Cassettes (and books)

Received an e-mail today which rolled back the years. It came from Mike Powell, who played guitar in a band with me 30 years ago. The band were called the Blonde Brothers, brainchild of myself and Raymond Henderson, and we really believed we were the powerpop songwriting saviours of Scottish music. For about 10 minutes we were, getting single of the week accolades in the music press for our ‘cassingle’ and attracting the attention of Led Zeppelin’s publishing agent who promptly Led us into oblivion…

A blast from the analogue past - the Blonde Brothers amongst friends...

The pic above comes from a bit of reminiscence about the BB’s courtesy of another Thurso expat, Mr. Kevin Williamson. His life took a turn for the unexpected when his publishing company took a chance on an unknown Scottish writer called Irvine Welsh…

Read Kevin’s original post.

Gotta lust for life….


Next to ‘Surf Green’ guitars (which mine is, thanks again Ani – I will relate that story in more detail one day…), I am somewhat partial to the red variety. Here is a nice ESP Telecaster currently holed up in a box on the wall of the Hard Rock cafe in Bangkok.

Signed by Keith Richards, but probably never owned or touched by the Human Riff.

Guitars should not be in boxes.

They could give it to me, that would be nice. I’d love to have a strum on that.

Talking of guitars, do check out the new album by American chaps Real Estate. It’s called Days, and it’s really rather good in a Sunday morning hazy mazy kind of way. Free download and more info at the end of this post.

Despite claiming to be influenced by the Doobie Brothers and Kokomo (remember them?), to these ears there’s more an early Stone Roses/Byrdsian/Feelies type feel going on. Good stuff anyway, and chock full of… yes, guitars!

Happy Lazy Sunday, all…

Green Aisles by Real Estate

Halloween is here…

Feeling spooky?


It’s Halloween, so dig out those Cramps and Roky Erickson albums and get into a bloody hammer-goo goo muck-green fuzz kinda vibe…

And if you do go and walk with a zombie, remember…

don’t eat stuff off the sidewalk.

'ah, the children of the night...'

The Kids Are Alright?

What do you really know about orphanages in Cambodia?
Please take a little time to read this.
When I arrived in Cambodia over five years ago I knew very, very little. So little, in fact, that I was actually inclined to think that perhaps they were a good thing… a refuge for homeless or abandoned children… a place of safety and security, where the kindness of strangers helped to ease the suffering of the little ones… perhaps a childhood where I had been regularly exposed to The Alexander Brothers maudlin rendition of ‘Nobody’s Child’, the song of the forgotten orphan, had coloured my view of these institutions. Ha ha. Very funny. Except it’s not. In reality, I actually knew nothing.

Ignorance, as they say, is bliss, and a little over three years ago the bliss ended and reality bit.


My wife and I and our baby son were returning from my birthday celebration in Kep. En route we stopped off in Kampong Speu to say hello to some friends of ours who were volunteering in an orphanage there. These young women were just out of secondary school in the UK and had paid an organization there around $6,000 each to come to Cambodia and ‘make a difference’. They had never had any formal training in childcare, education or health.

The orphanage was run by a Cambodian man and an English businesswoman who lived in Phnom Penh.

They had many high profile supporters and fundraisers from overseas, including a very famous British comedian and TV personality.

I remember many things about that day.

I remember a pristine new school building, lying empty. No teachers. The volunteers were meant to include classes amongst the daily mass of tasks they had to complete, which was proving difficult to say the least.

A brand new clinic and dispensary, full of medicines but locked up and unused as there were no trained medical staff there.

A huge, deep and very dangerous hole directly behind the main building, full of stagnant water, where some other ‘development’ was going to take place.

Khmer staff, all looking tired and overworked…

Many, many grubby children, all desperately smiling and clutching at us throughout the visit.

Babies, up to three to a cot, huddled under shabby mosquito nets in a fly-filled room.

But most of all I remember Dominic – of course not his real name, as he was a Cambodian child, but given to him by the foreign volunteers. 18 months old but smaller than my four month old son. A sick little boy, HIV positive, with no drugs or qualified medical care to help him, only the love of the staff and their blind belief that two eighteen year old foreign girls would work some kind of magic for them as they waited for the owner to come down from the city for her one trip a week and perhaps take him back to hospital in Phnom Penh for treatment…

But it was too late for Dominic.

He died there, in his overcrowded cot, right in front of us as we stood and watched helplessly, my own healthy son cradled in my arms…

A little later Dominic’s tiny body was wrapped in a mat and take to the local Pagoda for cremation by one of the volunteers.

There are too many Dominic’s in Cambodia. Too many orphanages full of children who more often than not simply should not be there. Most children in orphanages in Cambodia have a living parent. Precious few orphanages actually know what they are doing and offer a loving, supportive, regulated, monitored and nurturing environment for children for whom alternative care should actually be the last resort. The overwhelming majority have no child protection policies, no standards of practice, staff and volunteers who lack the necessary training and these institutions either cannot cope with their burden of care, or cynically exploit the children they are supposed to care for to generate income for the business.

You don’t believe me?

You will.

In the coming months the full glare of the world’s media will focus on Cambodia and it’s orphanages. You will read reports from the Government and concerned organizations that will shock you, of children treated like market commodities, of multiple abuses of their human rights taking place, of families being destroyed by the greed of others, including foreigners.

If you are, or were, thinking of visiting or supporting orphanages in Cambodia go to where you will find some information that may help you in your decision. Click on tip number four to find out more. One thing I will say is that these institutions are not zoos, they are, for better or worse, the home that those children know at that time. Orphanage tourism is really bad for the children, and it’s bad for us as well as we are often (albeit in ignorance, as in my own situation – but you can change that by seeking out information.) supporting systems that simply don’t work or are engaged in exploiting misery for gain. But that’s my opinion (and UNICEF’s, and Save the Children, and more…), get the facts and make up your own mind.

