Silence

Silence? No Sir! Not in this house today.

The family is back for Christmas. But it’s not the Grandweans that are causing the riots. They are playing quietly, and drawing, and following the cat around, and generally being lovely. It’s the sons and foster sons. They all get together and the noise levels go up on the richter scale.

A lot of that noise is created from the sheer joy of persecuting their poor old father. Oh yes, the Spirit of Christmas is being given a battering! And I, the Father of Christmas, as far as my own children are concerned, is right in the middle of the metaphorical snowball fight.

No mercy.

And it’s a truly beautiful thing to behold, from this old Santa’s point of view.
Enough to make the white hairs on my beard glisten and the “Ho Ho Ho’s!” boom forth.

I’ve mentioned many times before what a lucky fella I am. And I am. There are no two ways about it. And here, hidden away from the mayhem in my bedroom, writing this blog, I get a couple of moments to enjoy the glow of all of that.

Silence is often bliss, and it will be again.

But for now let the Glorious Cacophony reign.

You Make My Sad Heart Sing

On Thursday Ineke and I had our traditional wedding anniversary celebration by travelling the two hours to Oban and traipsing round Aldi for our Christmas shop in the lead up to Christmas.

You may not be surprised to hear that we spent £230. The only reason I’m telling you that is to put the next bit in context. Leaving the supermarket carpark after the shop to go for some lunch, we passed a fella sitting in the freezing and showery conditions. Although he had a sleeping bag held over his head he had nothing to stay dry. We gave the few coins we had, and chatted for a moment. He was trying to get enough money to pay for a hostel.

A couple of hours later we returned to our car. He was still there. I had a poncho in the car so I gave that to him. Inevitably it all felt so inadequate. Not just felt inadequate. It was inadequate.

It made me realise why we all usually walk on by. It felt far harder, far more sobering, far more hypocritical on my part, to actually become involved in a small way, than it ever does when I simply turn a blind eye. Which I often do.

As discussed in a previous blog there are no easy solutions. Doing something inadequate is better than doing nothing. And wallowing in feelings of self-guilt doesn’t help nobody. But on the drive home, I wished we had done more.

Yesterday I went for breakfast with a friend. And when I went to pay, it turned out that another friend, who had been leaving upon our arrival, had paid our bill. It was a really lovely and kind thing to do. But in our case, of course, it was just a bit of icing on the cake of life, not a matter of survival.

Both of these experiences are what we might call Christmas stories, I suppose. Just because of the time of year. But really they are day to day life stories.

So, in a likewise inadequate conclusion - there are lots of ways in which You Make My Sad Heart Sing. Yes you. And not just in the springtime. Thank you. We should keep on doing that for each other.

But there are times when the sadness silences any song worth the name.

Put Out The Fires

Yesterday I spoke about struggling to start the Homesong fire. And I got a wonderful email from a Homesonger, friend, and lovely supporter of this blog, Rosie Nimmo, to basically tell me off in the nicest possible way for thinking that my efforts might have been wasted.

It was much appreciated.

In my mind I was attempting an honest appraisal of the dip in my own levels of energy and motivation. As I’ve sometimes alluded, this blog has become something of a private journal, in which I try to get my thoughts in order, and then fire them out for anybody to read. It’s lovely to have people along for the journey. That’s a very uplifting experience.

Today’s blog title, Put Out The Fires , is from my modern protest song about working together to put out the wrong kind of fires. Rosie’s email played that role in a way, by putting out any dangerous little embers of disappointment or disillusionment in me. I’m grateful for her protest!

Homesong

Ha! Homesong?

It was a thing. It is a thing still. It still could be a thing.

However, it’s not feeling like something that I can make happen in the way I had envisaged. I’ve run out of ideas and energy for now. I could potentially keep it going here in Campbeltown. But even though it was appreciated by many, it seemed to be kept going, mainly, by the amount of enthusiasm that I could generate.

Enthusiasm needs to be shared I think. It’s not something that can be manufactured. And although my own enthusiasm wad and is genuine, and shared to a certain degree, I’ve certainly not had the force of personality and mind to keep things going until whatever it is that I feel, was felt by other people.

I say that. My friend Lori has run with it. And I’m very grateful for her support. She’s been brilliant. And I’m grateful for all the performers who have travelled here to perform.

And I haven’t given up really, even if this sounds like that kind of confession. I want this site to remain as a potential catalyst to prompt other people, anywhere, to give home gigs a try. And maybe I will still host them. People have asked.

Primarily I am a fella, like everyone I guess, who is simply trying to learn how to live this short life. I express that life through songs, writing, and my relationships with friends and family. I’m also an occasional performer. I can do it. But maybe I won’t get the chance to do it in people’s homes on any regular basis, like I had imagined.

