I was about to write about the rush of creativity that I've experienced in the past week, and about how well my album is coming along. But I don't want to allow the enthusiasm to leak out by documenting it so, instead, here is one of those list-based things that you see on Facebook, which a lot of people probably find annoying/mundane but which appeal hugely to my personality.
Apparently, this is called The Thirty Day Song Challenge (although obviously I'm doing it in one go):
day 01 - your favorite song
Grandaddy - The Crystal Lake
day 02 - your least favorite song
Sandi Thom - I Wish I Was a Punk Rocker (With Flowers in My Hair)
day 03 - a song that makes you happy
Leonard Cohen - Sisters of Mercy
day 04 - a song that makes you sad
Leonard Cohen - Alexandra Leaving
day 05 - a song that reminds you of someone
Arctic Monkeys - A Certain Romance
day 06 - a song that reminds you of somewhere
Jack Loyd - Pirates
day 07 - a song that reminds you of a certain event
Weezer - Holiday
day 08 - a song that you know all the words to
Oasis - Don't Look Back In Anger
day 09 - a song that you can dance to
Radiohead - Lotus Flower
day 10 - a song that makes you fall asleep
Radiohead - 4 Minute Warning
day 11 - a song from your favorite band
Radiohead - No Surprises
day 12 - a song from a band you hate
---
day 13 - a song that is a guilty pleasure
Kylie Minogue - Your Disco Needs You
day 14 - a song that no one would expect you to love
Katy Perry - Hot and Cold
day 15 - a song that describes you
Wheatus - Teenage Dirtbag
day 16 - a song that you used to love but now hate
---
day 17 - a song that you hear often on the radio
Jessie J - Price Tag
day 18 - a song that you wish you heard on the radio
John Cage - 4'33''
day 19 - a song from your favorite album
Dodgy - One Of Those Rivers
day 20 - a song that you listen to when you’re angry
Radiohead - How To Disappear Completely (And Never Be Found)
day 21 - a song that you listen to when you’re happy
My Chemical Romance - The Black Parade
day 22 - a song that you listen to when you’re sad
Don McLean - American Pie
day 23 - a song that you want to play at your wedding
Harry Mudie and King Tubby - Dub With A Difference
day 24 - a song that you want to play at your funeral
Bob Dylan - Death Is Not The End
day 25 - a song that makes you laugh
Matt Winkworth - Bees
day 26 - a song that you can play on an instrument
Matt Bradshaw - Monolayer [of] People
day 27 - a song that you wish you could play
The Mario theme tune
day 28 - a song that makes you feel guilty
---
day 29 - a song from your childhood
Babylon Zoo - Caffeine
day 30 - your favorite song at this time last year
Matt Chanarin - Not In Our Name
Sunday, 20 March 2011
Friday, 18 March 2011
Nain
I'd like to share a poem by Joyce Grenfell that was read as my grandmother's ashes were scattered last year:
If I should go before the rest of you
Break not a flower, nor inscribe a stone
Nor, when I'm gone, speak in a Sunday voice
But be the usual selves that I have known.
Weep if you must:
Parting is hell,
But life goes on
So......sing as well.
If I should go before the rest of you
Break not a flower, nor inscribe a stone
Nor, when I'm gone, speak in a Sunday voice
But be the usual selves that I have known.
Weep if you must:
Parting is hell,
But life goes on
So......sing as well.
Friday, 11 March 2011
pReview
I think my music has changed quite a bit since I first started writing songs, aged eight. Stylistically, I have moved from pop to pop-rock to electro-pop to folk-pop to pop-punk to rock to prog-rock to weird-folk. Instrumentally, I have moved from keyboard to electric guitar to acoustic guitar to bass to synthesiser to assorted. Thematically, I have moved from hamsters to simplistic right-wing politics to nature to Taoism to simplistic left-wing politics to sex with misogynist undertones to sex with feminist overtones to... well, it's difficult to say what one's songs are about while one is writing them. Slightly-more-pressing-but-perhaps-still-simplistic left-wing politics, maybe.
Anyway. What I wanted to say was that what has stayed constant is the way I imagine songs (and groups of songs) before/during the writing process. I imagine somebody reviewing my tracks, always positively, and imagine the sort of things they might say. Then I try to create the track I have just reviewed.