I guess that it’s going to be a long struggle for hearts and minds in the coming years, to change people’s perceptions of orphanages as places that must be supported to help the ‘poor kids’, to stop these places exploiting children under the guise of caring for them, to divert the millions that pour in from overseas funders into transforming those that have the will into genuine community based alternative care centres, and primarily into investing time, money, resources and expertise into supporting families to stay together rather than them being pressured into giving up their children for economic or health or other reasons…

Yes, it’s going to be a long, long struggle, but it will be worth it.

Sunny Afternoon

The splendid clock tower cast a lazy late afternoon shadow over the village green, the four o’ clock chimes almost insolently intrusive among the gentle murmurings of ‘here here’ and ‘splendid catch, what?’ emanating from the haphazardly serried ranks of deckchairs surrounding the white clad sportsmen acting out the summer Sunday ritual on this particularly green and pleasant patch of rural England.
‘Cricket, eh’ remarked Smithers-Jones, stirring his tea with what might once have been described as languid grace, observed Watts, albeit inwardly.
“Gentleman’s game, gentleman’s game…’ he mumbled, apropos of… well, of nothing, really, thought Watts.
‘You know young Watts’ continued the older man, leaning forward and jabbing in his direction with the teaspoon to emphasise whatever grand point he was about to make
‘Your father and I used to come here every weekend to watch the cricket… every blimmin’ weekend. Happy times. Happy times…’ he sighed deeply and his voice trailed off. Watts detected a moistening in the rheumy eyes of the other, and felt uncomfortable. He needed to defuse, or at the very least diffuse whatever was coming.
‘Happy times… here we are, now, you and I… just lazing on this sunny afternoon, watching these young chaps with their life ahead of them… and you know what David Watts? It’s too late for me… I’m already on dead end street. I was a well respected man at one time, a dedicated follower of fashion, I would see my friends and we would live life to the full, all day and all of the night… what now?’ he sniffed loudly, then fumbled in the pockets of his grubby white linen suit for an equally grimy handkerchief on which he blew his reddened nose loudly. He sobbed again ‘I miss your father… so, so much…’ another sob, which seemed to come from the depths of his tired soul, but was almost completely subsumed by the cries of ‘well caught!’ now rippling around them. ‘Where have all the good times gone? You know, I’ve never told you this before, but you need to know this. Your father and I…’ again his voice trailed off. He gazed upwards, dabbed briefly at his watery eyes with the handkerchief, breathed out, then turned to Watts and began again ‘We met in a pub, down in old Soho, where they drink champagne and it tastes just like cherry cola – ‘
He was interrupted by Watts’ hand on his arm, the younger man now leaning forward and gazing hard into the face of the older. It was merely a moment, but it felt as if time had been eternally suspended until Watts finally spoke.

‘More tea, Vicar?’

I don’t suppose that’s how you spend your Sundays, do you? Certainly not how I spend mine outside of the UK, particularly last Sunday in Phnom Penh. My music-loving, footie-playing, blog-writing, beer-drinking, tech-savvy Aussie colleague Al had almost casually mentioned in passing last week that he was now also an independent film maker , so…

So I find myself standing on the pavement beside the Russian Market, five o’clock in the afternoon, guitar over one shoulder, bag containing small amp, leads and other necessaries (mobile phone, tissues, cold sausages, lipstick… usual man bag things) over the other watching as Dustin (cameraman) and Al (producer, director, sound man, gaffer, best boy, grip etc etc) coax an Oscar winning performance from the unsuspecting Tuk Tuk driver they have press ganged into driving us all around for a Tuk Tuk session. Yes, a Tuk Tuk session. Now, if we were back in dear old Scotland, those words would conjure up the interesting notion of spending the afternoon in a drinking session (or ‘sesh’, as the youngsters term it nowadays), presumably engaged in imbibing copious amounts of something liquid going under the moniker of ‘Tuk Tuk’, but as we are actually in balmy Phnom Penh the reality is much more exciting. It’s basically a music video shoot, but with certain rules, dreamed up by Al and his mate Rory after… well, after a session (Scottish style – see above). The rules? In a nutshell, one song, one take, one Tuk Tuk. The one take rule does not, however, apply to the driver, who is manfully struggling with the manifold complexities of the line ‘Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn!’.
Wrong movie.
The line was actually ‘Welcome to the Tuk Tuk sessions, Phnom Penh.’ and was eventually delivered (with shades of Dennis Hopper I thought) enabling us to then pile in to the vehicle and generally both terrify and mystify the local populace in equal measure as we tootled around town filming several songs totally and utterly live in one take for the Tuk Tuk sessions. The results are online now, on a rather spiffing website where you will not only find the rationale for this fabulous project, but also other performances, from Rory and Al, and also Cambodian Space Project, with more to come. You can find it at and I hope you enjoy it and take it in the spirit in which it was intended and forgive the abundance of lyrical and chordal misdemeanours emanating from yours truly.

I’m off now, it’s time to listen to some Kinks, methinks…

Poorboy Shuffle

(Willie and the Poorboys post, part 2)

I promised in an earlier blog that I would finish the story of my first band – since then I’ve got back in touch with the drummer from that band, who has a treasure trove (well, in my eyes at least – you may well think, in the wonderfully descriptive words that I recall my dear dad frequently using about my musical enthusiasms, that ‘bag o’ shite’ is more appropriate) of photos of us live on stage and rehearsing which I’ve been posting on Facebook. These have certainly triggered the memory banks, and aside from incredulity at hair (like, long), trousers (flaaaaared) and just how ‘early 70’s’ it all looks (and I suppose should, as yes, it actually was the early 70’s…) it’s astonishing me just how warm and pleasing those memories are.

