Issue #55 - Noverber 7th - 13th

Lost with Sister Janice
Hell, it aint the musical era I'd choose, but it'll do. A hundred thousand gyrating bodies all around me, the air is thick with the smell of aromatic oils - the sort they burn here specially, that give energy, that keep you dancing all night, and that stop you smelling all the sweaty sorts around you.
By Sister Janice Slejj

Be a Hero- wear a hat
the use of a hat is both the recognition and the interpretation of one's relation to those around you - and as such requires a constant weighing-up of what goes on around you and constant attention to those around you: the hat as instrument of ethics!
ByJoHan Hugo

Music, Marriage and Masturbation-An Interview With Richard Colburn of B&S
I think sometimes Stuart gets embarrassed at the end of "…Arab Strap" and stuff, especially if we're playing hometown shows and, you know in case, his parents or any relations or anybody are there, so he has to make something up for the last little bit there in the end. So I think he's kind of gotten over that and just sort of though "Well, it's probably safer not to."
By Jay Eckard

Before the Fall
I reckon he'll call me 'baby' till the day he dies, and I'm fine with that, especially when he gives me his irreverent smile and asks me if I traded my husband in for a newer model.
By Melissa S. Hill

 

 

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Lost with Sister Janice

Sister Janice is the Friends Of The Heroes agony aunt. She used to be a nun, but after becoming involved in an accident at her convent involving a papal emissary; the mother superior; the convent dog and a bottle of 'citrus fresh' bleach, she decided it was time to find herself a new career.

These days she travels through the galaxies in a converted garden shed. Write to Sister Janice Slejj care of Friends of the Heroes. She will answer your problems and questions with the insight unique to a disco-loving alternative-gardening defrocked clergy member and cosmic adventurer...

Everybody's free-
ee-
to feel good!

EVERYBODY'S FREE-
EE-
TO FEEL GO-
OOD!

Hell, it aint the musical era I'd choose, but it'll do. A hundred thousand gyrating bodies all around me, the air is thick with the smell of aromatic oils - the sort they burn here specially, that give energy, that keep you dancing all night, and that stop you smelling all the sweaty sorts around you.

Oh, Hello there, my little lightbeams of lusciousness, don't mind me, just go with the flow..

The music doesn't just come towards us. They've built some clever electronic system here that means it goes right into your body, and rushes all the way through it. Not just through your brain, but your whole being. Every tissue, muscle, cell within you pulsates to the beat and you're able to achieve -

Nothing. It isn't about achieving... Its just about enjoying where you are, right now.

Above us, the sky is full of spacecraft, flashing lights of electric blue, neon pink....iridiscent rainbows that fling themselves from one horizon to the other, purely for our fascination. A great star of some fluorescent shade of black I've never seen before hovvers above us, ready to explode into a million spectra.
Not a real star, of course. Nothing is really as it was designed here. They had to change everything, to re-generate this deeply unfashionable planet in the colder end of the solar system...and they did a fantastic job. These days, Pluto the party planet pulls people in from all seventy eight thousand, six hundred and forty two (at the last estimate) corners of this universe, and a few corners of the universes that we haven't yet discovered.

There's a woman directly in front of me, shimmering red from head to foot, a huge orange light where her stomach might be which pulsates in time with the music. Behind me, a group of space-octopii, high on Venusian love potions undulate slowly towards and away from one another. They hardly even know the rest of us are here. Apparently, there's a party here from Earth tonight. They're playing songs in their honour. I'm a little glad of this... even with the help of a sophisticated Plutonian rave sound-system, it can be difficult to dance to what some beings around me would consider music.
I must find whoever runs this place and lend them a few of my Grace Jones records.

Hang on...what am I saying? Lend my Grace Jones records? That's the sort of mania this place breeds. We're all happy, we all love the music and, by extension, one another. A few flesh-eating Uranians smiled at me as I stepped (well, fell, actually, but we'll come to that later) out of The Space Shed, wishing me a happy holiday here.
I smiled weakly, nodded, and was glad I hadn't met them in their natural habitat.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

thump
thump
thump

I can feel the drums as they run through my blood like bullets, every part of me alive and simultaneously at one with every other part, within me, without me flying into the atmosphere, out to the edges of my energy field, where it mingles with those around me and becomes part of the universal flow.

There I go again. This place can be dangerous. You have to watch how long you stay here. Some people have literally danced themselves out of existence. It aint a bad way to go, but I've got things to do.

Now...what were they again?

I didn't mean to end up here. I swear I didn't. I'd set the controls perfectly for the belt of Orion, pushed a few buttons, pulled the odd lever, got frustrated when it didn't work, and was in the middle of pouring myself a nice, soothing rocket-fuel cocktail when I suddenly felt the ground rush up to meet me.
I'll never get used to these crash-landings. I stepped out, into the music. Some children ran up to me, gave me a glowstick, and then disappeared back into the crowd. The smoke from the oils rushed up to greet me.

I left the shed without a second's thought.

I wish I knew where I had left it.

And the music soars off again, and I'm about to follow it when I'm approached..

