Ladies & Gentlemen …

First things first, I must apologise for my absence over the past few months.  I’d like to say it was because I was producing an album or working with the blind in Africa, but sadly its because the over zealous IT team at my new job have blocked my ability to upload files from an external source.   Ashamedly, I don’t actually have internet access at home … technophobe that I am.  So I’m sure there have been many a disappointed visitor to my site over the past few months

So what have I been up to? Asides from my new contract accountant role, treating patients with acupuncture and shoehorning in the odd jazz jam/open mic, I enrolled and completed a short drama course … but that’s another story (more to come in a separate post).

My biggest piece of news is that I have written my very first song! Well, my first song since G.C.S.E Music, many musical moons ago. I have, over the past 16 years, attempted to write the odd song but I never got that far before my lyrical talents quickly eroded any pretty chord sequences I managed to conjure up.  Surely not (I hear you say) – not with your clever quips and literacy magic!  But seriously: “The cat sat on a mat, with a hat” pretty much sums it up.  I seemed to oscillate between horrendous ladybird book rhyming or cheesy, corny lyrics that would make any self-respecting soul hurl into the nearest bucket.

But last night, something happened.  Having had a nice soak in a hot bath, I sat at my piano in my spotty, furry slippers and pink dressing gown (all the key ingredients) and I suddenly remembered this photograph sitting on my parents mantelpiece.   The words seemed to just trip off my tongue … the chords eloquent yet simplistic. 

I stayed up til midnight toiling away on the back of an old bank statement and had one of the most restful night’s sleep ever.  It’s been a landmark in my musical journey.  And today I can’t help but think why, why now?  I have admittedly been playing a lot of the Beatles and studying their lyrics (although I’m not comparing myself to the Beatles!!).  But obviously there is a story behind the photograph, and one that is pretty close to my heart following the recent flair up of a rather messy divorce.  Sometimes (and this is a corny cliche), there aren’t words to describe how you feel.  Somehow my emotions throughout the years built up, slowly & gradually & became entwined in the creative process (now that is poetic, if not a little self-indulgent). Maybe I’m going to have to wait another 20 odd years for a similar eruption?

So am I going to post it for you perusal?

HELL NO.  I’m still in my songwriting pampers.

Where the Light Is …

So for all of you that have found my post via a tag surf, I’ll debrief you on my current situ.  I recently entered the UK’s biggest singing competition outside of X Factor. It’s non televised, but out of 10,000+ applicants, I was one of about 250 that got through to the Regional Finals.

My Regional Final took place on Sunday night and … I didn’t show up, and I can’t really articulate why. There are a whole host of reasons – like not being able to find a decent backing track, and having had a cold recently, not having enough time to practice … but they don’t really cut the mustard.  My friends and family have been screaming at me: “its your big moment – this is your chance – why aren’t you taking the opportunity?”, but something in me just didn’t really care that much. 

Perhaps it was the seriously suspect voting strategy – where each contestant has to sell at least 25 tickets @ £7.50 a ticket (nearly a £200 entry fee) and the audience gets 2 votes.  It was never made clear to me by the competition organisers how the judges and the audience votes were combined, and therefore led me to believe it was more of a sales competition than talent.  Perhaps it was the seriously questionable “judges” that they managed to scrape together. Jane MacDonald, H from Steps, Cheryl Baker … and a few other non-entities.  Perhaps it was my fear of failing and what that might do to my confidence.

My decision not to go coincided with the arrival of a much anticipated CD, “Where the Light Is” .  It’s a truly fantastic CD of live performances by the legendary John Mayer with a mixture of his self-penned songs and some highly inspirational performances of covers such as “Free Falling”.  It got me thinking about whether John Mayer might have won an X-Factor show or some equivalent.   What with his breathy vocals – and the fact that most of John Mayer’s talent lies in his awesome guitar playing and songwriting skills – he’d probably not have even made it to boot camp.  