We’ve also exchanged e-mails about the songs we used to perform which has prompted me to revisit some of my own favourites from the era. Last night was a Badfinger night (criminally under-rated, blah blah blah etc), tonight I am indulging in a little bit of Cream. Yes, I know they broke up in 1968, which of course is the 60’s, but in the days before the internet news took a very long time to reach the far north of Scotland. For example, I didn’t realise Buddy Holly had died until 1975, during a visit to Inverness. Hearing the news in a pub conversation there, that is, not that he had died whilst in Inverness (…or did he? They have an airport and an ice rink, which are two vital parts of the tragic story… and they often have blizzards there…). Back then, carrier pigeon was the usual method that we received urgent news by, with the added bonus that you could not only shoot the messenger if the news was bad, but also enjoy them in a pie afterward. Try doing that with an e-mail. Actually don’t, please. You may well electrocute yourself, or indeed take your eye out.

Did your mum ever seek to curtail your fun with that one?

‘Don’t run with those garden shears, you might fall and take your eye out…’
‘Careful with that can opener, you’ll take your eye out if you’re no’ canny…’*
‘Michty, watch that stick of rhubarb, it’ll have your eye out if you’re no’ careful…’
‘Put that hand held rocket launcher down please young man, or you’ll have all our eyes out…’
Other potential eye removers were –
Corners of tables. Pencils, pens, knitting needles and fenceposts. Spoons. Doorknobs. Comics (rolled up). Toothbrushes. Barrett’s Sherbet Dips (two hazards here – the lollipop-type dip, with a thin and lethal stick that could not only blind, but penetrate the brain, and the thick liquorice tube in a sherbet fizz which could cause untold ophthalmic damage). Lemonade bottles. Jigsaw puzzle pieces. Actually I’m not sure about the last one. Maybe not your eye, but definitely a tooth. I know, I can prove it. I practiced dental surgery on my younger sister with just such an implement when I was around 10 and she about 8, and removed (without pain relief) a perfectly healthy back tooth. Boy did she bleed.

Sorry, I have gone completely off the subject. What was it again?

Ah yes, the 70’s.

I think I’ll come back when I have my sensible head on, if that’s ok with you….

*Scottish humour

‘Come closer, let me talk wi’ you…’

A short dark Scottish tale for a long dark winters night…

by Skip Cormack

I awoke with a start, and immediately felt quite ill at ease. I was completely unsure of my surroundings and my eyes and body ached with a thick heaviness akin to influenza. I was alone and slumped awkwardly on a narrow bench in a small room which was suffused with an orange glow, one in which an oddly metallic odour hung in the air. I could hear a groaning sound, perhaps the rending of metal upon metal, emanating from somewhere nearby but which seemed to twist and shake the very fabric of this room. My senses were returning fully to me now, and eventually I realised that no, this was no room, but rather a compartment, a small cramped compartment in the passenger carriage of a train. I rubbed my eyes, sat up, and looked around me. I supposed my disorientation was compounded by the apparent age of the carriage. This was exactly the kind of rolling stock I recalled from journeys of my boyhood, the threadbare flock material of the seat bleached by disinfectant, the scratched wood and dull grey metal of the fixtures and fittings, the yellowed signs screwed below the emergency chain and the window. ‘Cutbacks’, I thought aloud, following the single word with a laugh that sputtered into a series of coughs which misted in the cold air and rattled within the aching cavern of my chest. Goodness, it was cold in this compartment. I breathed on the glass of the window then rubbed my condensing breath away with the sleeve of my overcoat pulled over my hand. Utter blackness lay beyond. No surprise there. I had by now recollected that I was heading home, clearly by train, and the north highland line was notable for the huge stretches of absolute nothing which it traversed in its journey to the end of the track, and these seemed ever more empty and eternal on long winter nights such as this one. I tugged at my overcoat, winding it more tightly around me and wondered why my thought processes were in such confusion… I could recall almost nothing of the last few days, let alone hours. I supposed it must have been the drinking, celebrating the festive season with a little too much of the waters of life, and now I was paying the penalty for that, suffering in this cold little room shuddering along parallel lines of metal somewhere under the vast cold canopy of the northern sky…

I awoke again, truly surprised as I had no recollection of having once more drifted into sleep. I could not guess how much time had passed, but we had now come to a halt. Peering out I could see lights through the window and hear muffled voices from outside. Ah! We had reached The Junction, the point where the train splits into two, one part heading eastward and the other west and north, to where the line ran out. That was where I was bound, and I felt a leap of excitement within my chest as we accelerated away from The Junction and began the short run home. Soon I could discern the sodium glow flickering in the near distance which meant the lights of home were close once more, and I began to make ready. Now I was puzzled as I could not find my travelling bag in the compartment. Wondering if I had left it by mistake somewhere along the journey I tried to retrace my steps mentally, but remembering only seemed to bring deeper confusion into my brain… had I even brought a bag? Damn this hangover, blast this aching within… never mind, there are friends and family who will help, and tomorrow you will feel better, the small, still voice of sense that remained gently reassured me. I rubbed a hand over my face, in doing so smelling briefly but strongly the tang of disinfectant mixed with something else, indeterminate but faintly malodorous. This short wave of nausea passed in a moment, then the compartment juddered slightly as the train slowly came to its final rest. The end of the line. Home.

I was on the platform, my breath freezing and my very bones numbed in the deep damp chill of the northern night. I cursed my condition again as I seemed to be suffering from partial blackouts and lapses of recent memory. I simply could not recall disembarking the train. I cursed my stupidity under my breath then paused in order to get my bearings, unsure in the velvet chill of exactly where I was. From somewhere in the limpid crystal mist that enshrouded all I heard a boyish laugh, then two figures passed me by on my right, seeming to glance in my direction. They walked ahead maybe three or four yards, then stopped abruptly. The taller of the two turned to face me and stretched out its right arm to point a finger directly at me. I could not see the face, which seemed to be hidden by a scarf, but the voice that came from the figure seemed oddly familiar.
– ‘Welcome back… it must be good to be home, eh?’
I answered as if I knew my inquisitor personally.
– ‘Aye, it’s good. Cold night, tho’…’
– ‘We’d better no keep you then. Let you get on… ye’ve a lot to catch up on…’
the voice trailed away as the figure turned and disappeared with its companion into the freezing mist.

