, when faced by brainless neanderthals - in business suits and ties - waxing less than lyrical about their cars, soul-deadening careers and some or other "fit bird" they "did" the previous night, I have pictured myself in European climes, sitting around a table with other artists, putting the world to rights. A hazy, glorious world of absinthe, cigarettes, jazz and genius.

In my head, it's usually me, Oscar Wilde, Dorothy Parker and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. .

No, wait, that's a different dream.

Now, finally, I am surrounded by my peers.

"Two dyslexics are in a car together," says Riley Briggs, swigging from a bottle of beer we have now decided is Kaliber, cunningly relabelled. "The passenger turns to the driver and says "Can you smell petrol?" "Are you kidding me?", the driver replies, "I can barely smell my own name."

And so it begins. Each of us taking turns dredging the silliest, most inane jokes from the bottom of our tour bus pile and dressing them up for this new audience.

Then it happens. I may have mentioned previously my concern at the utter lack of celebrity gossip I appear to be gathering in the course of my travels, thus far.

My concern is about to dissipate, for it is here, exclusively, that I shall reveal a deep, dark secret about Christopher Henry Difford. Oh, you've read of his lyrical acumen, you've heard his records on the radio, you even took it completely in your stride when he proclaimed his primary weakness to be, indeed, cowboys. And quite right too.

I do not intend to shock, and I certainly do not reveal the following information with any malice. It is in the public interest, and I will sleep the sleep of the recently fucked senseless, easy in my mind tonight.

Chris Difford is rubbish at remembering jokes. Absolutely, diabolically rubbish.

Not rubbish at telling jokes, mind. He can set 'em up with the best of them, and he has that Billy Connollyesque style, whereby he giggles happily to himself along the way. That's infectious. That's charming. Copacetic to the nth.

When he reaches the punchline, however, there is very often a moment of confusion which stops the audience dead in its tracks, a denouement of puzzled faces and knitted brows as we try to work out if we are actually much, much stupider than we had originally thought.

It's usually just a word, or a phrase out of place.

"Cheeses of Nazareth" becomes "Cheeses of Jerusalem", for example.

It is made all the more entertaining by the fact, that it quickly becomes a double act between Chris and Dorie Jackson, who sings in Chris's band and is obviously quite used to his erratic gag reflex.

So, everytime Chris starts a joke, we have a following exchange...

Chris: It's that one, you know, about the man with three hairs...

Dorie: Do you know it?

Chris: Yes.

Dorie: No, but really. Do you remember it?

Chris: Yes.

Dorie: You remember how it ends?

Chris: Yes.

Dorie: Really?

Chris: Yes.

Dorie: Go on then...

He doesn't. Not quite.

This is the man who wrote "A man behind me talks to his young lady/He's happy that she is expecting his baby/His wife won't be pleased but she's not been round lately" and other great comic turn arounds. He's a funny guy.

He doesn't do punchlines.

And I think that's brilliant. I think we had a better time watching him miss the punchline, repeatedly, than we would have had if he'd been the slickest stand-up comedian on Earth.

It breaks the ice for all of us immensely. For me, in particular, still nursing that nervousness that comes with trying to shake off your hero worship and get to grips with someone as a human being - which, after all, why you like their work in the first place.

So, yeah, I'm all good.

(There were a great many bad jokes told that night - including some absolute filth which was being texted to Emma-Bob-Jim-Harrison-Gertrude-Karoline Thommen from a 70-year-old woman - many of which would linger through the week as running gags, but none more so than "Cheeses of Jerusalem".)

There is still a tiny cat on the table. I know I keep mentioning it, but foreshadowing is one of those things an author typing up his diary two weeks later can get away with. The tiny cat is very important indeed.

Now, a few thoughts on masturbation.

I'm very sorry, but when you have neither the opportunity nor the inclination to pull - on tour, on holiday, wherever - masturbation is an essential part of one's daily activities.

There may be some readers who are of the opinion that this is all very well and what I do in the privacy of my own room is perfectly acceptable, provided I keep it to myself and don't hurt anyone.

Bigots, I say! This is an honest - within reason - account of my travels, and I will admit now that in full romantic mood, brought on by - I don't know - the experience, the scenery, the company of attractive and talented people, I get myself nicely drunk and take myself back to my room with every intention of giving myself a damn good seeing to...

Unfortunately, in the final blow to my already wilting self-esteem, I - after much coaxing on my part - tell myself I have a headache, roll over and went to sleep, without so much as a kiss on the cheek.

The most romantic place on Earth and I can't even get myself to put out.