So, this is my current working review for my new album:
The artwork for Matt Bradshaw's latest offering, "Salt of the Sky", depicts a mustard-yellow sky, seemingly teetering between disease and defiance. A spectral cityscape is impossibly reflected there, as though in a lake, upside down and ominous, though the setting (or rising?) sun shines up in hope. It is clearly not an image that has been chosen by accident, as the music treads this same line: hope and despair, anger and acceptance, creation and decay.
The building blocks of the tracks are artificial; drums machines, synthesisers, effect-laden guitar. But this is merely the bread. The meat, the shining soul of the music, is the quiet acoustic balladry that permeates the noise. "Salt of the Sky" is the sound of a folksinger coming to terms with his anachronistic nature and making peace with it; it is the sound of a sad-eyed observer floating through cities and wondering just how much of the ugly vista below is inexorable.
That's vague, I know. And perhaps it is egotistical, but surely modesty is something you should conjur after you've created something? Right now, this is my target. No point aiming for the Demo Dumper (cliquey Oxford reference!).
Right. Bed. x
Anyway. What I wanted to say was that what has stayed constant is the way I imagine songs (and groups of songs) before/during the writing process. I imagine somebody reviewing my tracks, always positively, and imagine the sort of things they might say. Then I try to create the track I have just reviewed.
So, this is my current working review for my new album:
The artwork for Matt Bradshaw's latest offering, "Salt of the Sky", depicts a mustard-yellow sky, seemingly teetering between disease and defiance. A spectral cityscape is impossibly reflected there, as though in a lake, upside down and ominous, though the setting (or rising?) sun shines up in hope. It is clearly not an image that has been chosen by accident, as the music treads this same line: hope and despair, anger and acceptance, creation and decay.
The building blocks of the tracks are artificial; drums machines, synthesisers, effect-laden guitar. But this is merely the bread. The meat, the shining soul of the music, is the quiet acoustic balladry that permeates the noise. "Salt of the Sky" is the sound of a folksinger coming to terms with his anachronistic nature and making peace with it; it is the sound of a sad-eyed observer floating through cities and wondering just how much of the ugly vista below is inexorable.
That's vague, I know. And perhaps it is egotistical, but surely modesty is something you should conjur after you've created something? Right now, this is my target. No point aiming for the Demo Dumper (cliquey Oxford reference!).
Right. Bed. x
Wednesday, 9 March 2011
Happy Place
I have half-written many, many entries about politics for this blog. But I can never finish them. Perhaps it is because I am a layman and I don't feel confident publishing amateur thoughts. But I don't think that's it. I think I am tiring of the need to express my political opinions in the context of the current government. And by "current government", I mean any current government (though perhaps this one in particular).
When you express a political opinion, you are trying to influence others. You are trying to push for change, whether good (left) or bad (right) (I like simplicity). You are trying to fix something. But imagine you are trying to fix a car. The engine is running, but a cylinder is misfiring. To fix the car, you turn off the engine, right? But in politics, the engine is always running. We don't have the luxury of stopping it to replace the parts.
I guess I'm saying that I much prefer designing utopias to shouting into an unresponsive blob, and I don't understand why other people aren't the same. As Labour have lurched right, the arguments about conflicting utopian visions seem to have been lost. I find it fascinating that there isn't a detailed, defining, unchanging utopia set out by each party long ago and towards which that party aims. I'm imagining model cities in glass cases, or a list of bullet points. A left-wing party might imagine a perfect future to have equal access to healthcare and education for all, and a guaranteed minimum standard of living that is not so very far below the highest standard of living that anyone has. A right-wing party might imagine a perfect future to see every child brought up by a married, heterosexual couple, or for people to have the right to pass on their financial privilege to their children.
Even writing those sentences, I guess I see why this idea wouldn't work. A utopia is a grand vision, a society that works harmoniously and where everyone is happy. The idea of a utopia is, itself, left-wing; it is based on the idea that you might not just be looking out for yourself. You can't design a right-wing utopia. Every time you write down a bullet point, you see how it would fuck up life for some group of people.
A left-wing utopia, the model in the glass case, would be an oblate spheroid, containing the whole planet. The right-wing utopian display model would be a series of small glass hemispheres over Chelsea, The Cotswolds, Monaco...
