perfectly good guitar

There oughta be a law with no bail
Smash a guitar and you go to jail
With no chance for early parole
Ya don't get out until you get some soul

It's been an interesting few weeks. The move to the new build has not been without its problems. When the new build was initially proposed there was to be some £36 million set aside for it. By the time it finally got the go ahead, there was £18 million on the table. Shades of the Spinal Tap Stonehenge leap to mind.

Still, in other news . . . back in January I decided that it really was time to change the strings on my 12 string guitar. It has always been a daunting task. For a while it sounded fine. However, I often leave it hanging on the wall for weeks at a time as it's more of a luxury item than a serious tool. When I picked it up one evening last week to tune it and have a quick strum, it seemed a little harder to play than usual. I shrugged and went to put it back on its hanger.

Something about it didn't look right - I wasn't wearing glasses so needed to get a bit closer to it. Imagine my language surprise when I realised that the bridge had practically lifted off the soundboard. "Oh dear," I thought - or words to that effect. Although I was aware of the tension being more on a 12 string than a 6 string but it's always been fine. I guess the new strings I put on may have been to high a gauge for it. I'd put what was called a "light gauge" set on but hadn't realised that they were too heavy duty for the model I have.

Now, the guitar itself isn't particularly an expensive model so it's made of laminate rather than a solid top. There's no point having a broken guitar hanging around so I checked on the internet about how to fix it. I watched an excellent video on bridge repairs on 12 strings. Having instantly realised that my DIY skills, such as they are, are far too rudimentary for such an undertaking, I decided to check around for a local repair man. Even here in a small seaside town such craftsmen exist. In fact, a year or two back I had met one at a local festival. Still, being unable to remember his name or find his card, I noticed that the first one that came up on a Google search was an old colleague of mine. An ex-Maths teacher who left the teaching world after a few battles with a major illness.  I know his work is well thought of and he was around that evening to pick the poor beast up. This man makes guitars and violins. A guitar made by him would cost two thousand beer vouchers.

He had told me to whip the strings off and he'd be around within the hour. Indeed he was. That was Thursday, and he had phoned a few times over the weekend to let me know what he'd been doing to it. It seems that the bridge had been pulled forward - the rather out of focus snap just about shows how bad it was getting. The glue had moved and the whole thing could have justflown off - given all that tension, I'm rather glad I spotted it first! Anyway, he returned it tonight fully repaired and looking much healthier. It seems to have been a bit of a major undertaking to get it back into a decent shape.

What Dave did was to take off the bridge, get rid of as much glue as possible - the laminate was slightly damaged - glue and screw the bridge into place. Where he's drilled into the bridge he's put mother of pearl over the screw-holes. This has finished it off nicely. There's plenty on the guitar already so it doesn't look out of place. Then he's put REALLY light strings on and suggested that many people tune down a whole step to help reduce the stress. He's also diddled about with the truss-rod and set it up better. Unfortunately, as it's a cheapish guitar, he was unable to totally match the lacquer but it looks fine. My Fylde is covered in scratches and dents.We're all showing a bit of wear'n'tear after all this time.

Of course, all this has nearly  cost an arm and a leg. I thought I'd go with the leg. There aren't too many one-armed 12 string players about. Mind you, that does offer the opportunity for job sharing.

Still, he's done a good job and it does sound and play better now. I'll have to find a source for really light strings. Maybe I'll try tuning down. It's not the end of the world.  

Late at night at the end of the road
He wishes he still had that old guitar to hold
He'd rock it like a baby in his arms
Never let it come to any harm

days of future past

Many years have passed me by, it’s true

Many dreams have vanished from my view

I've chased them all

But there has been no answer

Though I recall

My innocence and laughter

I'm feeling older now

But what comes after this is through

Time had traced its maps across my face

Signs and lines for you to navigate

And in the end

There will be no returning

Let’s not pretend

No regrets and no yearnings

Could keep and fill your heart

If all you've got is what you do

I've spent much of the past few years bemoaning the fact that we've been let down. I have written elsewhere about the non-appearance of jetpacks - Dan Dare was promising them when I was a kid. James Bond used one in Thunderball in 1965.  The idea has been around for nearly a hundred years, possibly longer. And here we are in 2014 and those dreams of personal powered flight are in the news again. The future is here and now - Oh brave new world . . . and all that. At last.

Alongside that, as of today, our house is now connected to the internet by fibre optics. Er, well, in Britain, evidently, that means we are connected about 80% via fibre optics. It's still copper wire into our homes. Still, it's all very exciting and much quicker. A bit like life generally, then.

