Stamps

It’s a year since I played here and it must be said very little has changed which has to be a good thing. The decor is splendidly down at heel despite the recent paint job, the atmosphere is getting there. There are less people here than expected but give it time, it’s not exactly going out weather but that’s never stopped us before. I’m talking with Steve Roberts here, as the torrents flood past the front door and the mobile signal dies. Steve is something of a cultural attaché for song writing in these parts and has done more for the city of culture than any number of woebegone city council laminated types. He’s also a great singer songwriter in his own right. Tonight sharing the bill with yours truly is poet James Davidson who delivers some fierce and tender poems with great passion and eloquence and for a minute Stamps feels like The Gaslight in New York City circa 1965, James is Allen Ginsberg and I’m Bob Dylan waiting in the wings, robbing everyone’s records and turning my back on the audience. This feeling, unsurprisingly, doesn’t last. James finishes his set and I’m thinking I wished I did more gigs with poets because I like them and James is an exceptional talent. He reads it like he lives it. His poem ‘Vocation’ about being on the dole and managing the not altogether subtle pressures of family seemed especially poignant to me. I remember it like it was yesterday. After the gig we swop merch. His book is called Littering, he can be reached at jdavidson4@hotmail.com So don’t hesitate now just do it. As the venue fills up I’m touched to see so many familiar faces which is great but also something of a challenge as anyone who does this kind of thing will tell you it’s harder playing to people you know…especially when they know you as well as some of these people know me. I think I wing in the end. I certainly enjoy the gig, I end up not trying out as much of the new stuff as I’d planned to. Last minute apprehension gets the better of me. Of the new ones I do S.A.D. and Revolt into Style go down pretty well. I’m still ending the set with Calm Me Down after all this time which is also causing me concern…in a neurotic self self self kind of way, that frankly doesn’t really matter as much as I think it might. On that note and on any other come to think of it I bid you goodnight, VPx

my space

I spent the last couple of days sorting out a myspace account after several recommendations from friends Tim,Dom and Mark I thank you. It’s been kind of illuminating, thrilling even in small doses. You can see what I mean at www.myspace.com/vinnypeculiar It’s a great little fun way to connect with other artists, meet n greet and listen to MP3s; in my case I’ve made all four available for download, so if that’s the way you get your music feel free. Hippies did…shame it never lasted [a mate of mine always said that…stupid really]. You can also leave messages and post stuff. Today’s reality check has been reading the Tipton Three story in the Observer, the absurdity of their detention, torture, mind games, really the Americans do themselves no favours, no wonder people love to hate them. I don’t hate Americans, just their current administration. In fact all the Americans I know hate the current administration. I hate the term current administration; it’s so American, and so on. Michael Winterbottom’s The Road to Guantanamo is screened on Channel 4 on 9th March. A must see for sure. Tomorrow I’m at Stamps in Liverpool, local strokes, local folks, I really like Crosby and I’ve still not managed to see the Anthony Gormley statues on the beach, VPx

Endless Art

A House were a very fine band indeed and Andy Woods knows their singer. Endless Art is one of their finest songs. Here too it all seems endless, the delays in recording put back yet again till March so I’m not going to mention it again. Not ever. Meanwhile, as I’m consistently reminded there’s so much more to life. In the meantime I can’t find my MOT certificate which has got me all of a blather so much so that I want to hit something. Not that I will, I’ve not hit anyone since Alan Plodwin in the third year. He was armed with a compass and left me no alternative. Perhaps I should do a friends reunited and apologise but the thought of all that nostalgia gives me the creeps. I prefer to glamorise and reinvent my personal history in the form of the popular song; god knows what an alternative perspective would do to my ego. OK so I’m off on one here and feeling ever so slightly sorry for myself, it’s an inner confusion thing. I just read an Ashram pamphlet on consciousness which vilified the nature of the ego and sanctified the joyous state of the empty conscious mind. Try as I might...or not...I really don’t get it…this quest to de-clutter and devolve any kind of reference to self. Me…I’m egocentric and proud of it. You can keep your nirvana and your higher state of being. I’ll take the here and now and the warts and all. There you go, another one of life’s complexities simplified. There’s really nothing to it is there? VPx

Halfax

The pub venue is rammed to capacity and its only 9 o’clock on a Friday night, enough to make any promoter get the hots so everyone smiles like it Christmas or something and I grin along too. I’ve just been walkabouts and eaten half decent chips [no bits] on a wall watching a gang of young skater kids toiling there thing beneath the misty moonlight.I don’t hang around too long cause it’s freezing. We didn't really haver skate boards when I were a lad...I wish we had though. Back at the venue [outside the pub] there’s a punch up between a taxi driver and a fraught punter but no one’s really too bothered; the car skids and squeals off into god knows where and the kid disappears just as the police arrive. It’s a busy old night at The Red Lion I meander through the 80’s karaoke session kareoke downstairs which looks a bit dodgy to be honest but who am I to say. The Japanese like it. Tonights venue is the notorious DOGHOUSE Club which is directly above. I’m due onstage at 11pm so there’s more time to kill yet which I do in the makeshift dressing room that is a pub kitchen where I mind peoples coats and talk about the whys and wherefores of the new record to those who’ve come here for my benefit though most are here it must be said to see local band Prime Mover who sound not unlike The Chameleons. They carry everything off pretty well and there are Mums and Dads here keeping an eye out. I liked their directness and their apparent embarrassment at being shadowed parent style. I watch them from the hall as there’s no actual physical space available in the actual room. Next on are Bradford’s Random Hand, a ska thrash fusion explosion with trombone and energy and frenzy in abundance. They are really good at what they do and I enjoy a few words with them to that effect when they come offstage. My gig goes really well even if I do say so myself, after a dodgy start due to the favoured but totally unreliable Casio B460 I settle into it, people even listen to the words. I finish with a couple of encores including Big Grey Hospital which brings a lump to my throat as it’s the first time I’ve played it since my brother died in 2001. It figures on Whatever happened to VP and someone requested it and remarkably I remembered the words. I also finish with King of Cabaret [I've still not recorded it] which goes down a storm. I can never make my mind up about that song…sometimes it seems to work so well...other times well... All in all and all is well, back home in the middle of the night I think I see the house mouse on the worktops disappearing behind the bread maker. VPx