Not that I’m comparing myself to John Mayer, but I’d like to think that my talents are more than  mass-market vocal skills. After all, I play piano, create my own arrangement of original songs … so I guess opting out was the right thing for me to do at this point in time.  Even if I spend the rest of my life playing little gigs and scraping the money together to record the occasional album, at least its me.  Pure, authentic, vintage me … and I guess for me, that’s Where the Light is …

It’s Official: X Factor Fails to Recognise Real Talent

For the past several weekends, I have unashamedly bolted home from the Acupuncture Student Clinic, needles in one hand, white coat in the other to catch the latest X-Factor episode.  I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the standard of talent – not only from the impressive vocals but by interpretation and arrangement of songs (although how much of that is a result of production and management team input?).

This week’s evictee (Laura White) was a complete shocker and one which might actually persuade me to boycott the rest of the series (yes we can make a difference if we collectively switch off our TVs!).  As probably (in my humble opinion) the most talented pick of the current bunch, I cannot believe that a) the public failed to vote for her and b) that the judges voted her off.  Every week her performances have been near flawless, and her stunning rendition of “God Bless the Child” was truly jaw-dropping.  She undoubtedly has a distinctive sound and whilst her style is consistently and predictably heavily R&B influenced, she really has the power to (and sorry for the cliche) “make the song her own”.  Its an absolute travesty that she has been voted off, especially when there are some real lightweights in the competition (sorry, Eoghan and Daniel).

My first bone of contention is how the public could possibly fail to vote for Laura.  Clearly, the public is either completely clueless when it comes to talent, or they are voting with other criteria.  I think “sympathy” and “cuteness” are the real culprits.  Or perhaps its the population of the voting viewers: middle aged housewives (Daniel), teeny-bopper gals (Eoghan and his hair).

The judges constant pummeling of poor Daniel Evans may well have ironically reversed his fate as favourite to win.  Brilliant. I wouldn’t mind seeing the day Simon shells out a £1m contract for a singer he truly believes belongs on Bournemouth Pier.  Eoghan (and his hair) clearly elicits the “cuteness” public vote.  His rendition of the Nat King Cole classic, L-O-V-E, was truly horrific, with weedy vocals barely discernible against the big band backing. He looked as though he’d been plucked straight out of a low-budget stage show of Oliver.  Please England PLEASE, let’s not have him as our X-Factor winner, because he certainly does not have the X-Factor.

My second bone of contention is that ultimately, the judges voted off Laura.  How could this happen? Even against Ruth’s passionate but strained rock vocals, Laura is by far a more talented singer – with an interpretive intelligence way beyond her years and a sound that is soooo “now”. But they still voted her off.  Over the past few weeks, its almost as if Simon Cowell has decided to throw a spanner in the works for Laura.  Despite consistent outstanding performances, he’s criticised her for her lack of style. Why? What the hell does that have to do with her singing? Perhaps he’s bitter that she turned down X-Factor three years ago for another TV show?  Perhaps he’s eliminating the real talent so that his only survivor, Eoghan (and his hair), might win? Surely not: its a win-win situation for Simon, so surely he would pick the one that will sell the most records with the best chance of longevity? Or perhaps its to give Rachel (his favourite) a chance of winning?  Or perhaps its just a cheap ratings shot – no one wants to tune in week-on-week to see a long drawn out competition where the winner is a foregone conclusion?  

Whatever the reason, the root of it all lays at the central fault of the show: there is only one true winner of X-Factor: Simon Cowell.  All the contestants are just powerless pawns in his cruel but cash rich game.  It’s a large scale dolls house that Simon manipulates each week and its tiresome.  Why should one man control the bulk of the music industry and in such a heartless and talentless manner?