Something must be done.

"I'm always touching myself..." (Ed. Note. We'll give you that one.)

Trust Me To Open My Mouth, The Chris Difford Retreat Diaries, Part Five

2007-10-01T10:26:00.001+01:00

September 3rd, 2007

In the course of a relatively short, and fairly eventful life, I have woken in a variety of ways, and places.

There's the sudden moment of panic, coming out of nightmare, that leaves you sitting bolt upright, cold sweat trickling between your shoulder blades, momentarily convinced that your girlfriend has run off with her best friend, or that you have accidentally married your sister. Worst still is the wakefulness of the indiscreet man, waking with someone you're not sure you know, but are most certainly sure ought to be wearing more clothing.

There are soft kisses and fumbling hands, easing you back into consciousness. There is the muddle-headed mid-tour morning, finding yourself in a room that smells of drunken musicians, suffering from a case of mild tinnitus, brought on in equal measures by the previous night's gig and the snoring of various band members.

The worst, by far, is waking alone in a strange place.

This morning, it takes me several minutes to come to terms with where I am. Thankfully, due to the non-intoxicating nature of the beer to hand, the hangover is mild and inconsequential. I fumble for my non-functioning phone, which has - for the duration of my trip - been demoted to alarm clock. It is beeping loudly and obnoxiously and clearly has been for some time.

Time to show willing, I think, crawling into a fairly random collection of clean clothing and stumbling towards the kitchen for breakfast, where, I am reliably informed, the first list of writers will be posted.

Unlike our other meals of the previous day, the breakfast table is sparsely attended in shifts as people shake off the holiday lethargy and remind themselves that we actually have work to do. Coffee and cigarettes are an essential, particularly as my body will not tolerate food until a much more civilised time of day - say, two or three in the afternoon.

We are an odd number - 13 - so it appears that each day there will be at least one group of three writers working together, and I am in the first such group. On a typed piece of paper, direct from the laptop of Mr. Difford, two columns list the names of the writers, with a third containing only my name. Until I clock this, I am momentarily afflicted by a sinking feeling.

They've forgotten I'm here, I think. I half expect to be asked to wash dishes, or sweep something. Perhaps I misunderstood. I wasn't invited to write. I'm the waiter.

Ah, there I am.

Today I will be composing in the company of Mr. Riley Briggs and Ms. Danielle Gasparro.

Interesting. It was a bit of a United Nations of Rock: Scotland, Canada and the US of A all present and correct. Now all we had to do was to write a song from scratch and perform it this evening.

Okay...

In considering the idea of keeping this journal, I had one major misgiving:

How in the hell was I going to make the act of songwriting interesting on the page?

I'm sure other songwriters will sympathise with me when I describe the moment of sheer panic that can set in whenever anyone asks you: "How do you write songs?"

I'll be the first to admit, I have no idea. I have written a couple of hundred songs in my time, and each one has followed a period of running screaming around the room. And everytime I have finished a song, I am convinced that I'll have to retire, as I have clearly used up every idea that I've ever had. Twice.

And then, eventually, something creeps into your head and you have to write it down. You start whistling to yourself. You're thumping on a badly-tuned piano, or fumbling with a barely-strung guitar.

In the band, I write alone first and then complete the song with the band, so that I can get all the going violently mad out of the way before I get to the rehearsal room. I have written with others once or twice, but only once outside of the band (with the masterful Kevin Hewick) has it ever led to a complete song with which I was happy.

Also, I am a lyrical Nazi. I'll be the first to admit it. I have a tyrannical approach to lyrics. My response to a line I don't like, even in other people's songs, can range from violent rages to projectile vomiting.

However, I was determined not to reveal my hand as an utter bastard until much later in the week.

Once we are sufficiently awake, Danielle, Riley and I retire to a horse-infested table in the sun and start chucking ideas at each other. At first this involves myself and Riley noodling on guitars (actually, he is playing properly, I'm the one begging to be served with crispy duck) until something sticks in everyone's heads.

photo by Riley Briggs

I have literally no idea of how we eventually hit upon the idea of a crumbling relationship. I suppose we've all been in enough of them. Perhaps there's aura of kitchen sink drama emanating from Chris's room.

Surprisingly, we actually write quite well together.

Yes, I am, at first, quite stroppy in the lyrical department, before I realise that the lines Danielle and Riley are chucking out are pretty bloody good. Damn these professional songwriting types! And, yes, it does take a certain amount of time to get used to other's methods - the things they concentrate on: With me it's the rhythm of words, with others the structure of melody, harmony and what the hell was that chord you just played, Kenton, it's horrible.