Yeah, let's fucking shout about the lethal shit that's being done in the name of financial necessity while the bankers laugh at their ridiculous stasis. But let's not forget to construct our own utopias, on paper or in our heads, in song or in dance, and let's not pollute them with bullshit compromise. Change should flow from your ideology into the world around you, not the other way around. Yeah, Labour?
When you express a political opinion, you are trying to influence others. You are trying to push for change, whether good (left) or bad (right) (I like simplicity). You are trying to fix something. But imagine you are trying to fix a car. The engine is running, but a cylinder is misfiring. To fix the car, you turn off the engine, right? But in politics, the engine is always running. We don't have the luxury of stopping it to replace the parts.
I guess I'm saying that I much prefer designing utopias to shouting into an unresponsive blob, and I don't understand why other people aren't the same. As Labour have lurched right, the arguments about conflicting utopian visions seem to have been lost. I find it fascinating that there isn't a detailed, defining, unchanging utopia set out by each party long ago and towards which that party aims. I'm imagining model cities in glass cases, or a list of bullet points. A left-wing party might imagine a perfect future to have equal access to healthcare and education for all, and a guaranteed minimum standard of living that is not so very far below the highest standard of living that anyone has. A right-wing party might imagine a perfect future to see every child brought up by a married, heterosexual couple, or for people to have the right to pass on their financial privilege to their children.
Even writing those sentences, I guess I see why this idea wouldn't work. A utopia is a grand vision, a society that works harmoniously and where everyone is happy. The idea of a utopia is, itself, left-wing; it is based on the idea that you might not just be looking out for yourself. You can't design a right-wing utopia. Every time you write down a bullet point, you see how it would fuck up life for some group of people.
A left-wing utopia, the model in the glass case, would be an oblate spheroid, containing the whole planet. The right-wing utopian display model would be a series of small glass hemispheres over Chelsea, The Cotswolds, Monaco...
Yeah, let's fucking shout about the lethal shit that's being done in the name of financial necessity while the bankers laugh at their ridiculous stasis. But let's not forget to construct our own utopias, on paper or in our heads, in song or in dance, and let's not pollute them with bullshit compromise. Change should flow from your ideology into the world around you, not the other way around. Yeah, Labour?
Monday, 7 March 2011
Eponymous
I don't think it would be a huge step to say that every song I write is about me. I can't speak for everyone, but I think that even my less obviously self-absorbed songs (those about politics &c) are very much coloured by my personality and the filter through which I view the world. And given that an album tends to be a group of songs that are written at roughly the same time, I think it would be fair to say that an album by a solo artist is a set of songs that describes their personality at the time the album was written.
So here is my theory:
A musician's name refers to a person. A musician might release ten solo albums under the same name because the person, the body responsible, hasn't changed. But the persona changes constantly. Saying that the dark Leonard Cohen of the late sixties is the same artist as the calm, spiritual Leonard Cohen of the noughties because they shared a body is like saying Radiohead is the same band as Supergrass because they shared a home town.
One solution to this would be for artists to come up with a new album title and artist name every time they release a new record, and I would have some sympathy with this "standalone" approach. But it would be a lie to say there is no continuity between an individual artist's records. So how's this for a compromise:
What remains constant should be the album title, because the subject of a group of songs is almost always the person who wrote them. The artist name should change every time (unless the artist feels ze has undergone no development since the last album), and this name should reflect the person's current personality.
I'm sure I've tied myself in knots there by trying to distinguish a person, a persona and personality (without actually looking up the relevant pedantry on the web), but I hope my point makes sense. The artist changes, but the name of the subject does not. Which is why it is quite likely that my new album will be entitled "Matt Bradshaw".
So here is my theory:
A musician's name refers to a person. A musician might release ten solo albums under the same name because the person, the body responsible, hasn't changed. But the persona changes constantly. Saying that the dark Leonard Cohen of the late sixties is the same artist as the calm, spiritual Leonard Cohen of the noughties because they shared a body is like saying Radiohead is the same band as Supergrass because they shared a home town.
One solution to this would be for artists to come up with a new album title and artist name every time they release a new record, and I would have some sympathy with this "standalone" approach. But it would be a lie to say there is no continuity between an individual artist's records. So how's this for a compromise:
What remains constant should be the album title, because the subject of a group of songs is almost always the person who wrote them. The artist name should change every time (unless the artist feels ze has undergone no development since the last album), and this name should reflect the person's current personality.