I’m not sad, because there is still so much life to be lived, and so many songs to write and to sing. And perhaps “Homesong” is something more than just the idea of gigs in houses.

Maybe it’s something fundamental about who I am.

A song that can be sung anywhere. Even when the place seems far away.

Winter Sun

It’s not particularly warm in these northern latitudes, that Winter Sun.

But it’s enough.

Just a little bit of brightness can carry us through. It holds the promise of a future springtime, when the life, that seemed to have died a death, will burst forth once again.

You and I can be that winter sun, for someone. And we can receive it from someone too.

I’m trying to keep my eyes open for the opportunity to do either.

Milo

Milo was written about Milo.

He’s the third grandchild. From a young age (he’s still only five) he always struck me as a force of nature. A natural athlete I think.

But even that force of nature is human. He had a bout of pneumonia and flu at the same time this year, which would have been horrible for his parents to witness up close. We had something similar with one of our boys when they were young. It’s horrible to see young life in a vulnerable state. And my heart, like yours no doubt, weeps for anyone who loses a young child.

Milo came through and is nearly back to his indomitable self. We do what we can to protect, encourage and teach our young ones. But still bad things can happen.

Life, for the most part, isn’t in our hands. And that is what makes it so precious.

Dobby Is A Free Elf

My song Dobby Is A Free Elf was written when our youngest foster son, shortly after meeting us for the first time, asked me to write a song about the Harry Potter books.

Those books are great stories, even if some people get awful snobby about them. J.K. Rowling did good, and brought to life some epic themes. I like the song I wrote too, albeit that parts of it were quite a vocal challenge in recording.

But it’s fine talking about big concepts such as, “Good” and “Evil”, “Right” and “Wrong”, “Justice” and “Injustice", “Freedom” and “Slavery” in our art and in our conversations.

It’s fine talking about them. But it does us no good whatsoever when everybody is at loggerheads about what those words even mean. And that’s the world we are increasingly living in right now it seems.

It feels, to an extent, like we have all been captured by dark algorithmic spells, cast from the wands of invisible cyber Voldemorts. Spells that cast doubt upon the very nature of truth, and that cause brothers and sisters to become divided if not completely alienated from each other. Spells that make age old certainties a thing of the past, and cause us to become blase about present dangers and to focus on trivia.

If Dobby and we are to find our freedom in THIS world, then one simple starting point might be to acknowledge the real value of spending less time in that cyber world - and more time speaking to real people in real time.

It just might help to stop that damn Voldemort from getting such easy access to our thought lives. Additionally, it’s always harder to fight with someone you’re talking to in person.

Sorry, I haven’t got many better suggestions right now. In case you were asking ;-)

ps. Ironically, almost tragically, there are many people, like me, making these suggestions on the very Internet platforms that we’re seeing a problem with. No, I dunno either. It’s a double edged sword, because to an extent the internet is becoming the “real” world.

pps. apologies if this comes across as a dark outlook. I’m not personally overcome by anxiety. I’m happy in myself. But I am obviously concerned about the world out there and the future life for children and grandchildren who are inheriting the dilemma’s my generation has caused.

Broken Hearts Don’t Need A Hero

I was in Glasgow last weekend. Walking through the streets as you do. Seeing the folk in various places hoping for a few coins. A few coins at a time in their lives that could well and truly be called “rock bottom”.

It’s a hard thing to see, and as a man with a conscience, I haven’t found a way of dealing with walking past (it’s usually walking past) those folk who are sitting there on a cold December day. There aren’t any easy answers, short of treating it as a personal crusade. The Big Issue magazine was, and continues to be, a great idea. It helps pour a little bit of dignity into the whole scenario when possible.

But aside from developing the sort of political system that treats those on the margins of society with more concern and compassion (that seems as far, further off than ever) we seem to be stuck with the sheer sadness of it all.

My song Broken Hearts Don’t Need A Hero, was an attempt to get my head around this particular big issue a few years ago. Our fundamental need for friendship, one that we all have, is its underlying theme.

We can’t easily change the situation for people on the streets. But perhaps we can help to close the barn doors before the horse bolts for somebody that we know.

Simply by being a friend to them when the shit hits the fan. Because that person on the street could easily be you or I.

Freddie

Freddie sounds like a confused kind of a song even to my ears.

I know what I was trying to do. And if it sounds like a confused song to you too, it also happens to be one about a confusing subject.

It was my attempt, a little before it became the political and culture hot potato that it has since become, or at least before I was aware of that happening, to understand what it might be like to be born as a woman trapped inside a mans body. Or vice versa.

Yep, the T word. Transgender.