Before too long, we settle on a "he said/she said" structure that deals with a couple on the verge of drifting apart - both hungry for attention, she in silence, and he in a welter of overachieving which brings treasures but little or none of the simple conversation she craves.

I have to say, I feel quite close to this song, and Riley can actually play it properly... I am cast in the role of the awkward, insensitive lover. Bloody typecasting.

(Note: I am transcribing the lyrical excerpt below from God knows what draft of the song, and from my handwriting, so dearest co-writers, please correct any errors.)

Danielle:

You left me with the morning, there beside me in the bed

With no kiss to seal the distance, between my heart and your head

I'm halfway through my novel, by a quarter after nine

I crave your conversation but your silence would be fine

What's a girl to say? To make you want to stay?

Kenton:

I staggered in this morning, with my holster at my knees

Battle-scarred and bloodied, with a rose between my teeth

You offer only silence, when I'm worthy of applause

I offer you such treasures, but they seem to give you pause

What's a man to do? To prove himself to you?.

Feeling quite proud of ourselves, or nervous, or too sober, or something, we fold up work for the day and wander off in search of cigarettes, alcohol and lunch.

Outside of my writing duties, I have - like the nerd that I am - locked on to a group in which I feel comfortable (in particular Mr. Topley and Ms. Jackson) and am soon babbling away in my Kentonesque stylee about nothing in particular. No doubt I am covering my usual biographical information: horrible religious upbringing, propensity for bizarre, occasionally overlapping relationships, my band, my kids, my skewed world-view... all the things I falsely believe make me sound more interesting than I am.

I quickly begin to bore myself, and soon shut up to observe the others at the table, and laugh myself sick at William and Dorie's pointed commentary on everything within a 500-mile radius.

The group does seem to be divided between those of us who respond to social situations by being loud, and those who respond by being quiet. I seem to be bouncing merrily between the two camps, although likely - nervously - erring on the side of the loud.

Chris himself seems very understated and laid back. You can sense a combination of the writer and the man (who I could not possibly claim to know) battling it out in his head. He was both observing all of us strange and unusual creatures, and dealing with a social situation however Chris Difford deals with a social situation.

Even in thinking it, let alone writing it down, I realise that I am doing EXACTLY the same thing. Or, more correctly, perhaps I am assuming that he is doing it because I am doing it. God knows, I am becoming more and more fascinated by everyone at the table - what are their stories?

Most people are more circumspect than me. I have an alarming tendency to give the cliff notes of my entire life to anyone foolish to ask me how I am on first meeting. Others are slightly more closed books. And Chris, that's a weird one, cause as a fan, I've read countless interviews and, obviously, listened to countless lyrics and am now confronted with the very real, human person who said and wrote those things. And that's so much more interesting. Not in a FAMOUS PERSON SPEAKS OUT! kind of way, but because I'm fascinated by the catalysts for art. Maybe it's a desire to understand myself a little better, by proxy.

But that's far too philosophical in the face of so much pasta and meat.

After dinner, R, D and I return to polish off our magnum opus and add a few little flourishes for the evening's performance.

And then another break. I decide to be brave and take a swim. The pool is beautiful, if bracingly cold, even in the Italian sunshine, but it does necessitate removing rather more clothing than I am fond of removing.

To say I have body dysmorphic disorder would be a lie. I have mirrors. I have a realistic body image. I know that I do not yet, in Stephen Fry's immortal words, "resemble, in sight and sound, nothing more than a bin liner full of yoghurt" but I am no Adonis either. Hearts will not be set alight at the sight of Kenton in the flesh, no loins of either sex moistened or stiffened.

I brave it, as there is no one about, and then head back to the house - having hastily redonned my T-Shirt - to be told that I have rather nice legs.

The person who said such a thing is very kind, and will undoubtedly earn a dozen Humanitarian Awards before the decade is out, but they are clearly mad.

My legs may keep me up at night, but no one else.

During the ensuing conversation with those standing hither and thither, and after collecting the vodka, coke and cigarettes fetched for me from town by the lovely and windswept Sean, I, for some reason decide to let the others know that - at school I was invariably known as "Benton" or, as vocabularies increased, "Cunton". This, for some reason, would prove to be a fateful choice of conversation.

And then, quicker than I'd have liked, it was performance time. We all gather at the table in the studio, nursing our beverage of choice and waiting to be called up. It is Geoff Martyn's Birthday, and we are extra cheered by the champagne we have all been sampling. Chris declares that, in honour of the occasion - I can't believe I missed birthday honours by two days! - Geoffrey shall be picking the order of performance.