Two men, and a woman, in some strange silver get-up that makes it look like they stepped straight out of some bad 50's B-Movie. Her skin is orange, the men - if that's what they are - are green.

'The guv'nor wants to talk to you'.
She takes my hand and suddenly it all disappears around me, the noise, the smoke, the people.

I'm sitting in an oak-pannelled waiting room. There's a pile of magazines on the table... Plutonian Periodical Of Pill-Popping; Andromedan Today, Good Housekeeping... and to my left, an empty water cooler. There's a woman in the room, coughing as if she's got a small country stuck in her throat and a receptionist sitting behind the desk, looking aggressive and unhelpful.

My guides sit me down and, start to walk away...

'WAIT!'
The female turns, her voice swirling around me in some polyphonic haze
'Yes?'

'Who...wa....why am I here?'

She smiles.
'You've been asked for, Sister Janice. Wait here, and the boss will see you shortly'.

And they're off. Back to the rave, presumably, leaving me stuck here in a bloody waiting room. I'm a bit wary of this. I don't like appointments with mysterious people, whether or not they've got some bird in a shimmery silver suit doing their bidding. I contemplate leaving to find the Space Shed, but I really have no idea where I am. I can't even hear the music from here, and I thought you could hear that everywhere on Pluto.
Perhaps I'm on a different planet. Marooned, without my craft.

Best not to think about that. Don't think about anything. Empty your mind.
I pick up a copy of 'Good Housekeeping', and try and flick through. Then, I throw it on the ground. I'm not quite ready for my mind to be THAT empty.

Not yet.

I do have things to do, though. Thank heavens for my Advice Dispensees. Here's this week's letter:

'Dear Sister Janice,
I have an embarrasing question to ask, and you seem like the perfect person to answer it. You see, the rose colored light in my magickal lighthouse has gone out. No matter how much I yell and scream and demand the light to come back on, it refuses. To make maters worse it keeps telling me it would prefer a lavender colored light instead of rose. Well, that's just no good! How am I supposed to search for my lost ideas and the rabbit who stole it with a lavender colored light?! In the meantime, I'm when fencing on Johnny Depp's pirate boat, is it better to use a quarte move or a counter six parry to defelect the blade? And which move would take his clothes off faster? Thank you for your time.
Sincerely,
Desdemona del Anna Alexander II'

You know, thinking about this, things went weird ever since I woke up in The Space Shed, alone, one morning, to find Roger, my travelling-companion, had gone out to watch dancing girls. I do wish I hadn't flown off without him. I have a feeling I wouldn't be in this situation if I'd remembered to check he was there.

It can't all be a dream. Dreams feel different, somehow.

And yet... 'the rose coloured light in my magical lighthouse has gone out'...
that's just not the sort of thing people say normally, now is it?

Perhaps it was the oils they pumped out at the rave - something hallucinogenic within them? This bird's clearly been on them...

A talking lighthouse. How preposterous. That's about as likely as...

...finding myself transported from the middle of an interplanetary rave, by an orange-skinned alien female, to wait for an appointment with a person known only as 'the boss' in what appears, to all intents and purposes, to be a doctor's waiting room....

so... the lavender lighthouse... okay then..

Dear Desdemona,

Have you tried popping down B&Q and asking for a rose-coloured lighthouse bulb? I hear they're all the rage these days. Yuppie flats are springing up all over the places with thousand-watt lights in their attics, and of course nobody just wants a white light any more.
Perhaps your lighthouse is put out at finding itself imitated. Which might explain the loss of ideas and the...was it a rabbit, dear?

Oh, sod it, she isn't going to buy that. May as well confront it head-on.

Dear Desdemona,

Problem one....your lighthouse is TALKING to you.
Is it the ONLY building that talks to you, or do inanimate objects attempt to strike up conversations on a regular basis? Have you ever LEFT the building? Thought about maybe making some new friends - perhaps by attending a 'Redemption Through Retrospective Dance' Class? (details are on their way, you can pay by cheque, postal order, or by sending any old disco record to: Sister Janice Slejj, The Space Shed, Space)

Problem two...your lighthouse is TALKING to you.
See 'problem one'.

Problem three... the light has gone out, and a rabbit has stolen your ideas and you're worried you won't be able to simultaneously fence and remove the clothes of a Hollywood Film Star. See 'problem one'.

Failing that, if you really, REALLY like living in a talking building, I suggest you learn to love a lavender coloured lighthouse beacon. That's something very unique you've got there, and I'm sure it will entice Johnny Depp and his shipmates to come visiting. So, get practicing your swordswomanship because you'll need far more esoteric moves than the ones you've mentioned to remove his kit without him noticing.
I recommend hallucinogenic plant-leaves in his Ovaltine. And don't pretend you haven't got any. I can sense it by the fact that you sound like you're on hard drugs in your Galactic Flow.

Actually, stick a cup of Ovaltine on for me, while you're at it. I'll be with you just as soon as I've escaped from the Mysterious Doctors Of Pluto, found my space-travelling companion, rescued him from a dancing girl, got him to mend my flying garden shed and got this space-rave-smoke out of my system.