The other judges are indeed more pawns in the game.  Poor old Danni’s good looks and youthful (yet botoxed) demure has been eclipsed by this year’s starlett: Cheryl Cole.  Danni might be a successful club singer, but let’s face facts: she’s no Music Manager. She’s clearly going to be out on her ear next year.  And Louis is really just a tired, middle aged Yorkshire Terrier – renewed to nip Simon Cowell’s heels.  His reason for voting Laura off was based on “how much fight is left” highlights in itself a very sinister component to this competition – its like a modern day version of bear baiting – sure the absence of physical damage makes it ethical, but what about the emotional damage?  Why not stick spurs around their necks and have them really fight! Let’s also not forget Louis shameless comparison of JLS’s potential victory to Obama’s.  Come on Louis, its a singing competition, not world politics!

And I’m sick of the excerpts of the private lives of contestants.  I don’t care if Rachel was a drug addict and I don’t care if Eoghan (and his hair) has a new baby sister. I want to see some real talent people, and this TV show is buoying people up and then knocking them down.  Rachel looks like she’s had a frontal lobotomy, her character and strength beaten out of her.  It’s disgraceful.  No doubt Simon’s clever tactic of poisoning us all against the front runners (suspect Diana will be on the guillotine next week), together with his support of the poor drug addict will no doubt sky-rocket her to overnight success.  But folks, let’s vote on talent and talent alone!

So how do we fix this shameful tripe that dominates our TV’s and our record stores? Do we keep watching X-Factor? Do we keep buying music churned out from Simon Cowell’s record companies?  I think we should all unite and vote Daniel the winner – that’s bound to wipe the smug smile of Cowell’s face.  Come on folks, we can all do it together.  Comments appreciated

Selling Out …

So I first started singing in public around my 29th birthday at a local jazz jam night and it had taken 28 years and 9 months to pluck up the courage to go for it.  Don’t get me wrong here: we aren’t talking Ronnie Scott’s – and we are certainly not talking attendance of 200 people.  Just a local jazz jam, at a clapped out old sports hall, with probably 15 attendees in total.  I remember that night and the weight it held in my mind. It was as though 29 years of dreaming, aspiring and hoping had culminated in this event: finally, I was living my dream. 

That night opened a door or two for me: but above all else, it was a great learning experience for me. For it taught me (and rather sadly) that the fear of failure had essentially stopped me from putting myself out there … from trying.  The safety of living in the fantasy was so deliciously comfortable and warm that I created many elaborate excuses to not pursue my dream.  And there I was, 29 years old … quivering like a wreck in a small village sports hall, nervously taking the mic for the very first time – having bypassed so many opportunities, and in some (very limited) circles was now considered ”too old” to pursue my dream as a singer.

That night was now nearly 3 years ago and I’ve come a long way since then – perhaps not on paper, but certainly emotionally.  My battle to overcome my fearful ways is an ongoing one and so powerful that for a very long time, I developed a sore throat whenever I sang two minutes of a song.  This lead me to various vocal tutors, and I even considered an ENT specialist – but ultimately it was a clever physiological response that I created through fear and to keep me in my warm, woolly haven of safety, of dreaming.  The possibility of greatness was far more alluring than the reality of trying. 

On paper, I’ve managed to sing at several jazz jams; learned the art of notating charts to my preferred key (and in a way so as not to p*** off elitist jazz musicians); sung at the Jamey Absersold School of Music, sung with various big bands, sung in pubs/restaurants and started accompanying myself on piano.  It’s not bad for a full-time accountant and part-time Acupuncture student.  But I’m still a pretty frustrated singer and haven’t quite got to where I want to be.  Perhaps the reason behind that, is that I’m not really quite sure where I want to go and in what direction. 

So, in a very weak moment a few months ago, I applied for the non-televised equivalent of “X-Factor”.  I sold out. Yessir. After years of berrating the X-Factor for its formulaic, money-spinning, “instant-coffee” notion of talent, I found myself merrily signing on the dotted line.  Why?  Yes why indeed.   My voice is by no means the Amy-Winehouseesque flavour of the month … in fact, my voice is well pretty vintage really and my musical tastes are pretty varied.  I’m certainly too old and a weighty UK size 10 for the girl band option (thankfully) and well … I’m different.  I’m certainly no mass-market product.

