cos I'm your hit man

Today's Milan visit didn't quite go to plan, but I've recovered my composure and the concurrent short term headache has subsided. When I used to visit Milan regularly I would often have a sense of calm as I returned to Linate to catch the flight home.

I think its because Milan can be quite an intense city and I suspect those little shots of expresso build up in the course of a day.

Daniel made some remark about one of my last songs and suggested that my random trips could be concealing a less straightforward occupation. Just because there was a revolver on the draining board next to the vodka and explosive fuses.

Oddly enough, some of my family muse about what I do as well.

So, to put things straight, I thought I'd use Daniel's comment as the inspiration for today's little song.

hit man

don’t promise me no promises
and its the same from me to you
on the run from love after all this time
we both knew just what to do

pack my bags, go around the world
sleep anywhere I please
you stayed, but didn’t wait, in this Chelsea flat
when I returned at the end of a mission

'cos I’m your hit man, hit man
always on the run
yeah I’m your hit man, babe
always got a diff’rent gun

last time in Jakarta when the rain was hot
I’d been running for the Java Sea
they came after me with that Mata Hari girl
but my mind was able to break free

and before that, together in St Petersburg
when we were hiding in that Literaturnoye Cafe
I’d done the deed, we were holding hands
that time when we both looked happy

'cos I’m your hit man, hit man
always on the run
yeah, I’m your hit man, babe
always got a diff’rent gun

even then I could tell that our war was over
your warmth told more than lies
a silencer moment of instant truth
a burst of sun from your deep blue eyes

never promise me your promises
we both knew just what to do
still running from love after all this time
and this time its without you.

cos I’m your hit man, hit man
always on the run
yeah I’m your hit man, babe
always got a diff’rent gun

yeah I’m your hit man, hit man
always on the run

That'll be number 14 of 14 then. Now I can resume a normal blogging service.

model romance (je t'aime)

Back from snowy Brussels, where I've been involved in some meetings largely conducted in Flemish. I can just about track the main conversation, as long as it is sprinkled with useful keywords.

Then back to the airport, where the plane was missing from the jetway and eventually back to Heathrow where the jetway was missing from the plane.

The last part was a small advantage, because the bus took us straight back to the main T5 instead of the B Terminal, where you have to catch that little shuttle.

Now I'm up to 12 of 14 in the songwriting thing, I feel compelled to write two more to get to the full set. So here's number 13, about a model romance in Paris.

Met you in that nightclub Rue St George
You talking to me of Voltaire
You with all those art school credentials
Made eyes and love as if you really cared

It was a model
It was a model
Romance

So together we took the Fifth Arondissement
Je t'aime, amour, along the Seine
Somehow you worked your magic
Paris together, Sorbonne, fantasy.

It was a model
It was a model
Romance

But one day you started looking different
Gauloises smoke, your head was turned
His plastic form of dressing
Synthetic as he struck the pose

Plastic model
Plastic model
Romance

That's around the last time that I saw you
You quietly melted away
You found your plastic lover
Left bank, left me, misery.

No more model
No more model
Romance

It was a model
It was a model
Romance

some of your stuff ain't normal

It's Tuesday so it must be Brussels.

Yep. Off to Belgium.

Then just before bedtime I thought I'd blast out another track and this one appeared. I think there's quite a fun framework for maybe adjusting the lyrics too, perhaps to increase the perversity. Acknowledgements to a certain kitchen for providing the inspiration and 'bulk' for this one, which is number 12 of 14.

Not saying its the company you keep
Not saying its your moods
Not sayin’ its the way you spike your hair
But some of ya
Some of ya
Some of ya stuff ain’t normal

Not sayin’ its the vodka in the fridge
' those bottles full a' broken glass
Not sayin' its the way you shake your skin
But some of ya
Some of ya
Some of ya stuff aint normal

Not saying its the barbie full of pins
Not sayin’ its your screams
Not sayin’ that revolver shouldn’t be
But some of ya
Some of ya
Some of ya stuff ain’t normal

I c-can’t understand it
I can’t take a lead
Those chains and studs are cool
You gotta a certain attitude whenever
I raise these things
but some of your stuff ain't normal

Im sayin’
Some of your stuff ain’t normal
Yeah some of your stuff
Ain’t normal.