I spent last week in France up a mountain somewhere near Switzerland often listening to lots of well-informed ski aficionados discussing technical gear. They are all very knowledgeable and up-

to-date with the way the modern world has made skiing such a popular sport. I'm informed that it is a sport despite my genteel approach. I'm sure I didn't glaze over too often. What was interesting though was that although we couldn't always get decent connections to the internet, we could mostly keep in contact with the rest of the world: emails, the BBC and Twitter were still available to us via free (slow) wifi. Holidays no longer seem to be a time to get away from the everyday world that we, presumably are trying to get away from by having a holiday in the first place.  Still, the French continue to manage to avoid reality through their, er, sophisticated take on the everyday. Here are some urinals that children have to use as well as adults as they are the only loos on that part of the mountain. Charming.

One thing about travelling is that whilst we can now carry phones, whole music collections, iPads et al around with us to stay connected and wired for sound, we also have to carry the means to charge the damned things! The amount of chargers needed now takes up a big section of our baggage.

I had bought - for the first time in many, many years - for the journey, a copy of New Statesman (due to a lack of interesting magazines about guitars or walking) which was a special issue about technology and the future. There was an article by Bryan Appleyard that made a few good points and says that, like the need for nostalgia, we also have a hankering for the future:

At another level, futurology implies that we are unhappy in the present. Perhaps this is because the constant, enervating downpour of gadgets and the devices of the marketeers tell us that something better lies just around the next corner and, in our weakness, we believe. Or perhaps it was ever thus. In 1752, Dr Johnson mused that our obsession with the future may be an inevitable adjunct of the human mind. Like our attachment to the past, it is an expression of our inborn inability to live in – and be grateful for – the present.

I must admit that I have longed for the day when jetpacks would be available. Now those days seem to be here along with hand-held computers and - it would appear - cars that drive themselves imminent, perhaps there is a longing for those days when things didn't seem to change so much. I recently acquired a lovely old-fashioned acoustic autoharp. Don't get me started on the appalling waste and throwaway culture that has developed over recent years. The Academy I currently work at has just moved two schools onto one site ( a new build) where there is no room or the past. I've gained this product of the past - one that has been ignored for probably 30 years or so. And I really do mean "gained." This will need some TLC definitely: a project for those quieter, slower days of retirement ahead, I suppose. 

Still, whether there are better gadgets around the corner or not, some of these older ones are still worth using. At least I don't have to charge it.

we could leave right now

I still don't know what I was waiting for

And my time was running wild

A million dead-end streets

Every time I thought I'd got it made

It seemed the taste

was not so sweet

So I turned myself to face me

But I've never caught a glimpse

Of how the others must see the faker

I'm much too fast to take that test

Sometimes I think I've had a charmed life. I don't mean that in any glib way - there have been plenty of problems and hard time a-plenty, don't worry. Still, to get to this grand old age and feel that I could possibly make some major ch-ch-changes that could make things seem a little better suggests to me that, at least, there must be someone up there smiling down on me occasionally.  Mind you, it's probably the same smile I've witnessed over the years from students that pass me in the corridors. It's the beaky nose, isn't it?

Still, Life changes at certain points in our lives and this month we've reached one of those points.

Earlier this month we paid off our Mortgage and felt that we were able to start thinking about the future as a less frenetic and busy time. Okay, not quite retirement but an easing of responsibilities and less hours spent standing in classrooms wondering why I'd ended up as one of the teachers I used to torture with poor behaviour back in the early seventies. What goes around comes around, I suppose. Mind you, we were much more clever in those days - so much more subtle.

Ah well, this could all be for another time- perhaps when I've hours to spend thinking and writing. Retirement.  Not quite there but decisions have been reached. I'm going to try for three days a week next year and drop English teaching as much as possible. Perhaps there'll be plenty of time to experiment with writing and actually bothering to learn how to play one of those things that hang on my walls properly.

Maybe.

But suddenly, as of today, things are looking up.

diamonds on the water

when you’re running on empty

and the road has no end

when you’re caught at the border

and no man is your friend

when you reach out for comfort

and there’s nothing but despair

there’ll be diamonds on the water

and music in the air

There was a slight mist that seemingly drifted up from the sea and hung about at the bottom of our road as we loaded up the car ready to drive off up to Snape this morning. The sun soon burned it off I guess but we were bombing along the A14, off onto the A12 and enjoying the countryside whilst all that was going on.

When we got to Snape Maltings dead on the BBC pips for 10 o'clock, we found that we were the first there. Still, after a few frantic phone calls eventually six of us were ambling along the Sailor's Path which connects Saxmundham with Aldeburgh. We were going for a gentle ramble by the river and across the marshes and along the sea front at Aldeburgh to sample the "best fish and chips in Britain".