Suddenly, you don't seem quite so odd after all. I'll bring a rose-coloured light-bulb.

Yours
Sister Janice

I'm sitting, and thinking that I COULD just walk out of here, that I've escaped from other places and just because I'm probably marooned in space doesn't mean that freedom is impossible, given the right set of circumstances and that anyway nobody said I HAD to stay and they might not mind if I walk away...... when the receptionist calls:

 'SLEJJ, JANICE!'

'y...yes?'

'Room one, up the corridor, to your right'.

The corridor appears before me as she says it.
What the hell, go with the flow. It doesn't look as if I really have a choice.

Have a reassuring week, my little mother-ships of mysteriousness. I hope I shall be writing to you soon.

xx

Sister Janice

 

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Be a Hero - Wear a Hat

Chairman: [of the Very Big Corporation of America]... Item 6 on the Agenda, the Meaning of Life... Now Harry, you've had some thoughts on this...

Harry: That's right, yeah. I've had a team working on this over the past few weeks, and what we've come up with can be reduced to two fundamental concepts... One... people are not wearing enough hats. Two... matter is energy; in the Universe there are many energy fields which we cannot normally perceive. Some energies have a spiritual source which act upon a person's soul. However, this soul does not exist *ab inito*, as orthodox Christianity teaches; it has to be brought into existence by a process of guided self-observation. However, this is rarely achieved owing to man's unique ability to be distracted from spiritual matters by everyday trivia.

[Pause.]

Max: What was that about hats again?

(FROM: Monty Python's The Meaning of Life)

Yes, what indeed about hats? And is a concern with hats really no more than the sort of "everyday trivia" that serve to distract people? I would suggest not.

Let me out myself immediately - I'm a hat-person through and through, so what is to follow should probably be read with that firmly in mind. One might say that it was private school and straw-bashers that done it, but one would be wrong were one to. Wearing a stupid hat because you're forced to is precisely the wrong way to wear a hat. but I'll come back to that later. My first real hat was classical and Western: a Stetson shaped in dark-brown felt, with a sober plaited leather band. Possibly dodgy connotations, I realize, but it does wonders under the African sun, and adds a certain ruggedy je ne sais qua to boring office-wear. That disappeared into the wardrobe of a play I did once though, and currently I am the proud owner of a grey felt Fedora I picked up in a second-hand shop in the Netherlands, decided I liked, and then bought. Wearing it I shoot for Humphrey Bogart - usually I get Inspector Clouseau instead. It's also great for putting a lid on any bad hair-day.

But none of that is very important. A useful hat is quite nice and all that, to be sure, but utility is not the THING about hats. The THING about hats - and that goes for just about any life-style accessory, but especially for hats - is that they are more than just life-style accessories. They are a life-style in themselves, and a whole value-system, one of those very fine little points where aesthetics approach, meet, touch and embrace. It's a commonplace that of all a person's features, their hair will tell us most about them at first glance, since it's the most easily manipulable. Well, hats are like that, just more so, because we use them, we interact with (and through) them - and we project ourselves through them.

Of course, it's not immediately obvious that hair and hats are in the strictest sense commensurable. After all, hair belongs to us - we only wear hats. And yet, anyone who has ever someone wear with confidence exactly the right hat, will know how - at the same time - it belongs to them far more than any mere piece of clothing, or even a bad hair-cut, can. Compare Truman Capote avec chapeau, et sans. Humphrey Bogart (and especially when he wants to become Phillip Marlowe). Reni.

And that is the first point - one is not born a hat-wearer, one becomes one. Unlike one's hair, one both decides which hat to wear, and whether to wear one in the first place.

And that is quite a decision, because doing it properly entails not merely plonking it down on your head, but committing yourself to wearing it, to living it. One decides each day to wear the hat or not - whether to match it with your clothes, or use it contrapuntally. You wear it squarely and solidly perched - the straight-up, blue-eyed frontiersman (think Indiana Jones, any number of cowboys except Clint Eastwood); you push it debonairly backwards like a member of some belle époque boating-party (or - heaven forfend! - Jason Donovan); you angle it rakishly forward, inclining waspishly towards an eye-brow that is, by implication, always archly raised. You buy into the working-class, or the outdoors-type, gangsters or a '40's flick, a picnic on a summer-lawn crossed with croquet-mallets, the moneyed set, the arty set - anything you want, they all have their hats. The options are endless. With lack of application, or through carelessness, you become Madonna.

Madonna is a case in point. She jumps from hat to hat almost as fast as some people change socks. But hats cannot be worn like that, or at least, not in any pleasing sense. There is nothing worse than a bad hat, badly worn. The multitude of hats, in her case, point to nothing more than the hollowness beneath. Perhaps each person has only one or two great hats in them, and Madonna has not yet found her hat. You can tell, because once she's found it, she will never change again. The right hat is like a soulmate - you know it when you've find it.

But then all of this is secondary still - though a mildly interesting element in the semiotics of someone's identity, this still is not the THING with hats. Because once we've found our hats - and let's assume for the moment we have - we don't just wear them, we wear them. We use them. Or better, to really wear a hat is to know how to use it too. And that is the THING with hats.

