|
Issue #115. October 26th - November 10th, 2005 Gordon McIntyre: The new Crazy Frog? (interview)
Treading The Impossible:
George Best
Crosswords
I promise to go wandering (part 2)
Review #1: The Wedding Present - Ringway to Seatac
Review #2: The Aphrodisiacs - In the name of the father
+++Back to top+++ Back to current issue+++
Gordon McIntyre, the new Crazy Frog? I have to admit that when I first heard that Gordon McIntyre had embarked upon a new project called ++ Money Can't Buy Music which involved creating computer generated music I was a bit concerned. Was he leaving ballboy to become the new Crazy Frog? The answers thank goodness were no and no : Gordon is not leaving ballboy, and Money Can't Buy Music bares as much resemblence to Crazy Frog as Crazy Frog does to anything musical. But what exactly is Money Can’t Buy Music all about? What is the future for ballboy, and how did Uncle Albert from Only Fools and Horses inspire Gordon? I decided to find out...
Since your last Friends of The Heroes interview Ballboy have released 2 albums and had line up change – has life in the band altered any along the way? I think the band has changed a little – especially with Alexa replacing Katie on the keyboards. Whenever a band gets a new member they always bring something different to the overall sound. How have your plans for the future changed since then? Do you even make plans for the future or do you prefer to live day by day? I think that I used to plan a future for ballboy which included some sense of what the band were going to do, where we should be in the UK music scheme, but I don’t do that at all any more. Now my future plans are entirely based around the lyrics, stories and music that I want to write. I am definitely becoming more interested in the art of writing and making music. When & why did you decide you wanted to release a solo album? Around the beginning of this year a number of things happened at once. First we found out that Gary, ballboy’s drummer, would be away in the US for about 4 months. Also at that time I was writing a number of things which I thought were definitely going to work best as a spoken word tracks and they didn’t really fit in too well with my idea of how the next ballboy album would sound. Coupled with all of that I was learning how to make and produce my own music on computer using loops and phrases and blips and blops. Out of this coincidental soup came Money Can’t Buy Music. How has this affected ballboy? From my point of view I would say not at all. I think it might benefit the next ballboy album because I won’t be trying to shoehorn ideas into it that just won’t work. On your recent album you wrote the “time out guide” in response to a review in the in The Time Out Guide and New York Times who thought you were too depressed to make it past the first album. Do you consider your music to be depressing? Are you an optimist or a pessimist? I wrote that song with my tongue in cheek. I thought it was funny that they thought I was so depressed. I would have to say that I am definitely an optimist. I always think that things will turn out well or that they can be fixed when they don’t. I am not scared of anything except wasps and so I am generally pretty happy with my life. Which is not to say I don’t have regrets about things. Which band would you have most liked to be a member of when you were growing up? That’s a great question. After much deliberation i'm going to go for the E-Street band or New Order. What has been your favourite CD/ book you’ve bought recently? I’ve been lucky to read lots of great books lately , but I’m going to go for ‘Case Histories’ by Kate Atkinson. I didn’t want it to finish and, when it did, I wanted to read it again straight away. I didn’t though – I’m going to hold off until Christmas time and read it again then. I haven’t really bought any albums lately because I have been downloading tracks instead. I can tell you that the last song I downloaded was ‘Stay Another Day’ by East 17 (yes, really) and that the next album I am going to buy is ‘Thunder, Lightning, Strike’ by The Go! Team. You are writing a play/musical at the moment with David Greig. How did that come about? How does it compare to making music? It came about because David approached me with the idea of doing a Scottish musical. He had heard some of my spoken word stuff and he was interested in using that. Also we both have characters in our writing who are fairly ordinary, but who have some strange and unusual things happen to them. We wanted to use that in the play. Most musicals are about extraordinary people and/or extraordinary times. We wanted to have one where people step out of the ordinary pattern of their lives by the tiniest amount, but it is enough to change their lives for ever. I think that that is the way that many people fall in love. You do something you have never done before, or you do something you’ve done or go somewhere you’ve been a million times before, but you do it at a different time or in a different mood and before you know it your life has changed And finally I ended the last interview by asking you if there was any other questions you wanted to answer, you told me that was your least favourite question so this time I’m going to ask you where did the name ballboy come from? There is an episode of ‘Only Fools and Horses’ where Uncle Albert (or maybe Grandad, I forget) has been using a sunbed in the flat. He stands up and he is wearing white shorts and a white vest and Del-boy says something along the lines of “Christ, look at you – you look like a geriatric ballboy”. And so we took it from that.
