Twinned with your Wildest Dreams...

Thurs 29th April Easy Jet says too much weight so I'm quids down on the off but past caring and beyond negotiating so the guitar gets the big orange sticker and the prayers as past experience says be worried, still, everything is intact on arrival in Belfast some 40 minutes later. Then I'm sitting in a taxi with the entertaining and knowledgeable Michael on a crash course in territories and troubles as we drive into the heart of the city, red and white paving stones on one side of the road, miniature virgin Marys on the other, and no thats not a fort, its a police station. At the office I meet up with Sean, Sarah, Dave and Morven, soon we are into Guinness in the John Hewitt Pub where I spend the best part of the afternoon in the company of photographer John Minihan whos exhibition of writers portraits adorn the walls of the pub. I recognize JP Donleavy and Samuel Beckett, John points out Francis Bacon and Van Morrison and we talk about the rhythm of the shutter versus the cold silence of digital. How David Bailey was an opportunist and we are all still waiting for godot. I am a little bit wasted as John introduces his work to a packed Hewitt pub and its only 6pm. We swap addresses and promises of product sharing in the future. I finally stagger home [I have a flat some 50 yards away from the pub] at 1.30 am only to hit the bed fully clothed in Jesus pose where I remain for 6 hours comatose until the dehydration kicks in, followed by the hangover, followed by...you don't want to know. Friday 30th April IÂ?m sort of together again by lunchtime, but only just. The fat controller [also known as Dr B] calls me up and it really is a struggle to engage so sorry about that but some things will have to wait. Sarah calls to remind me of the radio show which goes out live from the John Hewitt Pub at 6.30pm where I play Music Teacher and do a little interview. Live radio is a buzz and everyone is happy that the festival is finally underway, all this despite the tragic fire that destroyed of an entire shopping complex including the festival offices some 6 days previous. The band who play at the end of the radio show are called The Rustlers who impress with their Neil Young sensibilities and dreamy girl vocals. Throughout my stay in Belfast I am destined bump into them in galleries and on street corners on a day to day basis which is nice. Then I go off to support Levi Tafari in The Duke of York which is about 50 yards from the John Hewitt pub. The night is being hosted by Terry Hooley, the man who discovered The Undertones who is suitably drunk and loud still when I get to meet him a perfect gentleman [not that I could really understand too much of what he said]. His record shop has been burned out in the fire, all stock destroyed, no wonder he's wasted. Rosie, his manager, keeps a close eye on him. After the gig its photos and swaps with Levi our Liverpool connections explored a little. Everyone goes on to the John Hewitt but I am dead beat and back in bed as soon as the venue is closed. Saturday 1st May Breakfast with Bill Drummond Bill has arrived and we are up and exploring the smoke detectors, conversing on the meaning of Soup, the history of The Teardrops and the money burning which I'll not mention. Bill is making Soup in the homes of those lucky enough to live on the Soup line which runs between Nottingham and Belfast, people invite him in, he delivers ingredients and hey presto, it's a nice thing to do. Bill goes off to do just that and I take a sunny stroll around the city photographing manic ministers. The BBC are in town for a live broadcast, kids gather and loiter at the Alana Morrissete sound-check.... isn't it ironic, don't you think? Heaven and how to get there The wild old man opposite the BBC platform has a point There are better things to do than gawp And he is lecturing the kids who remain remarkably tolerant and polite He gives me the flyer and I notice his eyes are the colour of marble And his hands are cold to look at He knows a sinner when he sees one as he threatens me with eternal damnation He is out here on the sreets with placards and megaphone 7 days a week reminding us all of the way, the truth and the light Still nobody gives a shit Which is a great relief Belfast is changing Into a world without Jesus On Saturday night I support 4 Men and a Dog in The Students Union and am amazed at their musical wizardry despite it being all over traditional Irish folk [and not really my tipple]. They really know how to make a crowd soar, all very skillful emotive uplifting stuff. There is a noted similarity [in my opinion] between what they do and the techno rave dance cultured 4 to the florists [both crowds wave arms aloft in on beat splendor and both crowds expect the raising