And last night’s X-Factor episode really draws home this point: these TV talent contests simply do not nurture talent.  Look at poor Leon Jackson, 2007’s X-Factor winner.  He won the show with his performances of Michael Buble’s re-inventions of the swing era.  Sadly, he’s not allowed to record these songs, because they don’t appeal to the masses (and the royalties of these well known songs would probably be too much of a profit dent in Simon Cowell’s pocket). 

One year on and his very first TV performance in months was in front of what will be essentially be this year’s winner – his biggest rival for the Xmas number one.   He gave a very stilted and uncomfortable performance: he was visibly crippled with nerves.  Why?  Onsite blogs seem to revel in their “I always thought he was crap anyway” comments: but in reality, its because he has not developed his artistry organically.  He’s been plucked out of his home town in his teens, and pummeled to overnight nationwide stardom and a number one Xmas single.  There is nowhere for Leon to go but down.  Who is going to care about this poor lad, a few years down the line when his CD is in the bargain basement at HMV?  Where’s Michelle McManus now? 

I digress. When I arrived for my audition, there were so many hopefuls, dolled up wandering around the hotel reception.  Some nervous young teenagers clinging hopefully to their parents.  For every Leon Jackson, there are thousands upon thousands of other hopefuls, whose musical dreams hinge upon these narrowly defined talent shows.  I ended up singing in front of three judges – just a couple of lines of “God Bless the Child”.  At the end of my offering, one of the judges told me to really “dirty the song up”.  Nice.  Particularly as its a song which is considered both “sacred and profane” (see Will Friedwald’s book:  Jazz Singing: America’s Great Voices from Bessie Smith to Bebop and Beyond)  lamenting the fact that religious belief seems to have no effect on people’s behaviour, and that you’re goddamn lucky if you’ve got your own money.  It was a rather inspired song choice in retrospect – perhaps I should have amended the lyrics: “God Bless the auditionee who’s got his own self-esteem”.  And I guess that’s why I’m giving it a shot.  I’m 31 now – and I’ve had enough life experience and musical experiences, to know deep down that win, loose or draw – this talent competition won’t make any difference to my musical aspirations or to me as a person.  Sure I might get a bit of a knock, but I’m strong enough in myself to take it.

So to cut a long story short: I got through.  Yay  me.  I get to sing in the regional finals – of which there are about 20 odd competitions and I think 1 person from each gets to sing in the finals.  The voting procedure is pretty suspect, not least from the fact that Jane MacDonald from the Cruise; Cheryl Baker; and a few other non-entities are doing the judging – but also from the fact that I have to sell tickets and that the audience also gets to vote.  I’ve emailed the organisers for more specifics, but well from the woolly answers I received – your guess is as good as mine, although I’m sure the sound “ch-ching” was the primary motivation.

I still don’t know if I’ll actually go for it in the regional finals … a stand against these formulaic TV talent shows, or another clever psychological avoidance tactic?  Hmmm, your guess is as good as mine … watch this space :-)

My Early Musical Career

So I’ve always wanted to be a singer – since I was a wee 4 year old lass, when I would totter around with and obsessively listen to John Lennon’s “Woman”. Not sure if that can be filed under “musical genius” or “psychotic kid” (cue psycho shower scene music: wee wee wee).  But with being a bit of an anxious performer and being gently shoved down the classical music route by some well meaning parents … I lost my way a bit.  I played classical piano throughout most of my childhood and was wheeled out twice a year. One to get that all important Grade X with distinction (anything less was worthless) and second the annual spring festival.  

Eugh! The Spring Festival.  Even now those words fill me with dread.   I hated festivals: and I don’t think I was ever able to verbalise why.  After all, I wanted to be a singer, so performing should set me alight right?  Wrong.  It would all start in Autumn when my la-di-da London Royal Academy music teacher would start filling out my Spring Festival applications. I would do my very best to say no, squirming away on my little piano stool – palpitations and anxiety setting my palms into a sweaty mess. But I somehow was never allowed to say no to them.  Ever. 