+++Back to top+++ Back to current issue+++
Treading The Impossible: George Best
"I spent a lot of money on booze, birds, and fast cars. The rest I just squandered." George Best This isn't a tribute to George Best. Or maybe it is. As I write this, he is fighting yet another battle against death, in intensive care on a life support machine, suffering from internal bleeding after developing a kidney infection. Indeed, by the time you read this, it may have convolutedly become another of an abundance of George Best obituaries that will surely greet his eventual demise. They will doubtless reverently cherish the legacy of his playing, yet lament in harsh, almost paternalistic tones the 'waste' of said talent, lost to long nights of celebrity Miss Worlds and alcohol. Stop. I don't want to write this. I CAN'T write this. It feels too much like the end of something I can't quite comprehend. I cannot objectify that which to me is unquantifiable; My relationship to George Best encompasses a vast cacophony of emotions, a plethora of memories, choices, arguments and love; slabs of yellow green in summer and concrete green in winter; daft inclinations and childhood dreams; My story is the same as anyone else's story who purports to profess a love and understanding of indefatigable genius in that it is totally, utterly unique. But where do I begin? Where did it begin? This relationship with, or towards, a figure whom I never saw play football in the flesh? I think we can begin with my grandfather. A Manchester United supporter all his life (like his father and, later, all of his sons), when my parents were working long hours in the local crisp factory, he often regaled me with his memories of United, and Best in particular. He told me how he could twist and turn on the proverbial, cut through defences like butter through knife. I would sit on his lap, bathed by the half-light of the lamp that made it look like he had a halo, and I would sit mesmerized by this Saint of sorts, and Best became an orator of the the crowd- Grandad said if you were close enough you could see the glint in George's eye and sheer terror in the defenders- Best played to the crowd, aware of the value of sport, of football, not only as a matter of scoring or conceding more goals than the opposing team, but also as entertainment and, indeed, as art, and George Best, at his very Best, elevated football to the highest form of performance art. His former team-mate, Paddy Crerand, said that George left opposing players with "twisted blood." Grandad often told me of gasps on the terraces all around him, a collective stopping of hearts whenever Best (as he often did) pulled off the impossible. Needless to say, I was hooked. I wanted to be George Best. If my grandfather implanted the seed of George Best in me, then my father nourished it. Not that it needed a great deal of nourishing- I was naturally United daft and Best was (according to both Pele and my father) simply the greatest. I remember dad telling me the story of travelling to Northampton to and witnessing George's mythical destruction of Northampton Town in the FA Cup. Best's name wasn't even printed on the matchday programme as he had just served a six week suspension. He ended up scoring SIX of United's eight goals- a feat that's yet to be matched. On any inebriated Christmas evening at anytime when I was growing up, the living room would reverberate to the sounds and clatter of trivia and to family feuds and football stories. Dad holding court in the centre of the room, telling the story of how, years after his retirement, George was approached by a former opponent at a Charity event. "Will you stand still for a minute so I can look at your face?" said the former opponent. "Why?" asked Best. "Because all I've ever seen of you" he said "is your arse disappearing down the touchline..."
+++Back to top+++ Back to current issue+++
Crosswords 2 across "Responses to roll-call shouted out? That's right". Peter Phillips frowned. Peter unbuttoned his jacket and shifted in his seat uncomfortably in the small train seat. When had his suit become so tight? Of course he blamed the food manufacturers for that. It was impossible to buy anything that vaguely natural anymore. He was sure that even tomatoes were pumped full of salt, and fat and sugar. Whatever happened to the simple life he used to know? Everything was passing him by so quickly. His eldest daughter had been married for a year and before long he was going to be a Granddad. How could that be possible? Peter chewed so hard on the end of his biro that he bit through the blue plastic. He had to feign a coughing fit so that he could discretely spit out the amputated end of the pen. He reached in his briefcase and withdrew a new biro and chewed, angrily. He was in a bad mood. He had been in a bad mood for the last 3 years, and substandard pens did not improve matters. There was something so wrong about the world these days. People had become sponges for useless bits of information, worthless possessions and an inability to think coherently. How could he live in a world where people knew more about the contestants on Big Brother than they did about the English language. Peter blamed the decline of society on computers. Computers and mobile phones. Language had become too flexible, and there were far too many concessions for the hordes who were using it incorrectly. All this talk about dyslexia, and word blindness. It was all a load of rubbish. People were just lazy, schools were inefficient and the world was undoubtedly a much worse place than it had been when he had been young. Just the other day he had been in a travel agents shop trying to book a holiday to Crete. 'My mother told me never to trust a man who has a first name for his surname" giggled the women at the travel agents.