I walked ahead then found myself at the station entrance. No-one else was around and there was no sign of a cab of any sort, but as my hotel was only a few hundred yards away I pulled my overcoat tightly around my neck and set off to walk up the hill toward my intended refuge for the night. My head seemed a little clearer now and I felt a curious sense of relief as the infrequent headlights of passing cars stung my eyes with their intensity as I scuffed through damp and mouldy leaves on the upward incline toward the hotel. The freezing fog and mist had eased also, affording me a glimpse of my destination in the fractured moonlight that glinted between the low clouds.

It was exactly as I remembered, a grand old Victorian manse building which rose dark and somewhat forbiddingly in its grounds, surrounded by the skyward clutching bare fingers of numerous tall trees. The air now smelled strongly of a heady mix of earthen dampness tempered by decaying vegetation and bird droppings and I was a little surprised to clearly see the silhouettes of many crows dotting the spidery weave of branches surrounding the hotel. Somehow I didn’t expect this at night, or indeed at this time of year, but here they were, and I could also now discern a background of cawing and an uncanny rustling of black feathers which rose in insistency as I drew near the front door, as if they were warning of my impending arrival. Glancing upward I noticed there were few signs of life apparent in the building, just a dull reddish glow that emanated from somewhere deep within and flickered behind the heavy drapes drawn against the winter chills.

Suddenly I was startled to clearly see one window, directly above the front entrance, in which no curtain was drawn and wherein two figures stood, one much taller than the other, gazing downward at me. Momentarily I thought of the couple at the railway station, but this thought passed as I rapidly became aware that it was in fact a woman, thin and pale, accompanied by a young girl child. I could not place an age upon the woman, but I could sense an overwhelming sadness that wreathed her slender form. The bony fingers of the woman’s left hand rested on the blonde ringlets of the girl, and her dark eyes seemed at once to stare right upon me and yet right through me, at which I shuddered, feeling a greater chill which struck to the very marrow of my bones. Simultaneous to this a metallic sing-song noise pounded in my ears and a strong nausea gripped me again. I felt compelled to place my head in my hands, rubbing my eyes until they stung and the wave of sickness had passed. I glanced up again and they had gone, the window now a blank vacant eye cast over the shifting sea of crows. I paused and shook my head, trying to jostle these images, thoughts and feelings into some form of order, something that made actual sense to me, then placed my hand upon the cool brass of the doorknob, turned it and entered…

It was warm inside and felt welcoming, although the young man stationed behind the large oak desk which dominated the foyer gave the briefest of quizzical glances in my direction before returning his full attention to the electronic device he held in his hands. I walked forward to stand before him, gave a somewhat theatrical cough and began to speak
-‘Excuse me, I’d, eh, made a reservation – my name’s…’
-‘Well chek, you’re a bit of a stranger, are ye no?’
the familiar voice in the very familiar dialect came from directly behind me, and I spun on my heels to greet its owner.
– ‘Jimmy! How’re ye doin’, my man?’
I had myself switched straight into the local dialect as if the years spent away from this place had meant nothing whatsoever.
The owner of that familiar voice, a tall, gangly, grey-haired man with an aqualine profile and rheumy eyes, everpresent cigarette dangling precarious amounts of ash, edged past me and went behind the desk. As he did so the boy looked in his direction with what to me seemed a look of puzzlement on his face, then refocused his attention on the task in his hands.
-‘Ye’ll no get anything out o’ him.’ Jimmy shot the boy a sideways glance ‘there’s more sense in a false face!’
I laughed out loud at this peculiarly local turn of phrase. Yes, it was beginning to feel good to be home.
-‘ I thought you’d sold this place and retired a long time ago Jimmy’ I ventured. I was sure (or was I?) that he had left the hotel business many years before, but my mind seemed to be even more sluggish now I was indoors in the cushioning warmth.
A half smile flickered across his thin lips.
-‘Well ye know what thocht did!’ he replied ‘ oh no, I coudna stay away from ‘is place. Too much o’ my soul in it. Anyway young chiel, good to see you, but ye’ll be wanting ‘til get to yir room? That trip is hellish at the best o’ times.’
– ‘Aye Jimmy, thanks indeed. Look, I lost ma bag on the way, so I was wondering if…’
-‘Och dinna worry, we’ll get ye organised wi’ whativer ye need. Here, are ye wantin’ a dram to warm ye up first?’
The raised eyebrows and wink that followed that particular statement made it clear that ‘no’ was not an option.
-‘Cheers Jimmy, that wid be grand’
-‘Well come on wi’ me ben e’ hoose ‘til the bar… I’m sure there’s a few worthies ‘ere ye’ll ken!’
He laughed out loud at this, a laugh that transformed into a hacking cough which he stymied by dragging hard on his cigarette. The boy looked up, sighed, then emerged from behind the desk and walked straight between us to the front door which I then realised I had not fully closed. He tutted under his breath, pushed it firmly shut, then with head still bowed over the glowing object in his hands he returned to his station behind the desk, not acknowledging us in the slightest.
-‘Damn waste o’ space’ whispered Jimmy, cocking his head in the direction of the boy. There was no reaction from the subject of his insult. Then he looked straight at me and grinned.
-‘Now, come on, follow me – e’ drams are waiting!’