I realized this watching other people try on my hat, and then swanning around, thinking that they're wearing it - and they don't have a clue! Now you have to realize that my hat is gorgeous, and just about everyone looks good in it - that's not it. The problem is: you don't just pop on a hat one day, and there you are - you have to work at it without cease. For to really wear a hat is to be continually aware of your circumstances - the people around you, and where you are. It is only that the hat will manifest itself in all its many facets.

The most important part of wearing a hat is knowing when to take it off. Now, this is somewhat relative to the particular hat you're wearing but also - and much more importantly - the wearing of a hat is the barometer par excellence of social interaction and of position. It's all very complex, I'm afraid.

Let's take it slowly, to give you some idea. You are walking down the street, wearing your hat. You are put in the situation of having to greet one. It is now your hat comes into play. Your handling of the hat is a crucial part in your prospective interaction, and will provide the key to your interpretation of this scene. To tip or not to tip? To doff or not to?

There are no hard and fast rules, but a lot of things to bear in mind. At the very least you need to touch finger to the brim - but raising it might be seen as ostentatious. unless you haven't seen the person in a while and. See, it all becomes dreadfully complex. For instance, should you want to stop and chat, a good way to indicate this would be to sweep the hat off and carry it in your hand as you rush across the street (all the while being wary of oncoming traffic!). Once you are face-to-face, the next difficulty will be to decide when to put it on again.

The sliding-scale of possibilities are infinite - and each subtle gradation of behaviour along it presents a unique interpretation of the situation based on degrees of familiarity, relative social standing, age, the intensity of interaction desired and a myriad other things which are communicated intricately through the mere brandishing of your headgear.

Some useful tips: a hug should always be given or received with hat in hand - in fact, when giving or receiving anything, whether it be money or a gift or a mere word of thanks, it is always to accompanied by the removal of the hat, until the transaction has been completed. Of course, sometimes one needs both hands free fro this kind of thing - even then a cursory lifting of the hat is obligatory. It may then be stored temporarily on top of the head, in order to free both hands - but never as normally worn! It should be perched precariously on top - carried, not worn. Similarly, of course, a request is not entirely to be taken seriously if it emanates from under the cocky shadows of a hat-brim. Again, these are only to be regarded as guidelines, and each situation requires its own spontaneous interpretation, intuitively grounded in the manipulation of the hat.

In short, the use of a hat is both the recognition and the interpretation of one's relation to those around you - and as such requires a constant weighing-up of what goes on around you and constant attention to those around you: the hat as instrument of ethics!

But it is also a recognition of place, of the space you find yourself in. Hats are not to be worn inside, of course, but in- and outside are not always as clearly defined as one might like. What status to accord to a mall, for instance? In fact, one's treatment of the prickly issue of the hat often describes one's intuitive response to the space you find yourself in. It points up the difference between being inside, or outside, or merely passing through. It is a statement of place, and a statement of intent.

And what it all comes down to, is a statement of respect - respect for other people, for the world you find yourself in at any given moment, for your relationship to both these, and ultimately for yourself. It takes self-confidence, and self-respect - the hallmarks of a heroic disposition - to pull off a hat. This is perhaps the key to the old-fashioned connotations hats often have - they were in their heyday in a culture where respect itself was respected.

A culture of respect breeds a culture of the hat, a culture where hats are not only worn, but worn. In a flippant culture, Justin Timberlake can wear a hat just like Bogey's, but he cannot wear it quite as convincingly, and he cannot command our respect in quite the same way, because wearing a hat properly is the stuff of heroes, and yes - people are not wearing not enough hats, but this is not the sort of everyday trivia that distracts from spiritual development - but the very symptom of the lack of that development!

So, go on - respect yourself: be a hero - wear a hat!

JoHan Hugo  

(More by this author)

 

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Music, Marriage and Masturbation-An Interview With Richard Colburn

On October 27th, what is probably the premier Indie-Pop band, Belle and Sebastian, played a show in Durham, NC. Now this in itself is a bit odd: on their East Coast tours over the past few years, the band has skipped over most of the Southeast US, hopping up to Washington, DC from Atlanta.

Odder still was the fact they agreed to an interview. From me. On the off chance someone, somewhere might do an interview, I wrote to their label, Rough Trade, introducing myself as an DJ and staff member of WXDU-FM, the local independent radio station. To my surprise, I got a terse email back telling me to be at the venue, the Carolina Theater, at 2 pm the day of the show.

Fair Enough.

I showed up that day with Keith Artin, another 'XDU DJ and the operator of our portable minidisk recording device, and Miss Laura Llew, that East Coast Hipster social gadfly.

After watching the crew set up for a while, the label press agent introduced us to Richard Colburn, the band's drummer, and took us into an unused dressing room. Richard was slightly disheveled: it seems he had just been roused by the PA. Secretly, we wondered if he had gotten Richard because he was the slowest to run from the dread-locked agent. After two minutes, we doubted it. Richard was extremely entertaining and informative. We couldn't have asked for a better person to talk with. We opened up with some preliminary talk - "Gee, the weather is nicer here than in Glasgow" and "Do you think you could help me stow this Conversation Pit in the bus, then?" - and started the interview proper.