China Tang

After a busy night out, we headed for China Tang. I'd taken the precaution to book a table for 11pm, and we were there just about on time. We headed downstairs into the restaurant instead of across to the cocktail bar - one less Filthy Martini was probably a good thing.

The subterranean entrance is quite evocative of Shanghai with Chinese lanterns low enough to need to duck and then onwards to the main dining area looking more like a restaurant on an art deco cruise liner, with dozens of staff buzzing around the busy tables.

There's a pecking order amongst the uniforms too, with white sailor costumes for the people clearing, a kind of two tone outfit for those taking the orders and a dark suit uniform with loosened ties like the Crazy 88 fighters from Kill Bill for some of the other floor managers.

As we arrived the evening was in full swing. Across from us another already large table was having extra places added as more and more of the evening fabulous arrived. This isn't a place for timid conversation and there's a continued bustle and theatrics as people's food is prepared at the tables.

We enjoyed mixed authentic Chinese dishes, leaving enough room to share toffee apple desserts and to drink endless China tea. Somehow, the Year of the Tiger had arrived.

Jersey Boys at the Prince Edward

With all of the song-writing activity at the moment because of that FAWM (February Album Writing Month) thing, it seemed appropriate to see a show which at least partly featured song writing within it.

Jersey Boys has been in the West End for quite some time, and I think originated in the US and after Broadway was added to the UK list of West End musicals featuring pop.

I'll admit that Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons is before my time, so I didn't really have a clue about their songs, although as the evening proceeded I found that I recognised nearly all of them, chiefly from covers by other singers and bands.

The story is kind-of predictable local boy makes good/form band/become successful/have strife/disintegrate/reform to collect Hall of Fame Awards. Spinal Tap without the big amplifiers.

The setting in Jersey with Italian/gangs/Mafia connotations was interesting and the arrival of Bob Gaudio the songwriter who'd had one previous hit at age 15 with 'we wear short shorts' flipped them from quite good into a viable mainstream pop commodity.

Gaudio's hits with the band included "Big Girls Don't Cry," "Sherry Baby," "Rag Doll," "Walk Like a Man," "Bye Bye Baby," "Silence Is Golden," and "Can't Take My Eyes Off of You."

There's also a gay record producer, various cigar smoking bigwigs, jazzy and seedy clubs, ladies of the road and dozens of songs, mainly played for about a minute instead of the 2mins30 of the era.

Strong staging, it makes for a pleasant evening out, easy to follow, predictable storyline but an upbeat way of telling it. The house was packed - its clearly a hit with the out-of-towners.

We enjoyed it as a piece of simple entertainment. As we left the theatre, everyone was smiling and buzzing from a good evening's show.

gold taps for valentine's day

We found ourselves in the wonderful Dorchester Hotel by way of celebrating the St. Valentine's weekend.

There's a clue about some of the occupants when you approach the Dorchester, because there's usually a Bentley or two parked outside.

Today there was also a Bugatti Veyron($1.7m) and a Lamborghini Reventon ($1.6m) parked side-by-side. The irony is that the outside parking is 'free' whilst the nearby multi storey car park has conventional fees.

As luck would have it, our room was upgraded to the splendid and magical Oliver Messel Suite, with its fanciful decoration and vistas of London.

Oliver Messel was an English artist as well as a stage set designer and the suite in the Dorchester was designed by him as well as featuring his artwork. It is now preserved as a part of national heritage, although still operates as a fully functioning and extensive hotel suite.

Amongst its guests have been Noel Coward, Bob Hope, Barbra Streisand, Marlene Dietrich, the honeymooning Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, Judy Garland, Brigitte Bardot, Johnny Depp, Britney Spears, Russell Crowe, Nicole Kidman and Michael Jackson.

It was impossible not to be struck by the splendour, but also by touches such as the artwork overpainted onto the mirrors, which could be some of Messel's own handiwork.