Warmth. It had felt good, and now it felt very strange. Too much… I opened the buttons of my overcoat. My hands felt wet, clammy… again a moment of disorientation, where was I? I leaned against the corridor wall, vision blurring… there was a strange tightness across my chest, like laces being pulled taut in a stout leather shoe. My eyes refocused, resting on my host who was standing in front of a large partially open oaken door, gesturing inside…
-‘Come on in…’
he said.
-‘but only if ye want ‘til…’

I was inside the bar. It seemed to be both busy yet not busy, the customers swimming in and out of hazy focus as my gaze travelled around. One drink, then to bed to see this damned sickness away, I thought to myself. It was as I remembered, a grand drawing room converted into a bar, comfortable seating dotted around the perimeter and large wooden stools drawn up to the bar itself. From a hunched figure occupying one of those stools another familiar voice sounded.
-‘Michty me, look whit the crows dragged in.’
It was The Captain! How many years since…? I felt confused… something in my head was gnawing at me, compounding my disorientation with low murmurings of unquiet. I staggered against the stool next to The Captain and he reached out a hand to steady me.
-‘Are you alricht, boy? You’re no’ lookin’ tae good. Ha! Ye need a dram to keep yirsel’ goin’, I wid say.’
-‘I’ll be alright, honest. I’m just not feeling great, that’s all. Flu and a hangover are no’ a good combination I guess. God, you are a stranger indeed…’ I forced a laugh. The Captain looked at me with what I took to be a combination of pity and understanding. His face was lined and in truth a ghastly grey, even under the reddish tinge of the low lighting in the room. Something still felt wrong, deeply wrong, but I was unable to place exactly what was causing my anxiety. The younger customers seemed to be moving around us in a liquid haze, their edges appearing blurred as they passed by, eyes and mouths streaking into dark lines bizarrely akin to smudged paint. I felt as if I was a fearful passenger on an otherwordly carousel ,riding a carnival horse whose painted grin twisted into an evil grimace as we spun faster and faster…

Then abruptly, we stopped.

-‘there’s someone here who wants tae hae a wird wi’ you.’

With these words The Captain appeared to be staring straight through me, at someone, or perhaps something directly behind me. I distinctly felt my skin crawl at this realisation, and everything went into exaggerated slow motion as I turned toward the place where his eyes rested. I gave an audible gasp as I saw exactly who it was and heard them whisper these words with a gentle sibilance which resonated to the core of my very being…

-‘Come closer, let me talk wi’ you…’

It was the woman I had glimpsed from the window, and with her, peering from behind her skirts, was the small girl child. The woman pulled her woolen shawl tighter around her neck and motioned with her head to a large sofa near the window.
-‘Lets sit doon.’
-‘Aye’ I replied ‘of course… of course’
And then in a moment we were seated and my pounding head began to flash what seemed at first to be disconnected images into my consciousness, of a primary school, of children whose laughter mocked and rang, of empty swings, of leaves blowing across an asphalt playground, of a rain-lashed beach, empty save for a meandering line of tiny footprints, a grey and angry sky, a silent teacher, salt tears dripping onto a scratched wooden desk…
-‘Irene?’ I ventured
-‘Aye… its been a long time, has it no…’
-‘but it can’t be… no, it can’t be’ I felt myself beginning to lose control as I was now fully aware of who this was and who the child must be …
-‘Shoosh, dinna worry. I’m no blaming you… I nivir did, you know. There were some real bad ones who know who they are… they’ll all have to face it wan day…’ her voice trailed off and I both saw and felt the infinity of sadness that lay in the depths her limpid grey eyes.

This, I told myself, is a fever dream, the wanderings of my sick mind, long forgotten memories dredged from the precipice of illness into a waking nightmare.
For the pale sad woman who sat in front of me was Irene Ross, the mother of little Sally Ross, driven by the bullying of her classmates to walk barefoot along an empty beach and into the wild grey sea at seven years of age many long winters ago.
Her classmates.
My classmates.
Several weeks later Irene walked to the same beach, and sat on a bare wooden bench overlooking the roaring waves for several hours before knotting one end of her scarf to a fencepost and with the other tied around her neck she leapt out into the cold grey darkness, her arms outstretched as if to embrace her lost child one last time…

-‘Oh God… oh god…’
-‘Please, dinna worry. Ah’m no here fir that, no, no. We want til help ye…’
She must have caught my glance at the child, for she allowed herself a half-smile and a shake of the head before saying
-‘No, no. It’s no my Sally. I havenae found her yet, bit ah’ll keep lookin’… of course ah will. She was mah wee baby…no, no, she’s another pair wee bairn at’s bin here a long, long time… long afore me an’….’ at this her voice faded and she reached back and embraced the child, who looked up lovingly at the older woman. I could then clearly see the hideous black rend below the child’s left ear and once more I was gripped by the incomprehensible unfolding terror of the events of this evening. Irene stood up, her shawl slipping from her shoulders to briefly reveal the livid bruises encircling her slender neck.
‘Ah’ll leave ye ivenow, but ah’ll speak til ye later… it’ll take a while, ye know… ’
Her voice dissipated into a barely echoed nothingness.
Then she and the child were gone.

The Captain and Jimmy sat before me.
We were now the only presences occupying the room. Somewhere a clock ticked loudly.
-‘Ye’ll need yir dram now’ Jimmy laughed.
-‘Aye, he will that’ said The Captain.
I knew that Jimmy had been gone at least fifteen years now, and The Captain ten.
-‘There’s a lot to take in, eh’ smiled The Captain
-‘dinna worry tho’, we’ll help ye through it all…’
-‘I – I … Oh God, my head hurts so much…’
‘Well chek, at’s surprisin’ as ye never had much upstairs anyway!’ Again Jimmy’s wheezy laugh punctuated the still horror of this encounter. A crow swept into the room and settled on Jimmy’s left shoulder. Almost casually it began to peck at the corner of his eye, pulling hard at the strands of flesh and sinew it had dislodged. He swatted at it as if it were no more than a troublesome fly.

I rubbed my hand cross my face once more.



The smell of disinfectant tainted with decay.

It was then that I felt the rough uneven edge of the post-mortem scar, running through my hairline….


( © James Sutherland 2010)

You may already be a winner!

Lets talk about music. So, let us imagine we are somewhere both accommodating and appropriate, holding this discussion. Hey, how about The Garage in Phnom Penh? Yes? Good. Let’s buy Jeff a (virtual) G&T then get down to it…but before I reveal my personal favourite album of 2010, shall we recap on the year?

