Homage to Holloway

The end of an era is upon me. I am leaving my beloved Holloway this week for the envisaged greener pastures of Stoke Newington. I go in search of stimulation, inspiration, the promise of new faces, a community, and the nearness of friends both on paper and in action.

Misty eyed as I write this from my attic room on Tufnell Park Road, the heavy summer rain outside echoes my sentiments. What a time to be leaving! I was so stoic in my belief that it was better to be the last one standing, to be the outsider. Now I join the ranks of the cultured masses, the Guardianistas, the liberalati, the nutrition conscious. How awful, and yet, how agreeable.

Holloway has served me well. It was my entry point to London when I arrived as a mere child nine years ago, at the bottom of Parkhurst Road, where the A1 begins it's ascent to the Northern reaches of the country, I took rooms. Four lanes of traffic serenaded me to sleep every night, and the soft concrete landscape soothed my provincial eyes.

What a fool I was to follow in the footsteps, almost literally, of Dick Whittington. To believe the streets of London were paved with gold. I arrived fresh off the family Corsa expecting to rise to indie stardom within months. How wrong I could be. How much time I wasted on that fruitless exercise.

There was always a consolation however. The Prince Edward opposite Holloway prison on Parkhurst Road has seen me grow from the floppy haired pretty boy into the upstanding gent I strive to be today. Inebriating me with pints of Fosters and Chicken Walkers at the lowest and highest points in my life. Though the selection of beer is nothing short of drab, I challenge anyone to find a better served pint of anything The Prince Edward offers. With an award winning beer garden, sadly ruined by the need to turn it into a smoker's shelter, and a barman so consistently incomprehensible you can only laugh and nod, it has all you really need in a pub, in a living room, in a life.

I've decried The Prince Edward as the best pub in the world many a time, and let me state once and for all the reason why. The reason for this is the reason why anything is any good in all walks of life: they get the important things right, and don't try too hard. A motto to be observed, but ironically, one that can never be followed.

In those early days though, I hated it, I truly despised it. It was ugly, crude, dangerous, and a bloody shock to the system, coming from the disgustingly sheltered suburbs. In reaction I planned a temporary escape from it's clutches to a more charmed existence in a less cultured continent. From there I had the opportunity to reflect on just what I left behind. A utopia it wasn't, and all the better for it.

On returning to the bosom for a second suckle, I started to pay homage to Holloway. Every song you've had the displeasure of hearing in the last few years has been written with this in mind. A backdrop to the ballads, hopefully subtle references to my escapades in and around the streets.

Perhaps 'The Last Embrace' epitomises this aim of mine. A particularly maudlin song about the non-existence of spirituality set on the bench in St George's park below my window. I sang it to the pigeons, and the drunks that should be left alone as they desire and certainly not admonished for choosing the bottle over an enduring human relationship. If there was of course, any choice to be made.

The polar opposite of that would be the celebration of the antic hay I have danced here, in the form of 'Life Can't Get Any Better'. Introduced at my shows as "A love song set on Holloway Road", it tries to encapsulate that feeling one has after the third pint. You're in the greatest city in the world, a pit bull off the leash, and there is a woman you admire and she returns your advances. The moment is fleeting of course, but still it existed, and why not celebrate it? For you know as well as I that I revel in my own misery all too often.

So here it is then. The last goodbye? I shouldn't think so, but a marked departure if nothing else. I shall certainly be back for a confused exchange of words with Sean at The Prince. It was once the centre of the known world for me, and may it continue to be.

Goodbye old friend.

MDH

United I stand

Silence is golden after all. The mobile phone has been firmly shut away in my drawer for one month now, and with no calamities to speak of. No piercing shrieks in the morning from the built-in alarm clock. Daylight wakes me now.

The occasions where I've needed to call someone, or have someone call me, I set aside some time when I was ready, and made or took the call in the comfort of my chambers.

People have often tried to get hold of me urgently for various reasons, but have had to either work it out themselves or call someone I'm with. Both ways are prime examples of devolved responsibility. I feel entirely comfortable with this new, albeit, minor freedom, and intend on continuing in this fashion.