What you see below is a direct transcript of the interview as recorded. JE is me, Jay, the interviewer, RC is Richard, KA is Keith and LL is Miss Llew. This interview is currently airing on WXDU (You can listen to the station at www.wxdu.org/listen) radio in a (very) edited form. Anything enclosed in brackets for one reason or another has been removed from the on-air version. Lucky for you, the removed stuff is much more entertaining.

For the full interview effect, though, you have to understand that while Richard was off fetching coffee, Chris Geddes (the band's primary keyboard player) walked in silently and got into a staring contest with Laura. He lost. The rest of the interview, as we were talking, he'd poke his head in the door behind Laura and glare at her back. So. Sit back. Read. Enjoy.

This is the Interview I did with Richard Colburn.

JE: Actually, I do have one question for you. Have you seen the on-line petition for you guys to record the song "Rhoda"?

RC: Yeah, actually. I saw it a few weeks ago. And there has been talk occasionally over the last few years, before tours, of maybe resurrecting the song itself, but it's never really happened. I don't know why: there's sort of other songs that are probably the same age as that song that have been resurrected. So I'm not really sure what'll happen with that. But I really like the song, so maybe hopefully we'll do something with it.

JE: You have -not necessarily "Rhoda" but other songs -- that you typically only do live, like "Pocketbook Angel", which I don't think you're planning on recording. So what's your attitude towards about songs you only do live?

RC: Well, it kind of works in a way, because sometimes when you've been doing a song so long and not recorded it, it's difficult to have the reaction to it the same way as when you hear a new song you react to it by playing it in a certain way. But if you keep playing it and keep playing it and keeping playing it, it becomes… ugh, I don't know how to explain this cause I've just woken up. Sorry. It's sort of… all the natural things have been taken away from it, because you've done it so many times, you're so used to it. So there's not any room to try anything new because as soon as you have played a song quite a lot, you stick to that part cause it's in your brain so there's no way to try to do something new with it. Usually when we record new songs, we will record them before we play them live for that very reason. The first time you hear it, you react to it straight away and you're right in it. It's quite inspirational and stuff; the longer you play it, the less chance that'll happen.

JE: So is it more to record something like "Lord Anthony" or "The Loneliness of the Middle-Distance Runner" after you've been performing it or is it easier?

RC: "Lord Anthony" wasn't so bad because we hadn't played it in so many years it was almost like it was a new song for the first time again. "Loneliness" was different because we'd had about four attempts at recording it, and after the fourth attempt it was like, "This isn't happening."
For things like "Lord Anthony" the fact we were working with Trevor Horne gave us a bit more scope to try something different with it. So maybe if we try another producer next time, it might give us the scope to try something with "Loneliness".

[ JE: To completely change tracks, one of the criticisms I saw for your new album was that it has no masturbation references in it. Is that intentional?

LL: audibly chokes on tape

RC: *laughs
It's all very subliminal. If you put the record backwards… I have no idea. I think sometimes Stuart gets embarrassed at the end of "…Arab Strap" and stuff, especially if we're playing hometown shows and, you know in case, his parents or any relations or anybody are there, so he has to make something up for the last little bit there in the end. So I think he's kind of gotten over that and just sort of though "Well, it's probably safer not to."

JE: Uhhh. We may have to edit that out.
*Pauses
And that, as well. I had another question all ready…

RC: It's the same way in the studio, actually. ]

JE: So you're on tour right now and you have another pretty substantial tour on the books for next year, right? A World Tour?

RC: Right. After we've been in the States, we're going to tour around the UK till maybe a week before Christmas, then take a few weeks off and then go to Japan in January. Then Europe, February and March. And we're looking at Argentina, Brazil, Mexico right up to the Cochella Festival, and then part of California. And after that, we'll see what happens. There are other places we haven't played in a while that have to be considered as well, but that will come after those ones. And, you know, we'll probably record something new after that.

JE: And again, like with the writing question, I'm not sure this is the best person to ask, but: You've got a single coming out, soon, "Step Into My Office Baby". It's the first single with an album track on it…

RC: That's right.

JE: Is that your decision or is that something the [new] label is gonna do?

RC: It was kind of our decision… Yeah… Cause in the past, obviously, we've gone for a more non-commercial way of working, and when we signed to Rough Trade, the first thing they sort of said was "You could probably kind of help yourselves a little more by doing certain things that most bands kind of do." Well that's fair enough, I suppose. Without totally playing the game, there are certain things are obvious that will help you. And the fact we're using Trevor Horne, it's like a new start, lots of new thing, new album. The band line-up's different again: Isobel's left, Stuart David's left, Bob Kildea's in now and other stuff. There's so many different things, we thought, "Oh what the hell, we'll try things a different way for this album, and if it works, it works and if not, maybe for the next album, we'll just revert back to what we've always done."