‘Goin’ Back’ may well have been my musical theme for 2010, as much of the time I spent re-exploring the music that inspired me in my youth. It also marked my own return to the live arena after 5 wilderness years, my first ever solo performances and, like the Ghost of Christmas Past, the (limited edition 7-inch in coloured vinyl on 1977 records!) re-issue of the first Radio City record I made to satisfy the demands of mainly Japanese collectors. Now (with the emphasis firmly on the pantomime aspects of the following statement), I am truly a ‘cult’…

Jerry Goffin and Carole King’s ‘Goin’ Back’ is normally cast as a wistful, dreamy reverie of a song that evokes a resigned sense of nostalgia through its chords and lyrics. It was rendered virtually immaculate in 1960’s in the hands of The Byrds, softly pillowed in whispered harmonies and gently chiming 12-string guitars. The version I went back to this year however was the strident piano driven statement of intent emanating from the first solo album recorded by Nils Lofgren in the early 1970’s. He takes the song by the scruff of the neck and possesses the lyric in a way that totally reflects the attitude that oozes from the rest of the tracks and from the cover picture of a leather jacketed swaggering Lofgren… ‘But thinking young and growing older is no sin, and I can play the game of life to win…’ yes, we need the past to make sense of the present and prepare us for that unknown future…
This was one of my favourite ‘getting ready to go out for the unknown future of the weekend’ songs back in those heady days, and this song and its parent album were again established as firm favourites on the Jamesian playlist for 2010.

2010 was also the year of returning to some other old friends from the 70’s and 80’s – Dwight Twilley, The Raspberries (‘Starting Over’ – what a song – what an album!), the Shoes, the Db’s, the Plimsouls, Marshall Crenshaw, Let’s Active, the Flaming Groovies, the Rain Parade, John Hiatt, the Only Ones, early Cheap Trick, the Stiff and Chiswick records crew, the Postcard and Post-Postcard bands …. andmoreagain and again. I kept up my love affair with the 1960’s, the greats and the garage bands, spent far too much time with the complete Pete Townsend demos and with outtakes from the Beatles and Stones, obsessed (as usual) over the Kinks had a huge crush on the Bonzos/Viv Stanshall (shared by Otis!) and continued to love those contemporary artists whose musical hearts are very firmly in the classic tradition – the wonderful Black Keys, White Stripes and Billy Childish/Holly Golightly spring to mind here.

I continue to mourn the loss but celebrate the work of Alex Chilton. A complex kid indeed, but a true musician, and a HUGE personal inspiration. Although the direct line in my own work is closest to the first two Big Star albums, I’ve recently been listening to live tapes drawn from throughout his life, and there is no doubt that the image he had of being an ornery cuss at times overshadows just how good the man was…

So, so sad at the passing of Mark Linkous also… to be selfish I shall really miss the spooky scratchy whisperings of Sparklehorse. Listening to them reminded me of hiding from your friends in the damp dark woods when you were young… being so aware of your own body, breath and heartbeat, then realising there were other things there also, rustling and moving next to you, a natural world co-existing with you… I wish you peace now, Mark, and thank you for the memories in sound you have left behind…

I also confess that for many years I never really ‘got’ Captain Beefheart, but over the last few years had developed a real fondness for a great deal of his music, so his recent death was another reason to feel sad, as we will never see the like again… another original gone…

Enough of the maudlin for now, what has been the new music that moved me in 2010?

Well, I loved The Decemberists ‘Hazards of Love’, Midlake’s ‘Courage of Others’, John Grant’s ‘Queen of Denmark’ and Karen Elson’s ‘Ghost Who Walks’. Honourable mentions go out to Josh Rouse for ‘El Turista’ (even though he is currently walking a path parlously close to Paul Simon!), The Villagers ‘Becoming a Jackal’, The National ‘High Violet’ and Alejandro Escovedo’s ‘Street Songs of Love’.

Of course there were hundreds of others too, the ever-changing daily obsessions, but however (cue fanfare!), the time has now come to reveal the winner of the coveted(?) accolade, James’ Album of the Year, 2010. Bear with me whilst I do so in true ‘getting- up-slightly-tipsy-at-an-awards-ceremony-fashion’…

‘Ladies and gentlemen, this award goes to an artist who has weathered not only the changing face of a music industry he entered over thirty years ago as a shorts-clad sandal-shod, bright eyed and bushy-tailed hat wearing naive, but one who has also fought back in recent years from a near fatal and debilitating illness to confound us all with an album that stands as a career high. Of course, he has done this with a little help from his friends, some very much in the public eye themselves (hey Alex, Roddy! Hiya Paul! Alright Johnny?), others much less so, such as wife and manager, Grace… this is no maudlin, weepy, ‘oh me, oh my’ album either, but a pounding, vibrant re-affirmation of life in the face of adversity that is not afraid to face its demons armed with a killer guitar riff and a northern soul bass line. Ladies and gentlemen, raise a glass of Orange Juice as I give you my Album of the Year, 2010, and most of all I ask you to appreciate its creator, no Poor Old Soul but the Blue Boy himself…
‘Losing Sleep’, by Edwyn Collins!’

And that, dear reader, is all there is to say. If you haven’t heard it, please do seek it out and listen. It’s every bit as good as I say it is, indeed more so.

I’m off now, but I’ll be back later.

See you then….

Cold, cold, cold….

As 2010 winds inexorably toward its date with destiny in the shape of Jools Holland’s Hootenanny (surely The White Heather Club of the dad rock generation…) its time for me to reflect if not on the year soon to pass then at least on the last week. A tip of the stovepipe hat may be in order toward Saint Nicholas, Old Father Time, Jack Frost, Bruce Forsythe and other seasonal deities, as despite the combined best efforts of freezing weather, BAA, Heathrow Airport and rampaging influenza to keep us from enjoying our festive cheer we have made it though the myriad of obstacles strewn in our path to enjoy another Christmas in the UK.