Now, for the record, I’m firmly of the opinion, like pretty much everybody else, that this issue has been, and is being, dangerously abused to make the lives of vulnerable children in particular and many women too, potentially more dangerous, damaging and frightening, than they should ever have been. It has also been used to destroy the lives of some of those who have stood up and simply voiced their genuine and compassionate concerns about it. People like J.K. Rowling. I’m definitely on her side, not the side of the thought police.

Having said all that, and in the midst of this maelstrom of uproar, there are still people who grow up with a body, and body parts, that don’t seem to represent who they are. It can be hard enough, even in a relatively sympathetic western society, to grow up gay. The gender dysmorphia (and it is a thing, even with the above mentioned abuse) adds extra layers of difficulty. And, strangely, despite the supposed “support” from a minority of powerful and influential “influencers”, probably even more difficult now for many of the “supported”.

Growing up is hard for everybody in some way. Finding out who we are is hard. Whether that be Man, Woman, or A.N.Other. I’m all for giving myself and everybody else the benefit of any doubt. And also adding a touch of kindness and compassion where possible.

And that’s about as far as I’ve got with all of this. It’s all become very complicated and divisive. It would be nice to think that in a few years this issue will look like a storm in a teacup. And that as a society we will be dealing with individual difference in a more compassionate way, while still upholding the rights of free and open speech, without which we can never reach satisfactory outcomes.

Having brought up five of my own children and five long term foster children (not that that makes me an expert!) I also most definitely think that any life changing decisions our children make should be put on hold till they and their bodies have grown up to adulthood.

Nothing can fundamentally change who each of us are in any given moment. That should be the starting point for any relationship with ourselves and with each other.

The Other Side Of Blue

It turns out that there is, and forever will be, another side to every experience. If we wait it will appear.

Every moment, every emotion, every dream, every reality and every devotion will change into something other.

So, if the present experience is “bad”. Well, hang on a while. There will be another bus along in a minute or two.

I once got on a bus called The Other Side Of Blue.

The Devil’s Bridge

“You can’t cross over here
With your sweet sincerity
We trade in darkness here
Everybody knows
That’s how we roll
That that’s the goal”
Thus spoke the troll

”Who ya tryin’ to kid
This is the Devil’s Bridge
The Devil’s Bridge
The Devil’s Bridge”

”You won’t find friends my friend
On the other side
We won’t connect you
To anyone at all
Just pay the toll
I’ll take your soul”
Thus spoke the Troll

”Who ya trying to kid
This is the Devil’s Bridge
The Devil’s Bridge
The Devil’s Bridge”

”Come on take my hand
And though it’s not the promised land

I can promise you this
The Boss is gonna like you
The Boss is gonna like you
The Boss is gonna like you a lot
“


”Hand me your kindness please
You won’t need it anymore

Take this cup of spite
There’ll be plenty more
Fill in this poll

Support the Trolls”
Thus spoke the Troll


“You look a smart kid
But this is the Devil’s Bridge
The Devil’s Bridge
The Devil’s Bridge
The Devil’s Bridge”

Unsubscribe

I often have to put the practise of “Unsubscribe“ to use. It untangles the mess a little bit.

But I seem to do it a little bit too regularly sometimes.

Maybe I should put more thought and effort into not subscribing in the first place.

Colours Of The Rainbow

OK. You want to hear something very cute.

Listen to Colours Of The Rainbow

It’s a song I wrote at the request one of my grandchildren, Angus, a few years ago. The cuteness comes, unsurprisingly, not from yours truly, but from the vocal accompaniment of Angus’s older brother, Saul. And don’t forget to hang on in the middle of the song for when it, and Saul, go all heavy metal on those dang colours.

Also, don’t forget violet!

ps. You’ve got to allow me a little bit of gushing pride and joy now and the at anything my grandchildren do.

Clean Hands (And A Little Bit Of Space)

The Covid Years, huh. What a palava!

It already feels like a lifetime ago. It changed us quite a bit, I think. Or at least it was a big factor in all the changes that were already happening. Changes that have affected us as individuals and as society.

It feels that good things like - “democracy”, “peaceful co-existence”, “confidence about the future”, “our faith in authority”, and simple “kindness” - have all taken a hit to some extent.

Perhaps they have, or perhaps it’s just those blasted algorithms.

I’m of the opinion, as you may have become aware, that it is truly pointless, in fact harmful, to spend my time worrying about things that I can’t control. Perhaps the most important action we can all take is to take care of our own perspective on it all. Because worry leads to fear. And fear leads to all sorts of bad behaviour and outcomes. Things we hear a lot about even if we try and avoid hearing them.

Personal mental self care, is the biggest gift of kindness we can give, not only to ourselves, but to the people we love. And to the planet. The best antidote to terror.