JE: Oh well. Well, you've pretty much pre-guessed the next question I was going to ask. People come, people leave; stuff goes and new stuff comes. Not many bands could stand losing or gaining a new member and still be relatively successful. Yeah… I guess that's my comment.

RC: Yeah. Depends on how you lose the member.

JE: That's true.
[ *pauses
Fuck. I did it again…I forgot. Oop. Have to edit that. Oh sorry. Didn't mean to curse…

RC: No…

JE: Oh, okay. Right. There was another interview I read, I don't remember where, and…Oh! That was the other question I forgot earlier! Yay!… that] someone asked you if you thought you were more successful here in the State or in the UK or in the rest of the world. So, what do you think about that?

RC: Ummm… It's a hard one because obviously the US is so much bigger than the UK, so it's relative. There's sort of a ration of so many people to so many people in the UK. But I think the attitude in America is a little better. Certainly in Japan and Europe the attitude towards music is better than in the UK. I find that a little… I find that sometimes I don't really like the attitude of journalists in general, of people who work in the record industry.
[Not all journalists, I have to say.

KA: We're not journalists, we're DJs.

JE: Hey!

RC: DJs are the best!]
But yeah, just certain quarters in the UK Music Industry I'm not to into because they'll pigeon-hole you straight away and they're prejudice and stuff. And… just because you're seen, deemed a certain thing and no matter what kind of music you put out in the future you still have a tag.
Whereas in Europe, people are just happy to hear good music. They're not bothered by what is this, that or the next thing. Japan's the same and America is a lot like that, too. Obviously, we have a fan base in Britain but I don't really see it as in any one place, because most of our fans work through the internet, so it's more of an international thing than any specific area. And people come from thousands of miles to see us when we play live. As our fan base goes, it's great cause you can't pin-point it to any one place.

JE: I was going to say, as part of my research, I came across the Sinister Mailing List

RC: Oh yes, yes.

JE: …and it seemed extremely international to me. Do you keep tabs on that? I mean, people starting relationships - boyfriends, girlfriends - people getting married off the list. What sort of reaction do you guys have to that?

RC: It's amazing. It's like a big international cult, almost. It really is. It's nuts. We've had people come up to us - or at least email us - before we've been in a city for a show and a guy will say, "I'm gonna propose to my girlfriend, will you let us come up onstage and do it and play a song for us? We'd really be indebted." Yeah, okay. Cool. And that's happened several times. And lots of different things. You know, quite a lot of people have meet-ups and picnics and stuff, so if you people here in the States or in Europe or in Britain or Australia or whatever… Plus, if one group in one area wants to come across and hear us play in another area, then they hook up with people in the West. It's a big community, a big club.
But there's several different ones like that. There's the Bowlie Forum and other ones. I think… I quite like it. I think if I wasn't in the band, I'd have nothing to do with it - 'cause it's not really my thing -- but in saying that, I respect it and it's a good thing and people enjoy it, so more power to them.

[ JE: So, going on those last two questions, I know that there's a tendency to believe that whatever the fan situations, with music or a TV show or something like that, that Americans tend to be more over the top, more overly into something than they should be. Do you find there's any degree of truth to that, to the people you've met over here?

RC: Errr. I'm not… No. I don't know… There's people like that everywhere. I think it comes down to a more personal thing than a nation. You get enthusiastic people and people who are not. Maybe because there's more to do over here, more to get excited about or more to get over the top about than there is in Britain.]

JE: Part of the stuff I saw getting ready for this, some publicity stuff was a story in the New York Times the gist of which was "Laura Bush would really like this band!" Did you see that, have any reaction to it?

RC: No. No, I didn't.

JE: It was right when they album came out, and it talked about the band in general and the Times sort of described it as bland, inoffensive music that a spinster librarian might sort of enjoy, since that's sort of the image of Laura Bush…

RC: Oh yeah…

JE: Well, it was sort of flattering. Anyway, it leads me to the next question. Do you think there's any sort of dichotomy before… Uh. Sorry. I just stumbled because I used a big word. But you think there's a difference between the perceived image of a Belle and Sebastian fan the reality? Like of someone who's tragically twee versus…

RC: Yeah, yeah. I think the stereotypical fan, there's not a lot of difference between the image and what they actually are. But then again, there's so many descriptions of that and prejudices as well - just as in music. We're seen as a fey, twee band. Fair enough. But we're not personally really like that. But because the image was put across early in the band's career, it stuck.. And that probably goes for people who are in the band, as well. It's part and parcel of the whole scene. But then again, I don't really mind either way, cause people are happy to be either way, happy to whatever. Fine.

JE: Yeah, you pretty much hit the next question as I was going to ask about the band and the music. [ So. One last question, and this is from my own research -- Steven Pastel as the new Doctor Who: Yes or No?

RC: I never… That's a brilliant concept. I never thought of that. Geez. Definitely. Yeah. Yeah. Good call. ]

JE: Thank you. That's all the stuff I've got. Is there anything you want to add?

RC: We've got a new DVD coming out, actually. Pretty soon. I don't know if it's out, here actually.