Along the way we passed The Red House, which is where Benjamin Britten lived and evidently Jimi Hendrix visited as he wrote a song about it. That last bit might not be quite true. Anyway, we came upon it as a bit of a surprise - I'd been reading about it a week or so ago and here it was. The signs around it were written in Greek, German and French. The signs all suggested we should "Beware of the Dog" but it all seemed quite quiet.  And we wandered on. The size of houses in this area reminded me that no matter how much access we have to wander this green and pleasant land, most of it is still in private hands:

From the men of property

The orders came

They sent the hired men and troopers

To wipe out the Diggers' claim

Tear down their cottages

Destroy their corn

They were dispersed

But still the vision lingers on

Anyway, following in the footsteps of greatness, we continued the way Jimi did in his search for the "Best Fish and Chips in Britain©" and we quickly found our way to the beach at Aldeburgh where Fag-Ash Lil Hambling's great masterwork is on show for all. I don't know much about Art but I know what I couldn't care less about. But we had bigger fish to fry and a pint or two in The White Hart whilst waiting for the queue to die down in the next door Fish and Chip shop beckoned. Yes, that's the "Best Fish and Chip Shop in Britain©". And, guess what, the fish and chips were wonderful. I hope Jimi enjoyed them and gave him some comfort after realising that his key no longer fitted the lock at Ben's place.

On the whole, then, a pleasant albeit brief yomp across some of the best of Suffolk's landscape with some great weather. We came across those rare Polish Konik horses that

it seemed necessary to be introduced into Suffolk but nobody knows why. It just seemed like a good idea, I guess. Evidently you're not supposed to go near them but as they were standing idly around in a field next to the path we had to go quite near to them. They seemed to enjoy being stroked and someone tried to force-feed one some grass they'd ripped out of the ground but it's all right, the horses weren't interested - obviously they haven't bothered to learn English whilst in the UK. No comment. Anyway, whilst wandering along there were certainly diamonds on the water and, from an early skylark, music in the air.

Which brings me to a brief point about how easy it is to please one such as I. Last night I went to see the Oysterband at Colchester Arts Theatre promoting their new album, Diamonds On The Water after watching a fabulous sunset (Damn! I'd left my phone at home) and then today we walked across a familiar landscape that was making the first forays into Spring.

And who knows what tomorrow may bring? The first proper - but early - day of spring according to the BBC. Oh yeah, decorating the bathroom . . .

blowing in the wind

 

I've just thrown my red pen down in disgust. I feel like breaking it in two just like at the start of Branded. Perhaps that's what I should do next Year 8 English lesson - call the child out and break there/their/they're pen into pieces. Then throw them out of the class, never to darken the classroom again.

What do you do when you're branded?

No matter how many times I try to get pupils to check their work and correct with a green pen (alright, quiet at the back - a green ink pen) which, believe me or not, they are required to do (I'm not a Gove* supporter so don't blame me), they just won't do it.

"Sir, I've finished, what do I do now?""Have you checked your work thoroughly?""Yeah, yeah, of course.""Are you sure? Definitely?""Yeah.""Have you . . ""Yeah.""Okay, have you swapped it with another student and checked each others?""Yeah, yeah, of course."

So how come I end up reading ill-edited, poorly written stories told in dialogue with no indication of who is actually speaking . . . ? Well, truth be told, it's because nobody cares any more. Perhaps they never did. They're just not hungry enough for it.

Recently, I have read books published - usually by independent publishers - and magazines that are sold throughout the English-speaking world (around five quid a head) that contain the most poorly edited script that I despair. I am fully aware that blogging and writing on screens for many of us (me especially) is not conducive to the best grammar - we always need to check our work. But, surely there should continue to be standards. As an English teacher who messes about with guitars, I am aware that there are many kids that are guitar players that are studying English.Surely, it is an important, and easy, point of order to continue the need for good communication? Kids that are switched off from education but play guitar (for instance) may read such magazines? So, if they were spelt correctly etc, etc, surely by basic osmosis, they'd start to read/spell/communicate properly? It seems to have worked the other way - over the twenty years of teaching I've gone from being a pretty good speller into being someone who has to read and re-check everything thoroughly in an almost OCD way before - and after - publishing even simple pieces of writing such as this.

So, here we are: I am now at the grand old age of 58 and beginning to think that the world has moved on so much into some sort of inarticulate, illiterate place that has no need of me that I really need to be moving on.