of the game as the set progresses either via key changes or subtle texture additions from the DJ]Â?I digress. My gig goes well with noted thanks to the technical might of Gerry the sound guy who is one mad blurring of the cynical versus the comical. I catch up with John Hirst back at the flat. John is staying over working with Bill. John is a filmmaker from Hull, a good thing. Later that night we talk about www.mydeath.net .I bag some promotional material. Go ahead and post your final wishes on the site. You never know whatÂ?s around the corner, like the Villa motto, be prepared. Sunday 2nd May Sunday lunchtime and I go with Bill to see an old friend of his called Marcus who lives with his family in a beautiful old house in the Belfast suburbs. This house has more character under one roof than our street put together. There are assembled guests in honour of the Soup cooking and after lunch we make our own entertainment just like Victorians [Marcus has some serious Victorian facial hair that adds to the all round ambience]. Both Marcus and his wife are very fine classical musicians and we are treated to a touching piano duet from them. Other family members and guests also perform. I play Everlasting Teenage Bedroom on a very ropey guitar. It seems like a half decent choice as the three children of the house are still in them. Everything about the house and the food and the company seems so civilized and other worldly and then it's back to the flat in Bills Land Rover. Sunday night and I play Strawberry Sundays, a regular club night upstairs at Whites Tavern [it also does great food]. I arrive around 7pm for a sound check, five bands, [one sounds just like The Blue Nile and I love The Blue Nile]; I play four songs mid way through the night. The venue is sold out soon after opening, the atmosphere is civilized, there's a beautiful people feel to proceedings and the intimacy works a treat. People occupy every available space. It turns out to be one of the best festival shows, up close and confessional work well on the night. I sell several albums afterwards which is always a bonus then I'm off to The John Hewitt to play 4 more songs at midnight where someone says I'm like Loudon Wainwright which is a nice complement. John and me eat pizza back at the flat where we are joined by guardian journalist Dave Simpson here to do a piece on Bill and the Soup Line. I pass him a CD in the hope of getting a review [unlikely but you never know]. Monday May 3rd I am walking around the city and feeling good in the hazy early morning sunshine, solitude standing, devoid of the usual gig to gig traveling, same place, same base, thinking of Bukowski and his love of solitude, the rhythm of the typewriter and the simplicity of being alone. I could get used to this. I buy provisions at Tesco Metro and write postcards from a Costa Coffee Express, the postcards I got from Bill depicting his Twinning of Cities project. Bill has twinned Belfast with your wildest dreams, an uplifting positive statement for a city undergoing a kind of spiritual rebirth. I am all for dreams wild or otherwise, more of this later. I speak to my daughter Leah, she sounds well and I apologize for not sending her that copy of Catcher in the Rye bought for 50p last week in a charity shop. We still hate Vodaphone and can't wait to return to Orange. Back in the festival arts office there are some schedule changes concerning tonights show with Andy White who wants to keep it all in the family [the White family]. So we are [John, Bill, Me] in the John Hewitt yet again, listening to Terra Folk and becoming progressively disenchanted with their cabaret English and their ridiculous cover versions [they are truly superb musicians somehow corrupted by the show biz of euro trash]. They should really just play what they are good at [speedy Jewish wedding songs] and drop the cheese. Still they go down a storm with the punters though Bill doesn't let them get away with it and is practically arrested for contempt by the masses. Then I am rushed on stage at 12.20 to perform 4 high camp songs to extremely drunken patrons. Somehow I wang it, Bill introduces me like so Ladies and gentlemen, the cabaret is over; and this is the real deal,the one and only Vinny Peculiar, which is pretty cool I must say. Whilst I am treasuring such moments I'm not sure the Terror Folk fans were too impressed by his implied put down. I still manage to sell a few albums, which is a pleasant surprise given the circumstances. The psychology of album sales at gigs is a subject best left to experts. Mr Neil Brighouse, CMP tour manager of some years past and current summer pops guru is a recognised authority on the subject, no less. Well hello Neil. After my set I swap CDs with the Terror Folk bass player who is really