Of course he couldn't help but think that the sudden Sudoko craze might also have something to do with the world's decline. He looked over at the young girl opposite him chewing on the end of her pencil. Probably couldn't even string two sentences together, but brain busy processing numbers like a computer. Computers will be running this country this time next year he thought miserably to himself. Peter worked in a company supplying pens, pencils and other writing equipment to other offices and shops. Not that any of them used real pens anymore. His office, a technophobes nightmare, was decorated wall to wall by flashy all singing all dancing computers. Peter hated every single one of them. He could still remember the day that their first computer had arrived in the office. It was 1989 and for a magical 10 minutes he had truly believed that his life was about to get easier. The computer was state of the art. An Amstrad 2086, with 8 colours, a 3 and half floppy drive and a 5 and quarter drive. "You'll be a paperless office this time next year." the salesman had said. Ha! Try telling that to the filing clerks who seemed to have more to do these days than they had ever had in the pre-computer days. The computer churned out endless mounds of paperwork. Forms were printed in duplicate, and triplicate and Peter got swept along on an ever changing, ever more confusing sea of technology. At first he had tried to keep up. He had read books, he had taken courses, he had even asked for the advice of his 12 year old daughter, but things had over taken him. He felt sure that before long he would be replaced by a computer and the nerdy looking kid who talked in mobile phone language and didn't know the difference between the words "they're" and "their" or "there". Peter had spent years learning the art of salesmanship. He could converse with artists needing specialised drawing materials, he could talk confidently to graphic designers and architects he could sell brightly coloured to accessories to bored office staff. He had even perfected meticulously neat handwriting "well you can't work in stationary without being able to write" he had often joked with clients. Except of course this was now not the case. It didn't seem fair that all his experience would soon count for nothing. Over the years he watched as the old style reps, people of his generation, people who brought a bottle of whisky for the company manager at Christmas time, people who were almost his friends, were replaced by newer more efficient computer speaking models. If he could go back in time he would gladly shoot the person who had decided to invent the computer, he thought. "Hear, Hear" He wrote.
+++Back to top+++ Back to current issue+++
I promise to go wandering - Part 2 North Yorkshire – Of Moors and Moonlight
‘I wish I were out of doors! I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free; and laughing at injuries, not maddening under them! Why am I so changed? Why does my blood rush into a hell of a tumult at a few words? I'm sure I should be myself were I once among the heather on those hills.’ ~ ‘Wuthering Heights’ by Emily Bronte On an icy Friday morning, Kate and I were up early. She drove us to Haworth, where the Bronte sisters lived. Bit of background here, I've been there twice before, but on both occasions there was some reason why we couldn't go to Top Withins. The last time, Kate and I promised ourselves that we would go back and so we did. Some say that Top Withins is Wuthering Heights. It's the ruins of a house high up in the moors, but within walking distance of the house where Emily lived. I've been there now and I believe those that say so. It looks like Wuthering Heights, the building itself and its terrain. It felt like Wuthering Heights. I'm ahead of myself. First we wandered around Haworth itself. The main road is steep and cobbled, with shops, cafes and houses lining it up and down. There is an attempt to turn it into a Fair Trade village, but some of the local cafes are resisting, despite the presense of a Fair Trade shop near the top of the hill. Nontheless, we found one that was Fair Trade and had our cups of tea in there, in seats which looked out over miles of moor and Keighley, before dumping our shopping back in the car. We double-checked our supplies (sweets, Kendal mint cake; water); and I did my usual last minute, 'Ok, one of us is badly injured on the moors, out of sight and we could be there for hours, what would we need...' And put in an extra packet of cigarettes, just to be on the safe side. Then we set off. It even stopped raining after the first fag break about halfway up the road, overlooking the reservoir. We'd started at a right pace, but as soon as we were actually on Haworth Moor, off the road, and past the first ruined building, we started to slow down. The wind was giving it some and there were occasional showers, but by then I was sweating so much with the walking that all of that was a relief. It brightened up considerably the further we went. It was unexpectedly quite busy. Not as busy as the last time, when we'd got as far as Bronte Falls before the call came to go back, but there were a steady stream of people down there. Half wanting to avoid them and half wanting to see the pretties, we kept going on little meanders off the beaten track. The first of the best of these was the waterfall. Kate likes waterfalls. We often find ourselves pulling over on car journeys to better see one; or detouring to climb up one. Kate spotted one and was partway up, while I was reading the plaque at the bottom telling us that this was Bronte Falls.