Retirement beckons. I am now five years younger than my father when he shuffled off this mortal coil. The fact that I never had to go and fight for my country or that I had a fairly good crack at being educated and have had a far more comfortable ride than my parents ever did is neither here nor there. With the constant underlying context of poor (and, by god do I mean poor) management and lack of parental, public and media support I really feel that it is time to think about "quality of life".

For the first time in my life, I now look at older people who retire, leave it all behind and think, "Lucky bastards . . ."

Deep breaths. Pass us that bottle, will you?

*okay, I can't support any of them!

 

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have you seen the old man who walks the streets of london

You know London can make your brain stallThe streets get coldand empty on a rainy night, so you duckInto the subway station, you can hear the trains call, they wannaTake you to theEarl's Court Road but it don't seem right

Whenever I find myself in London I tend to be a creature of habit. I'll visit Denmark Street to poke around a few guitar shops, spend some time in Foyles and Fopp and most likely have a pint in the Dog and Duck. So it was rather pleasant to break the habits of a lifetime and do something different.

Having a few days on my own as Mrs Dave had gone to Germany to visit old friends, I found myself wandering the streets of London alone. First stop, the British Library to peruse the Georgian Exhibition. I've always tended to think of the Victorians as being the biggest influence on Modern Britain but it would seem that we owe a lot to the Georgians. It would certainly seem that much that we don't like about the modern world we owe to them. The consumerist culture and economic booms and busts were typical of the era. As much as I enjoyed wandering through the exhibition, I was a day too early for the Beautiful Science exhibition. Ah well, never mind.

I also went to the Natural History Museum to visit the Darwin Centre Cocoon which is well worth going to - try going at a different time to the half term break. There were far too many screaming kids even an hour before closing time. At least I managed to get in to see the large mammals without too much hassle as most people were still queuing up to shuffle past the dinosaurs. The whales and sharks remind me of Kathleen Jamie's essay in Sightlines about the Hvalsalen Natural History Museum in Bergen. I know the blue whale is only a model but it does tend to make you realise how small we are really. I can't say that we're insignificant because, as Jamie points out, most of the creatures there met violent ends at the hands of mankind. In the altruistic need of our forefathers to educate us about the natural wonders of the World, they left a lot of destruction in their wake.

I wandered back to the tiny basement I was staying in at Earl's Court to listen to the underground trains passing and decide what to do next. I couldn't swing a cat in there as it was far too small but I could have gone to the Troubadour to see a blues band I'd never heard of or go to the Half Moon in Putney to see Andy White. Somewhere upstairs in my extensive pile of vinyl albums is his debut album from 1986 (Rave On Andy White) but I was getting hungry and a tenner and a few journeys on the tube meant I would have to stay and I was already feeling shattered. I like the Half Moon and I've had occasion to enjoy the Home Service and Richard Thompson there back in the day. Well, last century to be precise. I decided to Google Middle Eastern restaurants in Earl's Court and it threw up a corker. The Orjowan was just around the corner and had some excellent reviews. No contest, so off I went. The best smokey aubergine dip - Moutabal - I've ever had and I love the type of flatbreads they serve. A glass of genuine Lebanese beer and one of red wine alongside a mixed grill later and I was rather full. I decided to have a little walk through the streets of Earl's Court and came upon a not very wonderful Fuller's pub but, hey, it was Fullers - a pint of the pride of London later and I was back in my basement room with my needle and spoon tv remote and glass of wine.

Before I set off for the city I'd tried to blag a ticket from a friend's relative to go to the Radio 2 Folk Awards at the Albert Hall but to no avail. I ended up watching it all on the red button tv service. It was great to watch but I'm afraid that bloke out of Bellowhead really can't sing very well. Perhaps I should have tried my luck in the clubs after all - Shane MacGowan, bloke from Bellowhead, Bob Dylan and me.

On Thursday, it was supposed to rain all day in London according to my BBC Weather App, which is quite accurate normally. However, in the words of George Formby, it turned out nice again. I went to the cafe at Southwark Cathedral to sit amongst the Christians and have a cup of coffee and then wandered around the Borough Market. By the time I'd walked down to my rendezvous with soem Gothic films at the Mediatheque at the BFI the sun was bright and it didn't seem like Winter at all. A couple of hours researching the Gothic - a great documentary by Christopher Frayling on The Hound of the Baskervilles and some mid-70s kid's programmes - soon made me hungry. So back to the Borough Market. As I passed the Tate Modern I wondered whether or not to go in to the Richard Hamilton exhibition but my stomach was complaining by now. By the time I got back to the market I was starving and the Indian street food on offer looked too good to miss. The Moong Dal Dosa I had was prepared in front of me - it seemed to involve rather a lot of chick peas: spread out and cooked like a flatbread, some mashed ones fried for the filling, all served on a bed of rice, onion and coriander. Gorgeous. I sat in the grounds of the Cathedral and munched my way through it ravenously. I'm sure the gargoyles were salivating above me.

