Well, after a few months I have a fantastic, if slender, selection of Lost
Song videos. Some real gems, some really
terrific artists that are criminally forgotten and ignored, and all of them
labours of love. Yet sadly… there’s not
quite enough videos to do what I was setting out to do. I simply ran out of ways to say “does anyone
have any old band videos kicking around #abitpatheticbynow #retweetmyarse”. Fitting perhaps, that my love song to failure
was itself failing. Well how bleedin’
poetic.
Mildly gloomy about this, I needed a bit of space so I could
get that most elusive of things – perspective.
Much of the album has been recorded very quickly. The day job (or one of them) is music for TV,
a world of impossible deadlines where too much has to be achieved in too little
time. As a result, I have studio where I
can work incredibly quickly – from first germ of an idea to a form that sounds
really pretty decent can take only a few hours.
When at it, I feverishly swap between guitar, drums, synths and vocals
in a giddy haze – everything already set up ready to go and a gazillion sounds
available at the click of a button. And
I love working that way – as the track takes shape, I resent every millisecond
spent attending to boring technical things, swearing profusely at all this
badly designed tech preventing me getting ideas out of my head at anything
slower than the speed of light squared.
Which is all very well.
But of course when creating a masterpiece out of thin air that sounds
like the greatest work ever recorded in the history of mankind in 6 hours flat,
there comes the hangover the next morning.
Could it possibly be that this isn’t actually a sublime masterpiece, but
is in fact just a teensy bit crap? Or in
fact a lotsy bit crap? And at best if it
reveals itself to still have potential, it usually it takes me longer just to
tidy up the mess I left the night before than it did to record it in the first
place.
So the album being thrown together in a haze was one
thing. My voice was another – both
literal and metaphorical. The greatest
thing about my voice is that it’s always available when I am. Co-singer Lucy on the other hand is pretty
experienced and rather good at this whole singing lark. How did my vocals work next to Lucy’s? And then there was the whole issue of what on
earth a long-in-the-tooth TV composer / sound designer / writer was thinking in
writing original material in an industry where being over 30 ensures the same
fate as the characters in Logan’s Run – instant death. I needed a few months away to figure it out,
metaphorically packing my things and heading to the hills for deep
contemplation (whilst in reality just packing my things, walking back up to the
house and flopping in front of the TV). Itching
to press play daily, I kept resisting. I
was gripped with the idea that every week that passed without succumbing to
listening was another crumb of perspective eventually won. And growing was the feeling that when I
finally did, I’d discover I’d made aural ricin, fit only for declaring a
biohazard and reporting to the appropriate authorities for safe disposal.
After 3 months or so, the day finally came. Eyes shut, face grimaced… I pressed play.
Eeek.
The eyes peeked open.
The grimace relaxed.
I liked it. I genuinely
really liked it. Pretty much all of
it. And promptly wrote another song in
celebration, just to prove it wasn’t a quirk of history. And immediately declared the new one the best
of all.
So, as Ian Fletcher would say, that’s all good then. Or is it?
Really? What if I’m a minority of
one about it being any cop, with my delusion merely being deeper rooted than
anything a flimsy three months can expose?
What about that absurdity of doing it in the first place? What, in the end, is the point of After
School Video Club, exactly? How many
times have I watched this episode of the Big Bang Theory and will Penny ever go
back to long hair again?
Then it just clicked… I’m indulging in my second favourite
hobby - overthinking things. For here is
the revelation – drum roll please - After School Video Club is…
is…
is…
is what I do when I’m not doing anything else.
I write TV music, I do TV sound, I write scripts from time
to time, I have friends (really I do) and family. But then there’s what I do purely for fun,
playtime with all those lovely toys I own to do stuff that pays the
mortgage. Some people make pots – well bully
for them, I do this and so there. It’s
absurd that at 40-something I might actually record an album and ask anyone to
actually listen to the damn thing, but context is everything. This isn't about going on a
Pyramid-Stage-Or-Die quest, this is about throwing all my musical loves into a
big musical pot, baking it for 45 minutes under a moderate heat, letting it
stand for a while and then shoving my face right in it.
Alright, but an album isn't really meant to just sit on one
computer in the whole world now, is it?
Of course not Guy no it isn't, and so yes yes if anyone else in the
world – literally, ANYONE – likes it too, then what a lovely joy that would be. And if they don’t… well boo sucks. Cos it’s just playtime. It’s what I'm doing for fun. Other musicians might have an RnB band they play
in on Friday nights at 9pm down the Frog and Radiator, or at Jazz Club at
2am. Me, ever the life and soul of the
party, I sing songs in me shed. And as
mid-life crises’ go, compared to all the usual embarrassing clichés, it’s as
safe as houses. Or sheds.
It’s as safe as sheds.
 |
| (not my actual shed) |
So now you know the plan, and can no doubt instantly see
through my paper-thin self-protection mechanism activated to deal with the
insurmountable odds of it getting anywhere near double-digit sales. Get ready world… a remarkably insignificant
album has just passed quality control, and is destined for release.
Probably.