It's oddly nerve-wracking to perform purely in front of your peers. There's no points for just being brave enough to perform, we all do it.

So it's particularly galling for me when during our performance I forget the words.

I have a lyrical trick which I've used for years. There are quite a lot of words in ist songs, and they can be difficult to hold on to wholesale. So I remember one line at a time, and it usually guides me to the next one, linked as they are in my head. With a song I've just written - and one I don't start singing on until halfway through - all my tricks are useless and I look towards my scrawled handwriting a fraction too late.

Bollocks.

I feel a little deflated afterwards, though everyone is very kind.

After the main performance, Chris opens the floor to us to perform some of our own back catalogue, something I leap at. As I am less skilled than most of the others at the gentle, fingerpickery guitar work, I leap straight in with "The Boy's Not Right" and "Rebecca", from the album-in-progress, both of which I know ALL the words to... Everyone has some great songs, but the tension eases a little. I know what I do. I also know what I don't do, and I know what I have to work on in this environment.

I get a "well done, young man" from Chris after "Boy", which considering my performance had been prefaced with the aside, "No tossing off and forgetting the words this time" made me feel a lot better.

"Well, there's backing vocals still to be done on the record," I reply, with a wink, a nudge and a feeling of having said too much.

He nods, smiles and throws me off the balcony.

Trust me to open my mouth. (Ed. Note: Just when we thought we could trust you again.)

I'm listening to the recording of the song we wrote now, and it's far from as bad as I feared. Yes, it's me that fucks up, but I'm okay with that. Sort of. Well, not really, but I'll live.

After all the performances, we mostly hang out, drinking, swapping songs and stories, until suddenly a bout of joke-telling ensues.

And that's going to need an entry all of it's own.

Some Fantastic Place, The Chris Difford Retreat Diaries, Part Three

2007-10-01T10:25:00.005+01:00

September 2nd, 2007, con't.

I have been standing in the queue for my flight to Perugia for approximately 13 years now. The last time I experienced this little movement, I failed to call the next morning.

I have been passing the time attempting to identify my potential co-writers on this adventure. The scattering of wearily held guitars and the occasional hat that only a musician would wear give a couple of them away. I myself am wearing a dyed black hair and patchy beard combo that should ping the SingerDar of the others with the force and ferocity of a flicked nipple.

I had hoped, at one stage, that some friends of mine whom you may have heard me mention - Mr. Melvin Duffy and his partner-in-crime Ms. Vivien Scotson - might be attending the retreat. They live, in varying directions, some distance from me, so it would have been lovely to spend some quality time getting to know them better. On the other hand, I think it will be good for me to queue amongst strangers and strange conversations. (Ed. Note. Seriously, it's not big and it's not clever. Pack it in.)

I'm not a social animal. Not really. I feel comfortable (ish) around my band, and my family, but even then I do have moments of doubt, where I just don't have the energy to fake ebullience, to throw jokes out at the risk of tumbleweeds cascading through the room in a picture of choreographed shame and humiliation.

I'm rather hoping that I don't make a complete fool of myself. But then, part of me is rather hoping I do. It's been a very long time since I had a chance to really figure out what I'm about - outside of relationships, outside of the band and our preconceived notions of each other. To be amongst people who don't know my stories, who haven't appropriated my name as a byword for clumsiness, non sequiturs and a general lack of common sense.

I have spotted a couple of people whom I recognise from various internet researches into potential attendees. I run into Geoff Martyn, with whom I have been trading emails about the outrageous price of plane tickets and he points out a couple of more. It's a strange sensation.

Eventually, we all shyly - well, I can only speak for myself on the shy question, the others may well have simply have been avoiding speaking to a rumpled Canadian with a rather odd look in his eye who keeps scribbling in a notebook every few minutes - begin to introduce ourselves. I meet Amber from California, via New York, Helen from London, Danielle, again NYC. I see a young Scottish gentleman of outrageous height - compared to me at any rate - in the queue next to mine. We will hear much more of Riley Briggs later.

After what seems like an age (37), I have finally checked in and we make our way into the beautiful and spacious departure lounge. (If they are going to flood our internet world with fucking icons, where is the one for "dripping with irony"?) I have seen abattoirs with a more welcoming air.

I chat with Amber a little, proving once again that whatever I might think with a bottle of vodka inside me, I am not a charming man. I am a babbler of some accomplishment. It must be damn near impossible for people to tell my jokes from my attempts at serious conversation as it all comes out at about 300 miles per hour, punctuated by utterly demented laughter of my own making.