warm and sweet and offers his musical services anytime-I would not be at all surprised to find them [Terra Folk] covering Jesus Stole my Girlfriend at some point, probably in one of their medley jams. In all truth they are the most amazing musicians, lose the showboating and you have real genius. Sarah from the festival reminds me that Eugene Kelly is coming tomorrow a day before our gig to see Arab Strap, she suggests we collaborate which I'm up for, though not exactly familiar with his work [and he no doubt is in the same boat about mine]. It never happens but it is great idea. Then we are back in the SHAC [Supported Housing for the Arts Community?] eating pizza all over again. Tuesday May 4th Bills back after a lunchtime Soup run and I have not long woken up in the real sense, OK I've been walkabouts, but everything feels a bit slow, the Guinness thing catching up. After lunch John and I go to a pool hall where I am systematically trounced despite potting the white from the black in the first game. Try as I might I have been unable to erase this all too painful memory and likewise John has been unable to stop reminding me of the score, which was 5-0 by the way, not 6 like you said in your fantasy email. I play Hull later this year at The Adelphi where I aim to have my revenge. My thoughts are getting darker as we speak. Then Bill and John invite me to come on tonights Soup run , Bill is cooking for students here in Belfast so yeah I am up for it and would love to do the first house gig of the festival. We arrive 6pm, the house has that about to be demolished look, a stately old terrace of substantial character in a quiet inner city street off Lisburn Road. After several hefty knocks on the door we are met Mr Fran Healy Hairdo who hasn't slept for three days straight and has just handed in his dissertation. He looks like a chaos theory and his jabbering apologetic style is immediately engaging. We like him. He is surprised to see Bill and apologizes for his communication problem which has been exacerbated by last minute academic deadlines copious caffeine and other mood de-stabilizers. Bill loads in the pans and gets at it. John and I off to the offy with a small gathering of students for Buckfast [the kids love it] and red wine for the grown ups. Later on we get Guinness and a good old fashioned blasting by lung. John rolls a novelty smoking moustache which is new one on me. We send out for more bowls, then, little by little the house starts to fill up, the buzz grows and the drinks flow. We are amidst the future generation and it feels good. A soup line is formed from parlor to stove, there is also grated cheese and rolls. Everyone tucks in and some have not eaten in 24 hours. This is a very different soup experience to the one John and Bill had in a nursing home earlier that day [they explain] when an old woman lost her false teeth in a bowl. After food I play my set and everyone is very sweet and attentive, proximity wise I am pretty hard to ignore still I get the feeling that people are really up for it and not just because they buy a load of albums afterwards [I really didn't expect to sell stuff]. This was a gig that felt right. On leaving Bill announces that Vinny Peculiar has now left the building and we are laughing all the way to the Land Rover. On the way home we stop off to see Arab Strap running late in the students union where we see the Eddie Izzard lookalike with a beard [you know who you are and we salute you]. Wednesday May 5th Tonight is the band gig at the John Hewitt, the rehearsal is this afternoon, weÂ?ve not played together yet as a band so there is a little trepidation in the air as Mike, Andy and Tim arrive on time with a film crew in tow. Luckily the festival organizers are able to sort us out with some rehearsal space just across the street from the John Hewitt [ thanks a million Dave] and we are on the case by 4pm after the obligatory liquid lunch. We wiz through the seven songs most likely to and it is a relief and a thrill and is going to be just fine, like we knew it would. The plan is for me to open the show with four songs, then Tim to join me for three more, then we will finish with six band songs and keep one in reserve in case of encores. This is pretty much how it happens. It feels liberating to be playing with a band again. Later we are signing stuff and doing an interview with the film crew who have been following Mike and Andy around. We hang around until the pub shuts then Tim and I get back to the SHAC with John while Mike and Andy trip off to their B&B. The night is a big success and affirms our collective belief in the project. The Belfast Telegraph was similarly enthusiastic. Belfast Telegraph Review: Vinny Peculiar: The John Hewitt. By Ciaran O'Neill coneill@belfasttelegraph.co.uk 