My father on the other hand, a man of reasonably advanced years, who has written hand letters well into the 90s, and typed letters on Word Processors well into the 00s (all in capitals I might add) is now telling me he wants to "get on the net".

As I slowly turn away from the vulgarities of the 21st century he'd spoken of my whole life, he sees the false light of global communication as a portal to a more fulfilling world.

I was so ready to embrace him. To pen a letter on parchment with quill and squid ink, and ecstatically confirm "Dad, you were right! You were right all along!".

Who now will clasp me to their bosom in solidarity? United I stand. Alone.

For the love of music

I have just returned from a free lunchtime concert in the new hall in Lincoln's Inn, just by Chancery Lane. As usual, it was breathtakingly brilliant, with some of the best young musicians in the world, if not the country. Today's concert comprised of violinist Zhanna Tonaganyan and pianist Yulia Vorontsova, both from Russia, playing Mozart's "Sonata B-dur", Liszt's "Tarantella", and Glazunov's "Violin Concerto in A minor, op. 82".

Also quite staggering is the fact that there were just 10 people in the audience. Last night I went to Ronnie Scott's for the first time to see John Surman. As much as I like Surman, and enjoyed soaking up the atmosphere of the legendary venue, I couldn't quite get over the exclusiveness of it all. Ronnie's was as far as I could see, sold out, despite the cheapest ticket costing £30. On a Tuesday night.

This brings me to the usual conclusion that the public, tragically, only trust certain media for their sources of entertainment. Established venues pull in crowds simply because they've been doing it for a long time and people believe in the prestigious nature of the venue. The thought is something like this: "If they're playing there, then they must be good". This is quite simply, not the case.

For the love of music, I implore you to go and see one of these free concerts at Lincoln's Inn. Not only have they sparked a burgeoning interest in classical music in me and provided a grounding in that genre, but they have been some of the best concerts I've had the great fortune to witness in the past year.

For details of the upcoming concerts, see this programme.

Speak low, when you speak love...

It is with much enthusiasm that I bring you news of some summer shows. The boys at the Fitzrovia Radio Hour, have kindly booked us for the opening party of a new venue under the legendary Shakespeare's Globe Theatre, Friday May 29th. The new venue will be called The Underglobe, would you believe, and promises to be a very busy night with all the usual and not so usual accoutrements to the typical 21st century soiree.

From this, we hope to be starting a residency of sorts in the Swan bar, also attached to the Globe theatre, confirmed so far as Saturday June 6th, and 27th. We will play 2 sets (expect some covers) to the punters that would be spilling out from the Globe theatre after the play ends, about 10.30pm. This will be free entry, and should be quite an experience, with views over the Thames and St Pauls at night.

Perhaps come and see a play at the theatre then take some drinks after and allow us to serenade you. If it's a hot night, we may even be performing on the terrace. On June 6th the play is Romeo & Juliet, and on the 27th it will be As You Like It. For more information regarding the plays, please follow this link:

http://www.shakespeares-globe.org/calendarofevents/thismonthattheglobe/?month=2009-06

We still have some shows in some wonderful venues before the thespian onslaught begins however, the next one being this Tuesday in the West End:

28 Apr 2009 Bourne & Hollingsworth, Fitzrovia, London - Free
12 May 2009 Hope & Anchor, Islington, London - £5
14 May 2009 St Mary’s Church, Stoke Newington - £5
21 May 2009 The Camden Head w/ Joe Worricker (new Rough Trade signing), Camden, London - £5
29 May 2009 The Underglobe, Southbank, London - £TBC
6 Jun 2009 The Swan, Southbank, London - Free
27 Jun 2009 The Swan, Southbank, London - Free

It would be wonderful to see you on one of these balmy nights.

MDH

Mobile Bone

The time has come to stop fooling around with technical gadgets and get on with life. I have pretended for too long that they actually benefit me, make things easier. I have held on to the belief that I need them all to promote my music, but that clearly has no effect whatsoever. So from tonight I will start by consigning my mobile phone to a shut drawer, for one month.