In the departure lounge, I recognise Dorie Jackson from Mr. Difford's solo band. I had recently been to see them, with Jay Burnett our producer, at the Jazz Cafe in London and we had been very briefly introduced. That night, however, was most memorable for me for the following exchange between myself and Chris, to whom I was also introduced by Melvin Duffy.

Melvin: This is Kenton, the singer I was telling you about.

Kenton: fantasticgigbigfanblahblahbabblebabble

Chris D: Nice to meet you. Yes, I saw you at the front. You knew ALL the words, didn't you?

Kenton: cringecringecringeshameshame. (attempts to pull self together). Interestingly, we're playing Guilfest on the same day as you. Only this time, WE'LL have Melvin. hahahahacringecringe

Chris D: Oh, WILL you?

Kenton: (dies)

Actually, having spoken to Chris since, it probably didn't happen like that at all, or else he's an even nicer man than previously noted. On the rather spurious grounds that Melvin had joined us on some tracks, but really seeking acceptance from someone whose work was at least partly responsible for me writing songs in the first place, I began sending him MP3s of tracks as we finished them.

He was very complimentary, which both soothed a little of my raging self-doubt and also made me realise that I really couldn't do any other job. So, twice, once from the speakers of my stereo over many years and again from a few lines of kind text on a computer screen, he had been instrumental in my career.

He'd demur at such a proclamation, I'm sure, but it's true.

Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, Dorie and the soon-to-be-introduced Mr. William Topley.

She and her companion, one William Topley - a fine, fine solo artist and former lead singer of The Blessing - are sitting across from me.

"Dorie?" I say. It seemed the thing to say. "Esther?" would have been confusing.

"Yes," she replies, with a startled look that suggests that random people knowing her name was not likely to top the list were she to cover Julie Andrews. "How do you know that?"

Fantastic, I think. I look like a stalker. The fact that I know that I look like a stalker does not ease the pain of the situation.

In my babbling way, I explain that in fact, I was one of the writers on the week and that, as it happened, we had a good friend in common. The tension eased. Slightly. I still LOOK like a stalker, after all.

Somewhere in the background of all this, lurks a man in an excellent hat and sunglasses whom I eventually recognise as Mr. John Bentley, also of Squeeze.

Stansted has proved equally unpopular with Dorie and William as it has with me, and at bitch factor nine, we begin to discuss it and its flaws. William appears tired and a little grumpy, which endears me to him almost immediately, as I am finding it difficult to catch my breath from laughing.

We are, once again, standing in an enormous queue waiting to show our boarding passes and horrific passport photos and join BobAir Flight 1 3/4 to Perugia. Alongside us are about 25 people who have paid extra for "Priority Boarding", so that they may, one assumes, cherry-pick the seats which come with free cocaine and blow-jobs from the flight attendants. You get the distinct feeling that some of them are just waiting to be told that there is a Super-Extra-Gold-Priority Boarding system of which they can take advantage.

From the BobAir website: "Super-Extra-Gold-Priority. Upon payment of an extra £1500, you will be able to board the plane at least twelve minutes before any other passenger, you will given time to try various seats until finding one to your liking, you may choose five passengers you would like kept away from you at all costs, claim three free drinks and 15 minutes in the airplane toilet with a flight attendant of your choice, you can ignore the safety procedure demonstration without being told off and, in fact, you will be chosen to make all in-flight announcements."

On finally boarding the plane, for fear of increasing my stalker ranking, I make my way from my new-found group and sit alone towards the front. I have a book, you see, and I am comfortable with books. I would hate to begin annoying everyone else before we even make it to Italy.

Happily, however, I am soon joined by the tall Scottish gentleman of previous paragraphs, Mr. Riley Briggs.

Riley, as you may or not know, is the frontman and songwriter for the excellent Aberfeldy. He also proved my theory that wherever you go in the world, you will meet someone who knows Gaz Birtles, who plays alto sax for ist with his group The Swinging Laurels (currently Gaz, John Barrow and Dean Sargent).

Gaz was also in the brass section for The Beautiful South for about 19 years, until their split earlier this year, and Aberfeldy had done a support tour with them. We both agree, as people usually do, that Gaz is, indeed, the man and then Riley bought me gin. I like him immediately.

Over tonic-lashed booze and the ocean, we speak of the music business with bared teeth and much cursing. He proves to be a fan of Strange Brew, a very Canadian comedy film of my youth. I prove to be a fan of his band. Everyone is happy.

The flight goes quickly and, before long, we are landing in Perugia.