06 May 2004 Vinny Peculiar was musing on the rights of genetic fathers and their frozen seed in a song called Confessions of a Sperm Donor. Student pals whom he entertained the night before had probably been transfixed by his insights. As he moves through his set, Vinny ? aka Alan Wilkes ? is joined by backing musicians recruited for his live shows, including former Smiths Andy Rourke and Mike Joyce. With the backing band, and through songs such as Everlasting Teenage Bedroom, Jesus Stole My Girlfriend and Calm Me Down, he demonstrates that there is much more to his show than clever lyrics and facial contortions. A set that started off as strange as you would expect from someone with a name like his ended with some glorious punk pop. Wonderful stuff. Eugene Kelly who opened the set was truly wonderful. I regret not spending more time with him, that collaboration Sarah suggested would have been a lot of fun, think I should email him, see if he is up for it? Thursday May 6th Tim stayed over and we are having breakfast and recording a song onto my new phone. The sound quality is abysmal but the idea is good, we revisit a song we did ages ago called Jesus I am Turning into You, about adopting someone else's life style habits and ideas and such. It's not about turning into Jesus, a fact that amuses us no end as we assemble lyrics, agree on the chords and hey presto. Andy Tim and Mike are flying to Liverpool; I am flying to Luton as I have a gig at Water Rats in Kings Cross with the French. The festival has kindly given me the day off. We all meet up at the airport and then I am gone feeling like a regular rock n roll pond hopper. When I get to Luton Airport I do a silly thing and end up outside the designated luggage collection area. I dont realise this until the security guard who I innocently approach for directions to the toilet reminds me that there is no going back, I turn around and hey presto where did the doors go? Then I am threatened with arrest if I re enter the zone, the man is deadly serious. I head off to lost luggage for assistance feeling like a really big twit. It takes another 45 minutes to retrieve my stuff. When I get to Kings Cross I locate a greasy spoon [always a great London treat] which hits the energy gap just perfectly. I love those lo fi cafes, the family are holding some kind of family meet up, always the elderly relatives and the cute little kids hiding under the tables and the hotch potch language mix ups switching from Iranian [IÂ?m guessing] to English with great animation. Good decision this. Then just a short walk to the venue. The sound check is pure middle class indie pop intelligentsia and I am talking to members of Spearmint who seem really friendly and easy to be with. The French are putting the finishing touches to a dance routine and itÂ?s nice to see Darren again after Christmas in Manchester where he DJ'd at the SMILE party. Paul from Track and Field is also in attendance looking a lot like Phillip Larkin, I complement him on his label. I am first on for this well received gig in the sense that people listen with intensity, listening as the pin drops, I manage to go into northern cabaret compere mode a little too early still it is an enjoyable gig. Katie and Amos arrive during my last song which means I am sorted for a bed for the night. Back at their flat in Shepherds Bush I bags the most comfy blow up mattress in the world. I just about break even on the gig and manage to sell a few albums. The French are just brilliant, Porn Shoes is a Darren classic which I just love from the off the way you do with some songs. He really is the defining lyrical voice of his generation [I read that somewhere] and the tunes are also seriously wonderful [as are the dance routines despite the drummers objections]. Try www.thefrench.org for more information. Sat May 8th I am listening to Johnathan Ross in the kitchen at the SHAC via my brand new am/fm slim line radio which I have just bought for a bargain £6.99. I have managed to avoid a potential hangover [I left 2 pints un-drunk at The Duke of York Pub last night] where Poems were slammed big time. Two teams of four people per team, Irish versus Scots, two rounds, each poet having two four minute slots to do as they do. And me, one of four judges, responsibility with numbers just like the ice skating.I do a musical spot [four songs] in the interval. The compere in a dinner suit appears to know what he is doing. We Judges total up after the first two rounds then the final three individuals give it their best shot, there is also a team prize. The Irish win the team prize by one point, the Scots take the individual prize whose winning woman's hysterical rhythmic delivery was spellbinding, great stuff. Not been to a slam since Glastonbury