I must admit that I didn't realise how close Southwark is to Liverpool Street Station. I crossed the London Bridge as I felt a little thirsty by now and I fancied a pint of London's finest and found myself five minutes from the station. As I was originally planning to go home after the peak hour and this was just before the peak hour, I decided I might as well get on a train. After a pint, of course.

So, a few days wandering about London hardly talking to a soul but enjoying my own company made me feel like a teenager again. At least I got beyond the bar at the station. But that's another story from those bad old days . . .

 

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stringing all day

". . . word had got around about the way US players were stringing their axes, Duane Eddy and Eddie Cochran had told of how players would buy a regular set of strings and an extra first or banjo string, move them one over and throw away the bottom string. This opened a whole new world to us." Albert Lee (quoted in 17 Watts? The Birth of British Rock Guitar)

Once a secret has been given away, everyone can take advantage of it. Rock'n'Roll changed the World - for better or worse we'll never know. However, the guitar has always been a prominent part of the sound - and, indeed, look - of it. Whilst many jazzers continue to string their guitars with telegraph wire, strings for most players seem to have got ever skinnier. Perhaps there's a correlation with ties but that's for another time.

As a youngster in school, like many others before and since, I sat in lessons bored to tears. I would sit drawing wild designs for improbable-looking guitars on every scrap of paper and most exercise books much to the chagrin of my exasperated teachers. At home, I would cut out the images of guitars from the Bell Guitar Catalogue (I must have sent off for hundreds of them from the adverts in the back pages of Melody Maker) and carefully stick them to equally as badly cut out pieces of cardboard from various Cornflake packets. I would adorn my Action Man with them and vicariously imagine myself looking like them on stage in some future Rock'n'Roll World. They probably looked much like the mid-1970s Glam years did anyway. Eventually, I managed to convince my parents that I really did want a real one and that I would learn to play properly. Well one of those came to be.

I was once advised (or read somewhere) that Strats should be strung with gauge .10 as the highest (E) string. For many years I have used what are called "Light Gauge" but about two years ago I decided that as I never perform and only play at home - not that often, truth be told - why don't I just string my guitar with light strings? So I've tended to use .09s mostly and these ageing fingers have found them more pleasant to play. So, I'm happy with the gauge I use now. But the main problem - the perennial musician's* Holy Grail - is the sound.

Up until about 10 years ago I was able to buy "Vintage" strings by Danelectro which were wonderful. They felt nice to play and genuinely sounded different - they certainly had a different feel to most "Slinky" strings. Unfortunately they stopped making them a few months after I was offered by a shop in Ipswich to get me a box of ten sets. If only . . .

Nowadays there are all sorts of new-fangled materials and ways of making strings. Many musicians hanker for what is considered a "vintage" sound. I'm definitely one of those. I know it matters little to anyone else but as a bad musician, like a bad worker, I blame the tools available. It's obvious to me that I don't make much improvement in my playing because my guitar doesn't have decent strings on. What is worse, I can't find any decent strings. The last set I had on until this afternoon were actually Fender Bullets. These are strings that Fender designed especially for Stratocasters but no, not good enough for me.

I've found the perfect strings for my Fylde acoustic guitar, new-fangled covered Elixir which last for ages. I recently re-strung my 12 string - and that's not a task undertaken lightly - using D'Addario. The damned thing stays in tune now! But why oh why can't I find any decent vintage sounding strings for my electric guitar?
Well, Holy Grail found.

I spent the afternoon keeping out of mischief (and the kitchen) whilst Mrs Dave was making a cake for someone's birthday and decided to try a new set of strings. These are supposed to be handmade pure nickel and round core and boasted a wonderful vintage sound. Okay, let's go for that then.

. . . and what a difference. Blimey, they really feel lovely to use and they sound great. Okay, I've only tried them through a tiny Vox practice amp but they sound great. Finally, some nice vintage-style strings that have replaced my affection for the old Danelectros. At last. Now I can no longer blame the fact that I haven't got decent strings for my lack of progress. Now that the guitar feels better and sounds better I should have no reason to pick it up and play it more often.

*Yes, I know I'm not really a musician.

Old men of rock and roll

Came bearing music

Where are they now?

They are over the hill and far away

But they're still gonna play guitars

On dead strings, and old drums

They'll play and play to pass the time

The old wild men

Old wild men

Old wild men, waiting for miracles

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