Those who follow our (mis)adventures on Facebook will probably have more than an inkling of the travel woes that beset us just over a week ago… in a nutshell, one hour from Heathrow we were diverted to Copenhagen where we spent three days waiting for our flight to be rescheduled. It was cold. No, rephrase that, it was freezing. We only had our hand luggage as all other bags were sealed in the airplane. Rather sensibly Anita and Otis had packed some additional layers in the event of just such an event, but I was garbed in traditional north highland winter ‘lads wear’, namely jeans and thin shirt with t-shirt below. Conditions were, however, much more savage than those of a traditional north highland winter, so not surprisingly I was feeling extremely chilled in body, but not so in temperament. Although we were treated to absolutely wonderful and charming Danish hospitality in the hotels they shunted us between we couldn’t actually do much other than hang around as we were on alert for our flight being called. Which, after three days of sharing the manifold germs of, and observing the best (and the worst – one young gentleman was determined to single-handedly clear every free bottle of beer from the hotel during lunch – we were allocated two each, and I observed him concealing eight around his person, then coming straight back for more – yes, advancing age is turning me into a jobsworth – I didn’t fight the punk wars for nothing, you know!) of our fellow passengers behaviour at very close quarters, it finally was.

In life, nothing is certain. At airports, absolutely nothing is certain. Ten hours after check-in, and after six hours sitting on the runway, we were being placated by the smiling Thai Airways staff with reindeer jerky wraps, which along with water and orange juice were the only forms of sustenance still available on the plane. Clearly not even Santa was going anywhere and had been reduced to slaughtering and processing his flying friends in order to survive the rigours of this particular Christmas. Shocking. Not quite as shocking as the news that filtered through that Heathrow had already allocated and cancelled ten different slots for our flight… things were not looking good, but eventually amid much clapping and murmured approval we rose into the sky, leaving behind the frozen runways and deep piles of snow dotting Copenhagen airport, to wend our way to what must surely be the winter hell of Heathrow.

We were all rather surprised to see just how minimal in comparison to Copenhagen the volume of snow surrounding Heathrow was. Surprise turned to shock when we saw just how much the airport resembled a post-disaster movie, with passengers lying sleeping where they could and clearly overstressed and overstretched staff trying to manage the waves of anger and people surging at them as they attempted to send all of us including those with baby buggies and additional needs, down stairs and escalators and narrowed off passages as it appeared that ‘essential reconstruction work’ was going on… the mind boggles, and without a doubt heads should roll at senior level for the utter debacle that Christmas at Heathrow was…

Enough negativity – we were among the really fortunate ones as Anita’s wonderful Mum and Dad had come to meet us, so we were soon sped away from the scene and esconced in the warm and cosy house where we would be spending Christmas. By now we were also all suffering from flu (and we still are as I write this), so the build up to Christmas was fairly low-key, with the exception being Christmas Eve, when we all went for a nostalgia-inducing trip on a steam engine. It was a grand day out indeed and Otis was particularly excited when he spotted the actual real Thomas the Tank Engine sitting in a siding en route, and he even got over his fear of Santa (and his motley Victorian garbed chums – one of whom Uncle Paul pointed out bore a somewhat unnerving resemblance to the Childcatcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang… so that’s what happens to naughty girls and boys….) long enough to allow the bewhiskered gent to sit beside him and pose for photographs. Christmas day was most enjoyable, with Otis awakening at a very sensible hour and being completely engaged and sweet regarding the whole thing, and a rather magnificent Christmas dinner with all the trimmings and crackers and things that went ‘bang!’ was the undoubted highlight of a truly happy family day.

More musings on the festive season to come and the announcement of my first annual ‘Album of the Year’ award – watch the skies (and this space!).

Willie and the Poor Boys

The late August rains are lashing the streets of Phnom Penh with daily downpours, the deluge ensuring that the streets still flood with almost reassuring regularity as the jagged teeth of the concrete skyline continue to push ever upwards, Gold Tower 42 now almost scraping the low grey clouds that scud across the precipitating skies. There are times it almost feels like I am back in (an admittedly much warmer) UK. More specifically in the dreich northern parts from whence I sprang more than fifty four summers ago…

That was pretty poetic, wasn’t it? Yes, it was a tad Sunday Post-ish, but no bad, eh? I’ve been thinking a great deal about my place of birth recently. I returned there in July, and it was still there, Thurso in all its glory, nestling under slate-coloured skies, drizzled with intermittent squalls of rain interspersed with sudden bursts of watery sunshine. In a word, summer! I had travelled north from Edinburgh on the early Sunday morning bus, briefly attempting to while the hours away by doing some work without reckoning on the cramped conditions and the parlous state of the battery on my Macbook rendering this ambition almost completely useless. I briefly felt one of those passing tingles of ‘Scottishness’ I experience from time to time as I mused that it was very appropriate to be using a Macbook here in Scotland, home of the ‘Mac(intosh – useful for rain (see ‘Scotland’))’. I pondered would it ever achieve and hold the same cultural significance as say a ‘See you Jimmy’ tam ‘o’ shanter and fiery red wig do in delineating outwardly that elusive quality that defines the Scot. Hmmm. I took another large bite out of my Tunnock’s Caramel Wafer and a swig of Irn Bru and thought, maybe not. Giant leaps of intellectual cogitation over, the remainder of the journey to Inverness was spent in a semi-conscious reverie gazing at the scenery whizzing past the coach and marvelling at the number of pictures of hills, braes, hillocks, scree and occasionally sheep that the couple seated in front of me were taking. This reverie was only interrupted by falling asleep and completely missing Aviemore. Damn. Since watching Aviemore hosting ‘It’s a Knockout’ in glorious monochrome on my Nana’s tiny TV set back in the heady early 70’s (I think…or may have been late 60’s??) the place has always held an allure to me comparable to say, oh I don’t know, let’s say Las Vegas. Or maybe Blackpool. But this time I missed it completely, waking just as we entered Inverness. I do like Inverness. Technically I suppose I still actually live there. But I literally had only two minutes on this occasion to elbow my way through a gaggle of American cruisers (that is, from a cruise ship, not predatory nighthawks in search of illicit thrills… although a few did look 1970’s type big moustache and baseball jacket threatening…) and catch the bus north, to the land beyond the split stane, to the craggy cliffs of Dunnet Head, scorries wheeling in a big sky over peat bog and ancient cairn, to the enchanted realm of Top Joe’s and the Commercial Hotel….