After an entertaining interlude with a demented sniffer dog, and the various hoops one must jump through before one can find even an OUTDOOR area in which one is allowed to smoke, we are met by Mr. Difford and the gentlemen from the studio. It is all very pleasant and I feel welcome, if tired, grubby and babblesome.

I am only slightly disappointed that there is no one holding a sign with my name on it. I have waited all my life to feel that important. I once took the National Express to surprise a girlfriend, returning from holiday, at an airport, just to hold a sign with her name on it. Of course, within an hour of her arrival, she announced that she had become engaged to someone else while away.

So, I'm still waiting for the movie moment.

It wasn't exactly necessary here in Perugia, however. The airport is about the size of a postage stamp.

I am in Italy, I think. I have no idea what's going to happen, nor how I will handle it.

We are bundled into cars and whisked to Monestevole, in the mountains of Umbria.

It has been a long trip - especially for me - and I'm ready for anything, frankly.

We wind our way through mountain roads, and I am stunned to see how Italian everything looks. Not a McDumbass or Starfucks in sight. It really is a beautiful part of the country. Enough to take your breath away, if you hadn't already accomplished that by smoking twelve cigarettes simulataneously to make up for the lack of nicotine during your airport travail.

I am in Italy, I think again.

Then we come up over the rise, and I am in Heaven. (Ed. Note I'll let that one go, but watch yourself.) A beautiful 15th century farmhouse, with horses running in nearby field, the very model of inspiration for someone who has lived in Leicester for five years and is toying with the idea of burning it down.

We are shown to our rooms, introduced to our hosts, offered the chance to purchase prebought cases of beer and, suddenly, after much waiting the week begins.

We sit down to lunch together at a long table in the sunshine, Mr. Difford at its head, and I really don't know what to do with myself.

But this is some fantastic place.

Melody Motel, The Chris Difford Retreat Diaries, Part Four

2007-10-01T10:25:00.003+01:00

September 2nd, 2007

Last I left you, dear reader, I believe I was sitting down to lunch at la table du Difford. Much fantastic food was consumed and the urge to demonstrate one's levels of testosterone slaked by foolishly downing a glass of grappa in one. Considering how long I have been awake for, I think I am doing rather well.

There has been much wandering hither and thither, gawping in amazement at the level of surreal beauty at hand.

"Ooh," I say to myself, "Horses!" I am suddenly taken by a memory: I am five years old, visiting friends in North Dakota.

Do I want to try riding a horse?, they ask.

Of course, I do... It's scary. It's the grappa compulsion in its infancy. Most of the major joys and idiocies in my life have had an element of me saying, "Fuck it. I'll do it." Under the same influence, I have stripped naked on stage (repeatedly), danced for Boo Hewerdine, and woken up in a variety of ill-advised places. At 14, I once tried to impress a girl by eating a jar of chillies. I had a lot to learn about women. Still do, frankly.

Anyway, the horse upon whose back I was gingerly placed, feeling immensely glad that I had learned full bladder control over the previous two or three years, trotted a little way from my family and friends and then abruptly decided that he had had enough of the equine Big House and was going to run for it, small screaming Canadian child notwithstanding. It was one of the most alarming experiences of my life, and that's saying something.

My first thought on seeing the horses here is, "God, I want to ride a horse."

I fully admit there is something wrong with me.

The place is full of natural beauty, something I appreciate, but ordinarily have little time for, of late... to me the Great Outdoors is where I have spent most of my moping time. I have sat on beaches, crying over unrequited loves, usually while they were sitting next to me, snogging my best mate. I have sat beneath the grandeur of the heavens on a crystal clear Canadian night, crying over a broken heart. Frankly, I have experienced pretty much every natural phenomenon going whilst in the deepest and bluest of deep blue funks.

Here, however, there is sunshine, dogs, cats (a particular kitten will, in fact, play a large, if subsidiary part of this story), pigs, wild boar, scorpions and enough insects to suggest that Steven Spielberg may be arriving to shoot a scene from the new Indiana Jones movie at any moment. And, what's more, I kind of like it.

I decide quite quickly to be maudlin. It is, after all, my natural state. Why, oh why, I ask myself, am I here in this beautiful place, alone and fully clothed?

It's strange - the desire we have to share things with others. It's beautiful when done right, but are there times where we rob ourselves of the simple joys of something, simply because we are viewing or experiencing them alone?