I may of course be wrong about this technology malarkey. It may enhance my life after all, and I am more than willing to admit this fact, should it come to light. I will not however mask my gleeful anticipation at not being interrupted at any moment of the day, let alone the middle of the night.

I look forward with immense enthusiasm to my new lack of responsibility. No longer will I be called upon at 11th hour for anything. I envisage many hours spent in pubs waiting for flaky friends, but with a book and a pint of ale, what more could one need? My eyes will finally be free from the paranoid flickers to the phone display. "Have I received a text but I didn't hear it? Perhaps they rung while I was in transit and I never felt it vibrate in my pocket?"

Is it possible that silence can be as sweet as I imagine it to be? I shall report back in one month on my findings. Happy twiddling.

MDH

Without a shadow of a doubt

Sincerely yours,
Despite the rolling eyes,
That have seen it all before,
And don't wish to see it again,
Well to hell with that and them,
Because I, have finally figured it out...

Without a shadow of a doubt,
Nothing can phase me now,
I even find it hard to imagine how,
I've lived so long, without you on,
My mind. Intervention is divine.
There's nothing I'm more sure about,
Without a shadow of a doubt.

Heathcliffian surly,
Could it be that for her,
I have come too early,
And the paranoid thoughts I foster,
Will expose me as an imposter,
Any minute now, I will be found out

Without a shadow of a doubt,
Nothing can phase me now,
I even find it hard to imagine how,
I've lived so long, without you on,
My mind. Intervention is divine.
There's nothing I'm more sure about,

Without a shadow of a doubt,
Nothing can phase me now,
Save the thought of you running out,
On me, but that can only be,
Confined to morbid fantasy,
There's nothing I'm sure about,
Without a shadow of a doubt.

Written by Marmaduke Dando Hutchings

Everything is free

I had been obsessed with Gillian Welch about a year ago, specifically Time: The Revelator, needing to hear it a couple of times a day. Time wore on, and other stimuli infiltrated my attention. Listening indifferently to it just this week, whilst toiling away at some administrative nonsense, the meaning of one of the songs, Everything Is Free, suddenly became clear. I'd fallen in love with her morose southern drawl and the simplicity of the recordings, not particularly the content of the lyrics.

Everything Is Free seemed to resonate strongly with my own feelings about how music is these days, how the way the world works now. We give everything away for free because we can't beat the pirates. They're too many, we are too few, and our righteous cause of payment for goods and services delivered, is dismissed, let alone even considered. So instead of beating them, we acquiesce, and take money from sponsors instead, directly or indirectly rather than from the listeners themselves.

What I love the most about the song though, is the last verse, which intimates that, if this is the way it must be, then one has no right to demand anything from the musician. Their expression of creativity may well be free for all to hear, but pure. Free from meddling record companies with agendas. The control is placed firmly within the musician's hands.

Whether this is a good thing or not, is somewhat subjective. Some sort of direction, whether it comes from the musician or whether it comes from some svengali type, is always positive. Personally I see both sources of direction as being equally valid, regardless of whether they make money or not. Financial success shouldn't really be linked to purity of expression, or the corruption of it, though it often is. Her two fingers up at all that ironically undermine and yet demand of her, and the stoical nature of her music is something to admired.

Lyrics printed below:

Everything is free now,
That's what they say.
Everything I ever loved,
I'm going to give it away.
Someone hit the big score.
They figured it out,
That we're gonna do it anyway,
Even if doesn't pay.

I can get a tip jar,
Gas up the car,
And try to make a little change
Down at the bar.

Or I can get a straight job,
I've done it before.
I never minded working hard,
It's who I'm working for.

(Chorus)

Every day I wake up,
Come in a song.
But I don't need to run around,
I just stay home.

And sing a little love song,
My love, to myself.
If there's something that you want to hear,
You can sing it yourself.

'Cause everything is free now,
That what I say.
No one's got to listen to
The words in my head.
Someone hit the big score,
And I figured it out,
That we're gonna do it anyway,
Even if doesn't pay.

Listen to the song here:
http://www.myspace.com/gillianwelch