and this was a better deal all round in terms of poems and performances. Perfectly riotous in every way. After the main event the open mic had me glued to the foot lights, all that confessional outpouring of STUFF. All that attempted connection when all the world is so so DRUNK. On arrival back in Belfast yesterday [Friday] I am met by our wonderful taxi driver Michael who wizzes me to the quayside for a boat trip gig on The New Titanic [the old one was built here] where I play songs to promoters from eastern Europe and to students from Virginia USA. Not sure how Jesus Stole My Girlfriend went down amongst the theologically challenged still the ones who connect are kind enough to buy CDs. I meet up later with Lori at the Poetry Slam who helps out with the sound. After boating I return to freshen up at the SHAC, Bill and John have departed after their City Hall Gig and John has left me some my-death cards for future distribution. Included in the gift pack are postcards depicting Bills sign installation from the twinning series [black and white sign suspended beneath the official Welcome to Belfast sign which is situated besides the motorway as you drive into the city]. It says BELFAST : TWINNED WITH YOUR WILDEST DREAMS. The sign remained in situ for 4 months until it was removed. Bill is presenting a new one to the city dignitaries. It is all very inspiring. Bills site at www.penkiln-burn.com has a lot more on this and other projects. Friday 4pm and I do a live radio song [Teenage bedroom] plus interview with John Daly on BBC Northern Ireland. John is perfectly charming in that last minute way radio people excel at. Then I am in a taxi to The Waterfront to play an early evening gig with The Embers. We are on the third floor over looking the harbor, views are staggering and the sun drenched atmosphere decidedly mellow. I go a little comedy cabaret [what again!] still all a lot of fun despite the theatre tanoy interruptions. Then I get the best fish and chips in Belfast and eat them in the shop as I have not eaten since Luton Airport and am feeling heady [as my Mom would say]. Then off to the Duke of York again for the third time this week where I find myself compering a comedy night featuring two women comedians Shappi Khorsandi and Ria Lina. The compering request from Sean [festival director and barfly extraordinaire] lands in my lap a little late in the day so I rapidly read up on them in the programme feature. Meanwhile I am suffering from the accumulated tiredness of the London trip and no matter how hard I try I can't seem to imprint the names of the comics into my frazzled brain, then I meet them and they have all these expectations that make me so feel anxious, by the time I start the introductions I almost wish I was somewhere else. Still the grand old spirit of BLAG possesses me at the last minute. Ria does her set and I play a few songs, then there is the stand up competition. We only have one entrant, she is suitably magical and a huge hit with the home crowd. Her name is Rachel McCabe and she does a cute little song called My Name is Frodo to the tune of Susanne VegaÂ?s Luka. It works a treat. People sign up on my spam list then on to prizes for Rachel and Shappi to close. I leave with every intention of catching the Skatalites but turn in early and listen to them from the kitchen where I open the window and make a cup of tea, Tim Browne style. Sunday 8th /Monday 9th May Belfast sleeps in late every Sunday- nothing stirs till 1 pm and even then the city is only 20% operational. I get lunch in Whites, great pasta and service and Guinness. Jerry Sadowitz is lurking in the corner looking a bit shady, bouncer in tow, he plays Whites tonight. Then I go to the Hewitt for some traditional story telling from the Irish outback and on to the Festival HQ to finish off a piece written for the festival website www.cqaf.com , notes from the Artist in Residence, all sounds kind of posh. The end of festival Marquee is fifty yards from the SHAC flat so naturally I am throwing a party for all [with a little help from Sarah] as soon as the samba band have finished. Then everyone is back at the flat till seven am, doing the end of term party sing song thing and misbehaving appropriately, you know how it is. Next morning Sarah and I clean up, vacuum, the business. Sean rings and we thank each other ever so, I have had a wonderful festival and so say all of us. Michael drives me to the airport down the Shankhill Road where we do some photos and I listen to more stories from the front line. Michael has a magical musical way with a story and I expect to be back sooner than later for more of the same, so until the next time then, and to those who I met and who promised to, do get in touch do now, in the affirmative tradition, VPx