What I really did not anticipate on the trip north were the waves of nostalgia I experienced as we passed through my old stomping ground from my days as a semi-pro musician, and even further back to recall trips undertaken with my dad and mum, sisters and brother… incidents, memories, events from the past sprang unbidden into my mind, forgotten friends suddenly remembered, hours of travel in various forms of transport and in varying states of comfort suddenly remembered, fond thoughts of places and people flooding through me and suffusing me with a warm glow… a bit like Scott’s Porridge Oats actually…

The truth is that I actually enjoyed the trip very much, smiling like a mad chiel at all the memories pouring out, most joyous, some tinged with sadness, but all part and parcel of my experience of life. These places, the Golspie’s, Brora’s, Dunbeath’s, Helmsdale’s, they were all part of me…goodness, even Portgower, where I swear I have never ever seen a living soul during five decades of travelling through it… HP Lovecraft would have absolutely adored it. I even felt some minor feelings of something (possibly sympathy?) when I passed through Wick. Please don’t tell anyone that. This general feeling of warmth and well-being continued when I eventually got to Thurso… walking to my eldest son’s house that night I stopped in my tracks in the small alleyway beside a somewhat nondescript harled bungalow and its detached garage lurking on the cusp of the forebodingly stonily-monikered Granville Crescent. In the annals of my personal history this seemingly undistinguished abode was of a similar stature to the KaiserKellar in Hamburg, or the Wardour Street Marquee in London…. for this was Michael Houston’s old house, and in that very garage I had taken some of the first faltering steps in my life long obsession with punishing the human race through the power of song. I entered Michael’s garage as a 15 year-old speccy geek, and emerged from its nurturing chrysalis mere weeks afterward as a 15 year-old speccy geek who thought he was a hybrid of all the best bits of Marc Bolan, John Fogerty and Ray Davies…

As I stood there on that warm(ish) July evening, the years fell away, and I remembered a myriad of things that I hadn’t thought of in many, many moons…. The ‘Eagle’ DIY kit amplifiers from a mail order catalogue that powered our first forays into electrified rock, the sheer size and gut rumbling power of Steven Beaton’s bass rig (a 15 watt WEM…wow!), Michaels mum’s impressive shortwave radio doubling as our first PA system and their standard lamp as an impromptu microphone stand, Perce’s groovy poster adorning his bass drum skin (Stonehenge, I think…? We were Spinal Tap before they were Spinal Tap!)… the songbooks that provided our first repertoire (Best of The Kinks was one…probably worth a small fortune now on e-bay, my Marc Bolan book with the amazing George Underwood illustrations and all the impossible dots and boxes and swirls crawling across the pages that would translate into mystical music, if only I knew the code)… initial rehearsals in the front room in the house, and then as it dawned on Norma and Sinclair (Michael’s parents) that perhaps this wasn’t simply a passing fad, promotion to the rock ‘n’ roll nirvana of the garage.

My memory is not brilliant, so I can’t exactly verify the sequence of events following – perhaps some kind chap (Michael?) with less frazzled brain cells can provide a more accurate picture of events, but as I recall the core of the ‘band’ initially was myself on vocals (as no one else wanted the job), Michael on guitar and Steven on bass. Once he had established that we were indeed serious, one of our other friends, James Simpson, joined as second guitarist, spending his paper round money on a red Stratocaster copy and performing the extremely impressive feat of proving that Bert Weedon’s ‘Play in A Day’ guitar tutor did actually work… in fact, James proved it could be done in an evening…. oldest member (by a couple of years) Perce and his drum kit toddled along slightly later, but his influence on the band was infinitely greater than his rudimentary drumming – he introduced us to the wonders of John C Fogerty and Creedence Clearwater Revival. CCR stuff was insanely catchy, pretty cool and, crucially, mostly fairly easy to play, in our estimation. The bulk of the first set we worked up were mainly ‘three chord wonders’, CCR, Kinks, T.Rex and I believe Black Sabbath and Chuck Berry were in there also. Michael also owned a reel-to-reel tape recorder, and I seem to recall some early rehearsals being taped, and also vaguely recall hearing them some years later and wincing at how awful I actually sounded… in my head I may have been Bolan, Fogerty and Davies, but Larry the Lamb crossed with a strangulated Bryan Ferry better described the diminutive bleat that was my trademark at that time. At this juncture I have to point out the very real dangers inherent in being a T.Rex fan in Thurso at that time. Young heterosexual men in small town Scotland in the early 70’s were mostly cheerfully misogynist, racist and homophobic, truly ignorant of the importance of addressing these issues in forging tolerance and understanding for all. You can imagine then the reaction to a diminutive cross-dressing corkscrew haired pouting and glitter-enhanced pop star.



Neil Barclay’s parents house bore witness to this upsurge of anger the night after Bolan and T.Rex performed ‘Hot Love’ on Top of the Pops, the bopping elf cementing his androgynous appearance with glitter smeared on his cheeks and under his eyes by his managers wife, Chelita Secunda, seconds before they rocked into millions of homes in the UK. Next night, Neil’s parents were away, so cue teenage party mayhem in the Barclay household. A certain local musician got so angry during a discussion on the merits of glam rock, and in particular on Mr Bolan’s make-up, that he punched a hole clean through the stairwell wall… I didn’t say much for the remainder of that night, I was rather keen on keeping all my teeth and my face intact…

So, let us pause at this point, dear reader, so you can catch your breath. Memories from those who were there in those heady times are more than welcome, real or imagined… part two, in which our heroes venture forth from the garage, blinking and wide-eyed into the cruel world of entertainment, will be along shortly…

Thought for the day

“… the kind of garage band who should be returned to the garage immediately, preferably with the engine running”

(Charles Shaar Murray, writing of The Clash live experience, 1977)