For me meditation, mindfulness, being in the moment, accepting This right now - whatever you might like to call it - that’s been the biggest game changer.

But honestly, whatever works for you.

In the early days of the Covid Years I wrote Clean Hands (And A Little Bit Of Space). Which was me trying to grapple with all the confusion back then. Some lines look odd now. But hey, none of us plebs knew anything really, and the people who did genuinely know something were learning as they went.

I’m reasonably happy with my imperfect observations back then though. They’re not too off the mark.

Also, I miss Robert.

Merry Christmas To Me

I know it’s early in the year, but here is my most festive of festive songs yet, released today, on this almost festively fourth of December. It gets to the true meaning of Christmas…

Yes … Merry Christmas To Me!

Because if I’m happy everybody will be. Or more pertinently, if I’m miserable then …

Bah Humbug!

Anyway, I do hope you have a lovely festive season whenever yours starts. But I also hope you didn’t have your first mince pie until December at the earliest! Coz that’s the law you know. Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. i’m being lenient. Some folk wait till Christmas eve!

Now that’s dedication.

Nightbird

Albums aren’t a thing anymore. But they’re still a thing.

I once released one called A Human Being. (Copies still available!)

And then I began on this long and winding road of releasing 150 singles in a row. The 151st tomorrow.

More numbers….I turn 60 next year, and I’ve been pondering the idea of
releasing a second solo album to celebrate. I would pick the songs that I personally love the most, from among the many I’ve recorded.

It’s funny picking favourites. One or two spring to mind straight away. But we’re such changeable creatures, and my own opinions about my own songs are as flexible and in flux as everybody else’s. In addition, I do believe that the best albums, the ones that work as albums, need to have some kind of musical or lyrical thread. So I might have to be even more selective in my favouritism.

Anyway, todays blog title came along. And Nightbird could really be a contender. I do like this one.

Rainbows In The Spray

“Who can say, why we can’t
Only feel one way
We’re dancing
Like “Rainbows In The Spray“.

And that’s all for today.

Do The MOK Run

I wrote Do The MOK Run after a request from Mull Of Kintyre Run organisers for performers to sing songs to the runner on route. So I wrote the song, and sang it to the runners as they passed near our house.

The MOK run is a yearly event that brings together both the local community and running enthusiasts from all over. I ran the main 10k event myself, 10 years ago this coming May, as a way of “celebrating” the fact that I was about to turn 50.

Running for distances is not a thing I particularly enjoy doing. And doing it seems to go against the interesting wisdom a friend imparted to me a while ago. In reference to an ancient life form he remarked - “I just follow the example of the Amoeba”.

Apparently the Amoeba has only two kinds of movement. Either away from things it doesn’t like OR towards things it does. Away from suffering, towards pleasure. Away from enemies and towards friends. Away from danger and towards food.

Running definitely feels like something that this particular Amoeba (me) should be running away from.

But we advanced life forms (lol) have discovered that sometimes short term pain and suffering, in the right doses, can lead to long term benefits. So, counter intuitively, we sometimes move intentionally towards the apparently harmful thing.

I only did the MOK run once, preferring to keep fit in other ways. But I’m thinking about doing it again when I’m 60.

But if I’m not doing it for fitness, then why? Possibly some weird sado-masochistic hit. Or simply a jolt to remind myself that this ageing fella isn’t quite deid yet.

I Thank You

Gratitude
Takes its time
To soak into the skin.

We picked the grapes
Under the hot sun
Crushing them slowly
And letting the sediment settle.
The juices refined by patience
Over many years
Inside a bottle,
Inside a dark cave.

At last the wine within
Lost any bitter remnants
Of acid rain.
Finally it tasted sweet.
But not of sugar.
Far deeper than
A casual “thanks”.

Instead

“I Thank You”.
A dance in which both
A Me
And A You
Warm our souls and become young again,
Sifting through flavourful memories
As the flames
Of the evening fire rise
And disappear.
And as the sun sets
Over this vineyard of dreams.

Little Fire

Sometimes there is a Little Fire waiting to burn all along.

But before even that small fire starts to burn, the glowing embers have to be awakened. It can take a lot of work getting a nearly dead fire back to life.

It certainly can’t cope with a big log thrown on top straight away. That’s just going to starve it of oxygen and kill any chance of getting things going. Little twigs and bits of paper are the way. And a lot of blowing.

Of course it helps if you’ve got some purpose made Firestarters. But in life that isn’t always the case. So patience and care are the key when the raw materials are in short supply.

I’ve watched the boy, about whom today’s song was written, and who sometimes looked like a hopeless case, turn into a young man.

He’s our little fire, and we’re proud of him. He warms our hearts.