[ JE: Not yet. Soon. I think.

RC: I should actually know this.

KA: Yeah… Tomorrow.

JE: Yeah, it should actually be tomorrow. Stuff is released on Tuesdays here. And it's tomorrow.

RC: Oh right. Good-oh.] But if you the chance, you should check it out. It's pretty interesting. On one hand, it might not help the image we have, but on the other it might.

JE: So is everything ready for tonight, I guess?

RC: Yeah, we're going to soundcheck quite soon and last night was the first show so it's always a bit nerve-wracking to do the first show and get it out of the way. Any technical problems there will have been smoothed out today. I think so. The more you do it, the easier it gets.

JE: So you've got new stuff, stuff from the new album to be the high-light?

RC: Yeah, we're slowly but surely introducing it into the set cause we did quite a lot of rehearsals. Last night, we played four, five songs off the new album. And we're playing a lot more older songs we've never played before, so it's like new-old songs, shall we say. So this set is almost completely different to the last two years.

JE: Great!

RC: 'Cause it gets, not tedious, but if you play the same sets for two years it gets… there's only so much you can do with them.

KA: What have you been enjoying playing?

RC: "Expectations" from Tigermilk has been a lot of fun. And quite a lot of songs of the new album, cause they're fresh and new, and it's fun to do. "Slow Graffiti" has been fun as well.

[ JE: You gonna do that one tonight?

RC: It's on the core list of songs, so whether it's tonight or tomorrow night, it's always a possibility.

KA: This is… This is… I probably shouldn't do this, but my wife will kill me if I don't ask. My

*everybody laughs

KA: My wife's birthday is tomorrow and she loves "This Is Just a Modern Rock Song". And I don't know if it's on the list of songs you guys play…

RC: Unfortunately… We do get this quite a lot and I don't know why we haven't done it. I think …

KA: Sorry to ask. Now I'm off the hook.

RC: Fair play.
I think the way it was recorded was quite off the cuff, so it's never been approached to try it out live and stuff. But there's no reason we shouldn't do it. If we get time in some sound checks, we might try and get it together. But it's quite a long song, so it's a tough one for live. Be we can try to shorten it, maybe. In future, we'll try to get it together.

JE: Your wife wasn't the one who got the vinyl copy of it over at Radio Free was she?

KA: Nah…

JE: There was the best local record store close down, and it had all this stuff on vinyl everybody wanted, and I waited till the last day to go get it.

RC: That's always the way when record stores close. You always say "Do I go in now or do I go tomorrow…" It's a tough one.

JE: Well, that's all the stuff I've got.

RC: Oh. Thanks very much then.

LL: You played "This Is Just A Modern Rock Song" last year in Atlanta as an encore.

RC: We did?!

LL: Yes, you did. It was fantastic.

RC: I don't even remember.

LL: Yeah, it made the show. Everyone was silent.

RC: I really have the worst memory… There were certain bits of Atlanta I'd forgotten and when I got [back] there, I was like "Ahhhh. Riight!"
Yeah, it's one of those songs that's more an encore song. It's a little more loose than the other songs. We haven't rehearsed it. It's definitely one of those you stick on the end as an added bonus rather than being a core song. I'll mention it to everybody and sort of see if it's possible in that scenario.

LL: I'd rather hear "Slow Graffiti!"

RC: We'll see if we can do both.

LL: I've never seen you do it live. I'd be so excited.

RC: We didn't play it last night, so hopefully tonight we will. It's on one of those core lists that we've got. But Stuart's actually got a little infection at the moment and his throat's not holding out so well at the moment, so he went to get his voice checked out. It's okay, it held out last night and it was good and stuff. But the set list is really dependent on what he can put out. But we'll see what we can do.

JE: And if you have a request, you can call the station at…]

Jay Eckard

 

 

 

 

Before the Fall

Today I watched the World Series of Poker and an accountant from Tennessee who paid $40 and won an online tournament in which the grand prize was the $10,000 entry fee to compete against professional poker players in a $2.4 million Las Vegas tournament won that tournament. His honest-to-god last name is Moneymaker.

OK, I'm not from around here. And this really doesn't have much to do with poker.

Most of it has to do with the air around me. I feel it changing every late September, fading towards October with a certain smugness like something is really about to happen, about to change. Suddenly I look down the flat roads of a coastal city, fresh off dodging the last hurricane, and the instant homesick sets in.

I can feel the mountains moving somewhere up in the red North Georgia clay, and I can feel, too, the way my husband gets nervous and watches me sideways, like I'm about to call it quits on the sand and run. The leaves don't even bother to change here in Savannah, Georgia. Some just give up and jump when the long hot summers take their toll and finally release them into autumn. Others, the palm trees and the pines, just stay green-- not really seeing the point in changing clothes for another 70 degree Christmas, one is forced to presume.

So here goes nothing, and I go with it, loading up the truck for a visit home. It's only 289 miles between Savannah and my tiny hometown, but it's like stepping into another world. Suddenly the driving is in 3-D. The leaves have changed into their party dresses, and the rolling hills grin.