It was while in this frame of mind I discovered that the bastards at BT are incapable of creating a mobile phone that works with other networks. I was completely cut-off from friends and family. Now as much as many of my nearest and dearest have a tendency to give me ulcers, I am extremely fond of my small, but close circle of immediate and adopted family, and I do not wish for them to worry about me. I am also a rather anxious parent, beset by nightmares of harm befalling the midgets, no doubt encouraged by continually finding them dangling from things, leaping from things, setting fire to things, and sticking metallic things into electrical things.

But I am determined to enjoy the full experience, so I try on a couple of different Kenton heads, and just wade in.

I am actutely aware in writing this, that those elements of name-dropping which many of you will be expecting are few and far between. "Enough with the inner monologues, Hall, what was Difford wearing?"

But, no, I will not stoop to such Hello! style chicanery, for there is business to attend to.

I make for my room, ostensibly to unpack, but primarily to rattle my sleep-deprived head into submission. Needless to say, I fall asleep for several hours before being summoned to dinner. I would like to say I woke refreshed and elated, but in fact it takes me several minutes to remember who I am, let alone where.

Over dinner, we all begin to relax a little. We are once again, fed to bursting point, with food ferried to the table from a restaurant in the town, run by the parents of one of our hosts, the lovely Valeria.

At some point, over very small coffees, a guitar is produced. Riley Briggs of Aberfeldy leads us all in a stunning acoustic version of "Night Fever". I weigh in with "With or Without You" for reasons I continue to fail to understand.

We aren't writing today, as obviously, we have just arrived. Tomorrow will bring the full onslaught, but nonetheless, after dinner, we make our way over to the studio and performance space, and do our best - individually - to make our presence known, singing and performing at the top of our not inconsiderable lungs.

I attempt "Fag Break" on the piano, which goes down well, despite the fact that whenever I get to the bridge, which has black notes in it, I hear John McCourt's voice in my ear going, "It'll never happen."

A Queen medley is taken up on the piano at another point in the evening, at which point I also hear John's voice, only this time, saying much ruder things.

Frankly, it's all a bit of a blur.

It's all very much a getting to know one other session. Were this an 18-30 holiday, no doubt we would be pressing balloons against one other's genitals and covering each other in whipped cream. None of us are drunk enough for this yet. We're still trying to find our corner of this particular sky.

To be fair, I think tomorrow will be the beginning of something special. There's already a feeling of it in the air. Perhaps it's different for those who have attended previously, but for me, I couldn't be happier, which means I am quietly melancholy.

Today, I'm still a little spaced out, which is why I am unsurprised to find myself, some hours later, standing in a field staring at a ridiculously expansive Italian sky and wondering how it is I found myself here.

A tiny cat runs past my feet. Goodnights float in and out of my ears. A bottle of rather odd, and inadvertently non-intoxicating beer clinks against the three million things I keep in my coat pockets.

It can only get stranger.

The Waiting Game, The Chris Difford Retreat Diaries, Part Two

2007-10-01T10:24:00.001+01:00

September 2nd, 2007

03:50 A.M.

One of the primary reasons for my devout atheism, aside from all practical and intellectual concerns, is that I refuse to believe that any kind of divine and omnipotent being designed the human neck.

Don't get me wrong, I am in favour of the neck. I have covered one or two in burning kisses in my time, and, to be fair, some of my most obstinate nemeses have tended to be large white males whose shoulders and heads meet without the benefit of said intermediary.

However, and this is my point, it is badly designed for anything above the narrow demands of receiving hickies. Sure it allows you to turn your head and cast withering looks at street evangelists and purchasers of Take That records, but you can't put it anywhere without damage.

I say this because I have just woken from a 10-minute panic nap on the floor of an airport. Now, it's all very well you saying that if I am going to sleep on airport floors then I deserve whatever I get, but think about it. Humankind has not always had beds at their disposal. Back when we were hunting hippos and ducks instead of drawing them in pyjamas to flog mattresses, we slept on the ground. The hard, cold and occasionally pointy ground. What possible evolutionary purpose does the crick in the neck serve? I ask you!

But, at least, it is morning - after a fashion - and aside from my ill-advised few minutes of shut-eye, I have survived a long night in Stansted. It is, finally, time to check in.

Now one of the benefits of staying up all night, waiting for a flight, should, surely, be that you are at the front of the queue for check-in. Unfortunately, in the ten minutes between me finally deciding to risk shutting my eyes and my startling myself awake again, 300,000 people who until an hour ago were tucked up safely in their beds, snoozing, reading or enjoying a variety of carnal interludes, have now charged into the airport. And they are all, it would seem, flying - as am I - BobAir.