I'm sure I've tied myself in knots there by trying to distinguish a person, a persona and personality (without actually looking up the relevant pedantry on the web), but I hope my point makes sense. The artist changes, but the name of the subject does not. Which is why it is quite likely that my new album will be entitled "Matt Bradshaw".
How I Took a Naked Photo of Amanda Palmer By Accident
I have been asked by Amanda Palmer to publish a naked photo of her. That is factually accurate but probably merits further explanation. The explanation itself may be somewhat inaccurate, due to 22% of my life having passed since the event I am about to describe took place; please forgive any inadvertent lapses into fiction.
Six years ago, I was at Glastonbury Festival. It was life-affirmingly wonderful. On the Sunday night (I think), Bright Eyes were due to play on the John Peel Stage. Ryan Adams had also been due to play, but for some reason this failed to happen. So Bright Eyes took to the stage in front of an audience composed of disgruntled Ryan Adams fans and disgruntled Bright Eyes fans (disgruntled because Conor Oberst, the frontman, appeared to be quite spectacularly intoxicated). I can't say for sure which group of spectators were heckling Conor with cries of "Play Summer of Sixty-Nine!".
Anyway. The set happened, and it appeared to split the crowd. Between songs, Conor was taking what seemed an eternity to compose himself. He also indulged in some mockery of "Make Poverty History" and made some seemingly ill-judged comments about the then-recently-deceased John Peel. There was booing and verbal abuse. But the music itself was unbelievably fucking awesome. The band basically played the whole of their album "Digital Ash in a Digital Urn", which was a synth-laden departure from their usual country-ish sound and to this day ranks as one of my favourite records. When we got back to the campfire that night, there was polarised opinion about whether we had just witnessed the best gig of our lives or the worst. I came out on the side of "best".
The incident that pushed that night toward legendary status, as far as I was concerned, was the appearance of a stark-bollock-naked female running onto the stage near the end of the set and making out with Conor for a prolonged period. I was (/am) a somewhat reserved and naive creature, and it was a revelation to witness something so fucking unashamedly rock 'n' roll.
I have told the story of this gig many times since it happened - it's my default conversation piece when I find myself in the company of a fellow Bright Eyes fan - but I've never been able to capture the magic of that night. Something was missing. And perhaps the thing that was missing is this:
I am a big Amanda Palmer fan. I love her music, I cover her songs, I've seen her live and I regularly check her blog. The other day, said blog contained the following clue (to a mystery I didn't know I was trying to solve):
"god damn the man pens a clever fucking lyric. so sorry conor, i stole it for my blog subject. better than attacking you naked….i suppose i’m all grown up."
That set off some alarm bells. Two minutes' googling later, I was pretty sure that the streaker in my Bright Eyes story was, indeed, Amanda Palmer. It made sense; I remembered seeing that the Dresden Dolls were playing that year, but at the time I didn't know their music so I went to see something else. That decision has always haunted me slightly, due to the fact that the band split by the time I did get into them. The knowledge that I do now at least have a mildly cool Amanda-Palmer-at-Glastonbury story has taken the edge off the regret of not seeing her play there. And this newfound knowledge also has an interesting consequence: it means I have had a unique, naked photo of Amanda Palmer on my hard drive for six years without realising it. I had been inexpertly documenting the festival with a shite film camera and naturally snapped the spectacle on stage that night. But I didn't know it was Amanda Palmer. And now I do.
The photo itself is beyond awful. The camera had no zoom and the lighting was cack and I'm not a photographer. But that's not the point. There are other, far superior pictures of Amanda Palmer in various states of nudity. But this one is mine. I took it. And (to me) it sums up that glorious night better than I ever could in words.
No more ado. Here it is:
And here are the few pixels that matter:
A brief epilogue:
When I found out the truth about this photo, I became very excited and started telling everyone. One of these people was my permanently-connected-to-the-blogosphere(-but-with-more-interesting-things-to-say-than-most) housemate, Sophie (who blogs here). She tweeted my news in the direction of Amanda herself, and got a response indicating that Sophie should "TWEET THAT SHIT". So, as I said at the start, I have been asked (indirectly) by Amanda Palmer to publish a naked photo of her. And now I have.