I could never really enjoy Autumn and Winter because this dark festival cloud was looming in the distant future.  The FESTIVAL (*shudder*).  And it was something I never understood: I want to be a singer, but I hate performing at festivals.  So after months of fear-based frantic practicing, the day would actually arrive.

The festival would showcase the county’s finest young pianists with their renditions of Bach or Beethoven, played in front of friends, family and a panel of judges. But I never saw it as an exciting talent competition.  I would just see a set of very nervous and anxious children, dressed up like dolls, desperate to win their parents approval, whilst the parents looked on beaming with pride, watching their child fulfill what was essentially their own ambition.  The judges would then talk through each performance and crtique it, eventually awarding first prize and a tacky cup to some poor unfortunate little soul.  And for those other poor unfortunate little souls who lost, it was probably just another dent, another blow, another negative reinforcement to their musicality.

As for me, I just never understood what was so clever about being able to perfectly recite some archaic piece of music.  To me there was no creativity, no individualsim and nothing at all remotely musical about music festivals.  In fact, it seemed to rest entirely in the teacher’s ability to interpret music in accordance with the judge’s opinions and pass this on to their pupils.  It was no surprise that the winners were often coached by the same teacher.  I was so crippled by nerves and anxiety, I’d usually forget the notes – my worst fears being realised.  I rarely won anything.   To add insult to injury, my elder sister was quite adept at doing no practicing until the very last minute and walzing in winning sometimes several cups in one bout of Spring festivals – often with the same piece of music.  So, not only did I  fail several times each Spring to bring home the goods, I’d also have to endure 12 months of an altar of worship located in our dining room to my sisters festival achievements and I’d have to accompany my parents and sister to the “Winner’s Concert”and watch her showcase her genius, yet again.  That’s right, as if the ordeal of the actual competition wasn’t bad enough – if you managed to win it, you’d have to re-perform the piece again, with even more pressure not to screw it up!

I’d usually go along to the awards presentation, accompanied by my parents and award-winning sister – who was/is a definitely talented classical pianist.   I remember one year sticking my fingers up to the proverbial festival establishment by rocking up to the awards dinner in a short denim skirt with trainers (political activist in the making or fashion-challenged?).   I was busy picking my nose or some such habit, whilst various girls and boys tickled the ivories with their award-winning fingers when my name was called out by the judges.  Turns out, I had won an award: “for the most promising musician who didn’t win any cups”. It was a moment I think I’ll always remember, as I squeaked across the festival floor with my groovy trainers to collect my special prize, much to the embarassment of my parents at my ill-chosen attire.  As the judges commended me on being “very good, but not quite good enough to win cups” (ta very much), they handed me this oversized trophy.  It was essentially a mini-keyboard made out of wood and silver and to put it kindly: it had seen better days.  As I was handed this monstrosity, the silver banding slipped off the award and clanked loudly on the floor.  I then gave the classical community what for as I bent over, flashing my knicks in my short denim skirt to pick it up.  A proud moment for my folks.

I won this award it turns out 2 or 3 times in a row and every year I’d reluctantly send it in to get in engraved.  At the time it seemed like the “not quite good enough” consolation prize and it was ugly and big compared to the collection of beautiful polished cups that it was juxtaposed to.  But now I look back, I’m proud of that trophy as it kind of mirrored who I was as a musician: unusual, odd, a bit rough around the edges and a bit out of place in the classical community.  The truth was, that I was never really a classical musician – I appreciated it and did a darn good impression of being a classical pianist; but it never moved me like pop, rock, soul, jazz and blues.  I just didn’t fit the classical box.  And the word “promise” carries so much more weight than winner, who’s only a winner until next year’s starlet eclipses the title.  But promise signifies so much more: glimmering potential, the best is yet to come … and I thank the music festivals for not reinforcing a musical career that essentially wasn’t me.