BobAir is an alias, as I'm sure you have guessed. This is primarily because I wish to take the piss out of the airline as much as possible, but until we sort out our label situation, I may not be able to afford to fly with anyone else. Also, BobAir is funnier than Ryanair. To me, at any rate.

For a good twenty minutes or so, the rampaging hordes flocked towards their check-in desks like panic-stricken Tokyo residents fleeing from an irradiated model of a lizard. Suddenly, I became aware that the reason why I could not find a check-in desk to flee to myself is that I was at the wrong BobAir section.

Two sections?! The sheer extravagance. Obviously, they can afford it, what with the extra charges for baggage weighing over two ounces and the various surcharges on musical instruments, sports equipment and the bodies of dead loved ones, but still.

Eventually I tracked down my flight. Of course, by this time, the line was longer than various emails suggest I could become with drugs and/or minor surgery. So I joined it and began to wait.

Black Coffee in Stansted, The Chris Difford Retreat Diaries, Part One

2007-10-01T10:23:00.001+01:00

1st September, 2007.

It is currently 11:45 on the evening of my 31st birthday and I am sitting in one of Stansted Airport's finest concentration camps/smoking areas. It is approximately seven and one half hours until my flight to Italy departs and to say I am bored would be an understatement along the lines of describing Pompeii as "dusty".

It has already been an extremely long day. (24 hours! Ridiculous. Who's in charge here?) I have spent the most recent anniversary of birth embroiled in that most fiendish of musical torture devices - the "mixing" session.

For the laymen and women - any chance I get - amongst you, what this entails is 10-12 hours locked in a room listening to small snippets of one's own music played ad infinitum until a mysterious figure known as a "producer" stops cursing under his breath and thinking up aliases and declares the song in question acceptable for human consumption.

As having the entire band in the studio for this ordeal would, at best, result in seventeen alternative mixes of each song and, at worst, a headline in the next day's Sun which would necessitate at least one usage of the word, "grisly", it usually falls to one or two of us to represent the whole.

This situation presents its own set of difficulties, largely consisting of clenched buttocks as varying amounts of reverb are added or subtracted from instruments played by someone who is not, currently, in the room. Any proposed changes to arrangement precipitate a round of phone calls, each opening with the words, "Do you mind if we..." as, on the other end of the phone, further cheeks are introduced to one another lest the sentence conclude, "make your drums sound more like a kazoo?"

These things tend to work out in the end, but they make me nervous, and I am acutely aware that I have a tendency to communicate my anxiety, telepathically, to everyone within a 250-mile radius of myself.

The only analogy that springs to mind is that we are like four Orthodox Jews sharing the custody of a small child, each of us convinced that should we turn our backs for a moment, anyone of the others might accidentally bring it up as a Nazi.

I am nervous now for a host of other reasons, primarily the fact that in 12 hours' time I will be landing in Italy for a writing week, overseen by no more august a personage than Chris Difford.

There will be severe penalties at this point for anyone who askes, "THE Chris Difford?" No, A Chris Difford. Chris Difford, the renowned fish monger from Barrow-Upon-Soar.

Meeting one's inspirations is a tricky business at the best of times. Spending a week in foreign country with one, with the added pressure of having to demonstrate HOW you write songs, when you're not actually sure if you do, is something else again.

My process, such as it is, to to toss a selection of high-scoring Scrabble words and possibly imaginary guitar chords into a bag with an angry cat and then beg the others - the musicians in the band - to strangle the cat and retrieve the tattered remains.

It's not so cool for cats after all. (Ed. Note. We're very, very sorry about that.)

Then, using large amounts of sticky-back plastic, something which, hopefully, more closely resembles a composition than, say, a haddock, is constructed.

So, anxious covers the situation EXACTLY as well as the Byrds cover Bob Dylan. Unless, of course, you dislike jangly folk-pop, in which case, the opposite applies.

Okay, so as travelogues go this is proving to be somewhat unconventional, but until I've travelled further than Leicester to London, there's very little in the way of stunning incident and local colour I can impart.

Airports, as you undoubtedly know, were designed by Satan himself, and are likely the reason he fell out with his Dad in the first place and was cast to the Earth to wreak STD's and reality television on us poor unsuspecting humans below.

Everyone around me is, to one extent or another, angry about something. Lost luggage, fractious children, the fact that their wife has suddenly run off with a security guard on the back of a very poor pick-up line about his 100ml of acceptable liquid.

I'm not angry. I'm just waiting on a plane, and an opportunity. I am also out of English money, which is tragic, as I could do with a drink.

But I have just noticed a stain on my notebook, which has made me laugh enormously.

More tomorrow.