So does my grandfather, when I slam the door of the truck and walk up to the porch, where he's been sitting in the same chair and smoking the same pack of cigarettes for thirty years. Coal black hair has gone wispy white, but he's holding up pretty well for seventy years. You can see how handsome he was, especially when the grin touches his still-blue eyes, and also why my grandmother's father hated him for going 50 miles an hour in reverse in a beat up Ford down a red dirt Georgia road to impress my grandmother when they were young. And he has a girlfriend, finally, seven years after my grandmother died.

She's a real sweet woman and stepping inside is like stepping back in time for me. I reckon he'll call me 'baby' till the day he dies, and I'm fine with that, especially when he gives me his irreverent smile and asks me if I traded my husband in for a newer model. I look over at my best friend Griff, who made the trip with me because he's from Tennessee and understands these things, and laugh while I try to explain that Jay couldn't get the time off because he's angling for a better position in his dialysis clinic when he finally gets his nursing degree.

It's a silly thing. The worlds are so different, Savannah and Adairsville. So I shut up and eat a biscuit, while his girlfriend Jessie pours me a glass of milk and they talk about how wonderful it is that I'm the first person from this mountain family to graduate college. They just find it an eternal pity that my degree was in English literature, and can't understand why I didn't pick something practical. Like dentistry.

And the weekend passes and I spend time with my sister Rose and get reacquainted with the little town I once hated while I lived there and am always moving towards in my dreams now. I go to the every-year festival where you can buy every type of bad-for-you food known to the Southern world. The festival commemmorates a train chase that happened in the Civil War. It wouldn't be so impressive except that one of the trains was moving in reverse.

I sat down. That was my first mistake. My second was ignoring the twinge in my back when I did. The third was pretending everything was okay while Griff and Rose arranged me in the house like furniture and doted on me like I was a three year old with a skinned knee. People patronize me. I don't know why. Rose says I'm too smart for my own good-- there was no room left over for common sense. She's always fixing things for me, taking gum packs out of my hand and opening them, taking cups out of my hand and pouring drinks, picking up the phone and asking me if I remembered to take my medicine.

The next day my grandfather wasn't smiling. He followed me out to the truck and stood there a long time, leaned against it with his baseball cap off for about the seventh time in thirty years. He kissed my cheek and told me to come back soon, but never really left the window.

We just drove away.

I took dramamine on the way back home so I wouldn't cry from the pain in my back and the pain in my side from leaving home again. By the time Griff helped me out of the truck and into my house, my mother had already called three times to see if I was there and alright. She lives in Charlotte, North Carolina now, but is still the family coordinator.

I can hear the electric guitar before I even get inside. Jay is playing so loud the dog is howling along with him, and I wince and ask him to turn down the amp. He looks relieved, because if I'm well enough to bitch about the volume, I must be alright. Because I am injured, he gives me a big hug. I smile and bite the inside of my mouth so hard I'm afraid it will bleed.

Now that it's back to normal in Savannah, it's no longer Papa and Rose doting on poor Mit who hurt her back and needs a glass of milk.

It's chiropractors and a cyatic nerve and a week out of work while I lay on the couch and feel sorry for myself. It's Jay feeling bad for having to work all week and bribing another friend of ours, Alex, to sit in with me for the entire time.

Turns out Alex is a fan of trick shot pool, baseball, and football. Turns out he's also a fan of poker, and after I watch the games idly for a couple of days I'm hooked. It has everything. Men who go "all in" with nothing but a 5 of clubs and a 3 of diamonds and wind up drawing a full house. Men with two Aces who bet it all only to be beaten by some new guy who pulls a flush on the last card. A huckster with a classy suit, a suave accent, and a cigarette he never smokes. A man from Tennessee who went to bed an accountant and woke up with a $10,000.00 chance of a lifetime. I followed the tournament all week, and tonight was the final game.

It came down to the huckster and the accountant, and the accountant won. We cheered when the last card came down and his losing hand became a full house.

I'm going back to work tomorrow, having been given the release from the doctors. It's Rose's birthday today and when I talk to her, she asks if my back is better and if I remembered to change my oil. She said Papa made a special trip to pick up her birthday present but forgot to give it to her, and she was too polite to ask him about it.

Jay fell asleep on the couch an hour ago, and I'm not heartless enough to wake him up considering he has the first off-day in what has been a consistent string in a series of 65 hour weeks. My mother comes online to ask me if I remembered to call Rose today.

No, I'm not from around here. I'm sitting here thinking that Moneymaker is the man. And also of the look on my grandfather's face when he wouldn't let me carry a ten-ounce pillow out to the truck when I was leaving. Also of how my sister is two years younger than me but will still pour me orange juice in the morning if I let her. And also of how my orange cat Mog will come to you if you call him, curl up in your lap, and purr so loud the other cats jump up to see what's going on. Right now he's sleeping on Jay's chest with his face pressed right up against the curve of his neck, with purrs that are reverberating from his cold nose to Jay's warm pulse.

No, this city still doesn't feel like home. And it probably won't till spring.

Melissa S. Hill

 

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