It was muddy and Kate had her wellies on, so she fell behind slightly... hence it was me who fell up to my lower calves in a swampy puddle near the top of the falls. I had DMs on, so I was able to climb, practically vertically in places, up to the top of the falls. There the view was wonderful, but more wonderful was that sense that it was a secret place. Of course, climbing up there was one thing, but going down again? When your boots have kicked down some of the foot-holds in climbing and the mud has made everything slippy? And the rain is still softly falling... *hugest grin ever* That's why the Lady made heather. We went along until it was obvious that all we were going to get were vertical drops, with the rocks and water far below, then it was every wench for herself. I LOVED IT! Lying back against the bank, holding onto the sturdy heather with my hands above my head, sliding down until my heels found some purchase, then letting go. Sometimes I dug with my heels until the mud slipped and a niche was formed. By the end, it was ‘sod that’, I fell until the heather itself held me. I got to the bottom giggling like a kid and looked for Kate. She was about half a second behind me, giggling her head off herself. She had to wade across the falls themselves though and catch me as I leapt, because I'd have been well buggered trying that in DMs! We didn't get very far then, because the breck itself was just around the corner and that takes some getting past. Not so much in physical difficulty, because the maintained, well-trodden track and bridge sort that out, but in sheer prettiness. Everywhere I looked, it was just beautiful. The breck cuts through a ravine, so the moors sweep upwards on both sides, with all the heather, sheep grass and sheep, twisted trees and dancing trees, the bridge and rocks. It was typical of us really that Kate waded into the breck, taking pictures of the rain-swollen water rushing under that bridge, while I lay dreaming amongst the roots of a tree using, as a pillow, a tuft of grass which grew where the ground met its trunk. As she found her seat on a rock at the edge of the breck to watch its flowing, I stared up at broad broughs and then, through their extremities, the slopes of the ravine cut through by some ancient thawing ice age. And that's me and Kate in a nutshell. Eventually we started off again though, up the opposite edge of the ravine, slowly following the signs to Top Withins. Stopping, of course, for Kate to photograph a stone wall; or me to gush over another copse of trees or another view. We were high up now, so that's always perilous when it comes to getting me to go anywhere quickly. I love heights. I love the fact of being high up; I love the views; I love just sitting there looking and looking and looking, not thinking anything, just drinking in through my eyes the scenery below. Kate had seen Top Withins though and had us practically racing the last bit, until my thighs just went to jelly and I had to sit down! A cigarette later and it was sorted out, but I think my body had just noticed how many miles it had walked thus far. I'm not known for being fit. Five minutes on, around the corner and there was Top Withins. ‘I see a repose that neither earth nor hell can break, and I feel an assurance of the endless and shadowless hereafter – the Eternity they have entered – where life is boundless in its duration, and love in its sympathy, and joy in its fullness.’ ~ ‘Wuthering Heights’ Emily Bronte
In a little while, we were alone again, so climbed onto the walls to watch the sun go down and darkness start to fall. A beautiful peace; and such silence. Kate got cold, so climbed down. I heard her cry out, 'Oh fu....!' but nothing else, so I didn't jump off, just stared at the sun until she called me. 'Can you come here a moment please?' I meandered out and she was facing the sunset. She pointed, 'Just look at that... the colours... look at the blue, the pinks, the red...' I was looking, grinning, in awe. Then she said, in an echo of the book itself, 'And now turn around.' ‘Close your eyes and turn around. If it is fair, then so shall be your life…” ~ ‘Wuthering Heights’ by Emily Bronte The eventual walk back took almost as long as the walk there. Not because the whole round trip was between 7 and 9 miles (depending on which source you consult), but because we detoured and meandered and explored and sat for long whiles just being there. The moors, at night, were transformed again in silver and black; everything had a magical air. We didn't bother with the beaten track until we'd found the bridge again and crossed it. Before that, we were cutting across wild moorland, over rocks and fences. I told Kate to listen for the breck, because we couldn't go wrong, but without torches and in the brightness of that full moon, we could see for miles anyway. I didn't need her hearing to get us back and neither did she, really. We kept to the track after the breck, but probably only because there were fewer places to deviate from it. That final walk back will stay with me forever. The moon to our right, seeming low enough to reach out and touch, looking at Kate silver in it, knowing myself to be the same. Stopping to look at Orion, the Great Bear, Draco, the twins. Stopping every so often for a cigarette or just to stop and look. Reality faded in slowly, a mile after coming off the moors, when the road wound around past a pub. There were voices and music, like a distant world, just as magical in its own right, though I think that both of our hearts and minds were back on the moors in the moonlight. We stopped in the Black Bull, where Branwell Bronte used to drink, and briefly considered staying in Haworth. But a few coffees on, Kate declared herself fit and ready to drive home. That suited me. I was craving the solitude and silence, away from people, just me and Kate journeying somewhere. In a way, I wondered if, had we stayed, and no doubt been enticed onto the moor one last time in the cold daylight, the magic would have evaporated somehow. I wanted it safe inside me and I wanted to be out in the moonlight again. I didn't say any of this to Kate. It was her call, being the driver, and I said I was happy whichever way she jumped. We drove home and, in the lanes, the song which reminded me of arriving in Vegas, 'King of Birds', came on. It will remind me of that journey now too, linking the two. *pause to grin at the computer screen* We were back in the beautiful Black Country (which has it's own kind of magic, if you've the eyes to see it) by midnight. Still giggling, still full of the everything of it all.
+++Back to top+++ Back to current issue+++
|