And to smile at the golden taps with ornate fish head moulding for the bath or the more or less walk-in minibar with its full bottles of spirits (unpriced but don't ask!)

The friendly Dorchester has always been a favourite venue for a rashbre family celebration but this stay has taken it to a whole new level.

FAWMing over Vlad

The problem with this February Album Writing Month thing is it becomes stealthily addictive.

When I started I thought I'd just do one tune for a giggle.

Then I logged into it again the next day and found I'd received a comment.

What's the harm in doing another one I thought?

By day three I was worrying as I found myself composing a song in bed on my iPhone.

I didn't notice the little dial on the web site for a few days and then I realised it was tracking my progress towards 14 songs. And it even changed colour at the halfway point.

Now I'm at ten.

I'm slightly embarrassed about the latest one. I've left it over on the FAWM site but won't also post it here.

It's a sort of love song. But it's to someone else's love.

Vlad.

He's Debra's. And had to go away for a while.

Let's not get into gender politics here. I might have a slight variation on the name (with an 'ett', perhaps?) if I was really serious. And I know that Vlad is fully devoted to Debra in any case. In only the way that a real film camera can be.

But for those of you less versed in the seductive ways of photography, I thought I'd also reference the new work from Kim Boekbinder, who wrote 31 songs in a month last year and has just sprung a nice little live set from Zebulon.

Played on the sixth. Up as an album today.

more tales from the road

I spent several hours driving again today and whilst looking at the cars in front I couldn't help spotting some of the types that have been in the news recently.

It got me thinking about today's FAWM entry, which has a reference to the current bother being experienced by a couple of the global car firms.

My song takes a view on American cars, but of course in the UK we don't really get American cars in any quantity, the Fords and such like are made in Europe with corresponding styling.

I gather that there's routinely around 150 recall notices for cars issued in the UK every year and I must admit that I've had a few of them myself. Usually along the lines of "get the gimbal-splatchet-cogs checked at the next service".

So time for another composition.

Gotta get an american automobile
I just know how it will make me feel
those little “made in America” stickers
almost enough to wet my knickers
gotta get an American automobile

Not for me a car made in Japan
wobbly brakes and airbags bang
time to legislate to make a ban
Foreign cars should go to hang
gotta get an american automobile

gotta get an american automobile
something simple made of steel
lump of engine, no stick shift
gasoline powered, auto trunk lift
gotta get an american automobile

On second thoughts an SUV
or pickup truck with two TVs
Steel gun box and lights that flash
steel bull bars to survive a crash
gotta get an american automobile

Bring me cup holders, leatherette trim
Stark eurostyling just looks grim
gotta get an American automoblie
We need to ban those electro cars
We don’t need something made for mars
gotta get an American automobile.

dont put the cheese sandwich by the heater

Another 05:45 start as I headed out to the North East through what was supposed to be snow but turned out to be quite pleasant sunshine.

The lack of snow didn't stop a few people from skidding off the roads along the way though so the journey had its share of interruptions.

I was also caught unawares as I approached my destination and a whole extra road system seemed to have been introduced. I really need to update the DVD in my Sat-Nav.

I still made it to the meeting-place, having stopped along the way to take a conference call with Paris and on another occasion to buy a sandwich, which I later ate in the car park before heading inside for the meeting. Such a glamourous lifestyle.

Tonight I've arrived at a hotel which seems to have been built in anticipation of an emerging infrastructure. Its all shiny, but only overlooks a few tin sheds and car parks.

I decided to memorise the day in my latest FAWM (February is Album Writing Month) song.

motorway adventures in Wales

Been out on the road since dawn
m4 and m6 without a yawn
my sat-nav was working fine
'till I crossed that dividing line

as I drove into northern Wales
suddenly the big map fails
so I'm stuck by a parking lot
bad sense of direction is all I've got.

alone again in this hotel room
squish the teabag with a spoon

but I still had to go to my meet
had to find my way to the right street
even had to read a real map
thought the signposting around me was crap

I'd grabbed some food at a motorway stop
Some fuel, a sandwich and fizzy pop
I put the food in the passenger well
The heater was on so it fried to hell

Everything was plastic wrappered
I was tired, some might say knackered

alone again in this hotel room
squish the teabag with a spoon

alone again in this hotel room
squish the teabag with a spoon

(to fade)

you can be my vampire, if I can be your werewolf

Work is filling most of my available time at the moment, so the attempts to create tunes might need to take a back seat.