Six years ago, I was at Glastonbury Festival. It was life-affirmingly wonderful. On the Sunday night (I think), Bright Eyes were due to play on the John Peel Stage. Ryan Adams had also been due to play, but for some reason this failed to happen. So Bright Eyes took to the stage in front of an audience composed of disgruntled Ryan Adams fans and disgruntled Bright Eyes fans (disgruntled because Conor Oberst, the frontman, appeared to be quite spectacularly intoxicated). I can't say for sure which group of spectators were heckling Conor with cries of "Play Summer of Sixty-Nine!".
Anyway. The set happened, and it appeared to split the crowd. Between songs, Conor was taking what seemed an eternity to compose himself. He also indulged in some mockery of "Make Poverty History" and made some seemingly ill-judged comments about the then-recently-deceased John Peel. There was booing and verbal abuse. But the music itself was unbelievably fucking awesome. The band basically played the whole of their album "Digital Ash in a Digital Urn", which was a synth-laden departure from their usual country-ish sound and to this day ranks as one of my favourite records. When we got back to the campfire that night, there was polarised opinion about whether we had just witnessed the best gig of our lives or the worst. I came out on the side of "best".
The incident that pushed that night toward legendary status, as far as I was concerned, was the appearance of a stark-bollock-naked female running onto the stage near the end of the set and making out with Conor for a prolonged period. I was (/am) a somewhat reserved and naive creature, and it was a revelation to witness something so fucking unashamedly rock 'n' roll.
I have told the story of this gig many times since it happened - it's my default conversation piece when I find myself in the company of a fellow Bright Eyes fan - but I've never been able to capture the magic of that night. Something was missing. And perhaps the thing that was missing is this:
I am a big Amanda Palmer fan. I love her music, I cover her songs, I've seen her live and I regularly check her blog. The other day, said blog contained the following clue (to a mystery I didn't know I was trying to solve):
"god damn the man pens a clever fucking lyric. so sorry conor, i stole it for my blog subject. better than attacking you naked….i suppose i’m all grown up."
That set off some alarm bells. Two minutes' googling later, I was pretty sure that the streaker in my Bright Eyes story was, indeed, Amanda Palmer. It made sense; I remembered seeing that the Dresden Dolls were playing that year, but at the time I didn't know their music so I went to see something else. That decision has always haunted me slightly, due to the fact that the band split by the time I did get into them. The knowledge that I do now at least have a mildly cool Amanda-Palmer-at-Glastonbury story has taken the edge off the regret of not seeing her play there. And this newfound knowledge also has an interesting consequence: it means I have had a unique, naked photo of Amanda Palmer on my hard drive for six years without realising it. I had been inexpertly documenting the festival with a shite film camera and naturally snapped the spectacle on stage that night. But I didn't know it was Amanda Palmer. And now I do.
The photo itself is beyond awful. The camera had no zoom and the lighting was cack and I'm not a photographer. But that's not the point. There are other, far superior pictures of Amanda Palmer in various states of nudity. But this one is mine. I took it. And (to me) it sums up that glorious night better than I ever could in words.
No more ado. Here it is:
And here are the few pixels that matter:
A brief epilogue:
When I found out the truth about this photo, I became very excited and started telling everyone. One of these people was my permanently-connected-to-the-blogosphere(-but-with-more-interesting-things-to-say-than-most) housemate, Sophie (who blogs here). She tweeted my news in the direction of Amanda herself, and got a response indicating that Sophie should "TWEET THAT SHIT". So, as I said at the start, I have been asked (indirectly) by Amanda Palmer to publish a naked photo of her. And now I have.
Wednesday, 3 November 2010
Bullet Points
Because not all posts on this blog need be long and flowery, here is a list of thoughts:
- I love my housemates.
- I hate this government.
- The former of these bullet points has focused my understanding of what to do about the latter.
- Those who would rather their lives were not in flux are more likely to be found on the beach with a pasty than out in the chilly Cornish sea, looking for a big wave to ride.
- It is necessary to turn one's face to society's stream of shit if one wants to pursue and exterminate its source, but one should remember to turn one's face away with sufficient frequency to remind oneself of the world's/universe's/multiverse's intrinsic perfection.
- Post-gig, stream-of-consciousness thought is not a natural match for the bullet-point format.
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