I'd wanted to get at least some of them with a splash of music, but events are conspiring against me, with the next two days on the road and next week already building into something with quite a lot of travel along the 'its Tuesday so it must be Brussels' kind of flavour.

So this punk tune is something of a rush job.

Y-Y-You can be my vampire
If I can be your werewolf
We can try to love each other
Till we both find out the truth.

I don’t understand the pecking order
I don’t understand your needs
Your lust for me ain’t human
Through everything it bleeds

Your otherworld attraction
is sucking at my heart

I see you in my mirror
I see your full moon stare
My instincts make me animal
Whilst for me you never care.

I can’t stake much on pleasure
My brains been locked away
You only think of punctures
Sharp teeth games you will play

My otherworld attraction
is gnawing at your heart

You got no feelings for me
Just for what will run inside
The wooden stake I’m holding
Will only make you hide

So I’ll scream and howl this evening
Its what makes me who I am
Don’t sucker me lost angel
Cos we’re both part of the damned.

elementary my dear Watson

Yesterday became a day for an extended pub lunch followed by a trip to the movies. We decided to see Sherlock Holmes, which did show some quite good scenes of 'London Town' during the time that Tower Bridge was being constructed.

The trailers were for various new monster movies with lots of CGI, but I actually thought some of the gryphons and so on looked rather wooden, despite the finest animation of 2010.

By comparison, the more understated mattes and composites in Sherlock Holmes created a rather more realistic impression of late 1800s London.

There was generally a good sense of 'place' in the movie, until near the end, when they left the Houses of Parliament and ran to the top of the Tower Bridge construction for the grand denouement. Quite a hike really, just to have the fight on the top of the box girders.

There's a similar moment in Bridget Jones, when she follows Mr Darcy through a snowstorm from the Globe in Borough Market to the place where he buys the diary., which looks like its by the Royal Exchange (maybe the Mont Blanc shop?).

I know its the movies, but these would both be Oyster card moments in today's world.

Maybe I'll write a song about it.

La dama puliendo el paso, por todo la calle real

A sort of ballad today, after being enticed by the Halfpenny Orchestra’s Mexican Loteria Challenge.

They dealt me the 3: La Dama - The lady.

So I'm finding myself in Mexico.

La dama

Sitting here in this Mexican dustbowl
Where every breath tastes of sand
A wild dog barks at nothing
Small bottle of cerveza in my hand.

She walks across the main street
Tight clothes and dark tanned skin
Small flash from her brown eyes
Feel the warm gaze reel me in.

Theres a rattle in the distance
Leather boots jump a broken wheel
I see him walking towards her
Desert cape and the click of steel

She’s walked across that main street
Puliendo el paso, por todo la calle real
She’s seen me with those brown eyes
la Dama tries to show me how she feels

He’s got a switchblade out his pocket
His eyes cut through the glare
His boot’s pace quickens
On la Dama he’s locked his stare

She’s running now on that main street
Heels crack and kick up dust
Her hair flows free behind her
As towards me her die is cast

My empty cerveza bottle
I grip tightly in my hand
No match for steely violence
No grace in this scorpion land

She’s run across behind me
Perfumed musk as her skin brushes past
A crash as he reaches the cantina
Then time slows down as he moves fast

La Dama has crossed that main street
First elegance then speed
Her lover is back in Durango
Full “Te quiero mucho” need

Sipping coffee here in this dustbowl
Where every breath tastes of sand
Another wild dog barks at nothing
Before I ride out of this desert land.

I suppose some Spanish guitar could work here.

Update : warning, I tried a mix for this one, complete with one-take faux American vocals. here. Oh dear.

Special Offer : collaborate : here's the tune and you have the lyrics - so sing the vocals - it can't be that difficult to do better than me...