It’s only words – or is it?

These are the words from a song by popular modern beat combo, The 1975.

I despair!

Did nobody point out to at least one of the three writers of this song, George Daniel, Matty Healy and Jack Antonoff, that ‘times’ does not rhyme with ‘Caroline’? I know it’s a small point and grammar has never been a strong point in popular music (I always correct Paul Simon – great song-writer that he is –  to ‘I wish I were homeward bound’, not ‘was homeward bound’ when I sing along) but to state so positively that ‘Caroline’ is the only rhyme to ‘times’ is positively shameful. Why could they not have spent a moment considering adjusting the lyrics to find a word that did rhyme?

Yet that has led me to consider the lyrics of many of the songs that populate the best-sellers of today. In my 1960’s youth, I was virtually weaned on the top twenty, buying all the hits and singing along to ‘Da Doo Ron Ron’ and ‘Wah wah wah wah why, she ran away’. Simple and catchy. And while not at the pinnacle of English language construction, easy and harmless. True, quite a few songs might have had my parents shaking their heads in despair about declining standards. ‘If you gotta go, go now, or else you gotta stay all night’ might have had the tensing for me as a small boy asking what it meant. Or ‘I’m afraid we’ll go too far’ (in ‘Young Girl’). Or ‘She was too young to fall in love and I was too young to know’ (‘Only Sixteen). But there was nothing so overt that it made me snigger in my bedroom.

Of course, it would be naïve to assume that all sixties’ music was pure and above board – there were too many drugs around to guarantee that. And anyone who has listened to the Beatles’ ‘Girl’ will know that those cheeky chaps, Paul and George, were singing what was considered at the time to be rude words in the background. But who noticed? Anything naughty and not wholesome for tender ears was disguised, almost an in-joke for the performers. For me, as a pre-teen, I suspected nothing, just singing along with the words and enjoying the sound. And my parents could feel safe that I was not being exposed to the adult world too early.  

By the time I was a parent, such niceties were history. Songs now went full f-word, although radio remixes saved innocent ears and record covers carried stickers with the message, ‘Parent Advisory’.

Did that help? I always feared it might make young people more curious. But it gave adults a chance to protect their children. Chumbawamba’s ‘Tubthumping’ – that I’d bought and my daughter liked to dance to – starts with, ‘I thought that music mattered. Does it? Bollocks’, so I knew I had to cough at the appropriate moment and hope she wouldn’t notice. Then I felt safe to let the rest play. (I should say that, only now while writing this, do I realise the chorus is ‘Pissin’ the night away, pissin’ the night away.’ I don’t know what I thought it was, but it wasn’t ‘pissin’’! Did she know or care? Still, I expect she was familiar with the word already. So I exonerate myself!)

Fortunately, the most explicit sexual content tended to remain as innuendo, and it could be interpreted in a wholesome way. ‘Milkshake’ (Kelis), ‘When Two Become One’ (Spice Girls), ‘Genie In A Bottle’ (Christine Aguella) can all be explained away if you’re not looking for sexual content or don’t understand it. And while in ‘Oh Carolina’, the singer (Shaggy) was ‘banging on the bathroom floor’, it could always have been thumping the tiles while jumping around.  And research suggests most young people did take it all at face value.

That’s not to say all artists were ambiguous about sex in their songs. I’m thinking of the likes of Liz Phair. ‘Liz Phair who?’ I hear you cry – luckily such performers tended to be ‘alternative’ or difficult, so not popular with the young. She performed explicit lyrics to catchy tunes, but the arrangements and minimalist accompaniment weren’t commercial and therefore off the main music radar, and out of aural reach of the young. But don’t go playing her albums to your little ones before checking out her titles or lyrics first.

Which brings us to today. Things have taken a lurch for the worse. It’s all quite different. Some of the most catchy, singable popular songs are the most profane, intimate and explicit. Who would expect that the most potty-mouthed would be radio-friendly Sabrina Carpenter? Or Lana Del Ray? Even Taylor Swift. Yet their lyrics invariably leave nothing to alternative interpretations. I would quote some here, but it would involve too many asterisks! And as they’re streamed, there can be no control or parental warning.

There are moves to protect young people from explicit visual material (the jury’s out on how effective they’ll be), but music escapes all control. It was a joy of my childhood, and sung in all innocence because, by and large, it was innocent. Things only got bawdy when you were old enough to know better. Now it’s in your face. The occasional Anglo-Saxon word in a song can shock and have a relevance (I’m thinking of the anger in Alanis Morrisette’s ‘You Oughta Know’ as an example) and you can steer innocent ears away if necessary.

But in recent pop tunes and number one hits like, ‘Manchild’ by Sabrina Carpenter, it’s simply gratuitous. Without losing anything, she could have recorded, ‘Why you always come a-running to me? Mess my life’, substituting ‘mess’ for the four-letter f-word she actually uses. And there are many, many other examples in hit songs today.

Are today’s performers adult and responsible enough to think of who’s listening when they write and record? Or don’t they care, or simply looking to get credit for being streetwise?

I have loved popular music in all its forms since I was eight or nine. Now, I fear for parents who’d like their children to share and enjoy that same love without having to shield or censor.

Richard Smith’s novels, Homeward Bound and I’m Still Standing are available from Amazon and bookshops.

Displacement activities

Amazing, isn’t it. When you have something you know you need to do, you find something more important. It can be something trivial, like making a cup of coffee. Or something like, well writing this blog.

I haven’t blogged much of late, not least because I’ve been writing pieces for various journals and online sites at the request of others. And making the odd video. Not to mention being encouraged to do social media of my own to promote my two novels. Whether my various Instagram posts made the slightest bit of difference to interest in Homeward Bound and I’m Still Standing I have no idea. But I’ll doubtless be back on Instagram videos for the new one

Ah – and that’s been another reason for not blogging. I’ve been completing my third novel. This particular displacement is because I need to write a synopsis for it. Anyone who has ever written anything will known the nightmare that is a synopsis. If it’s taken me 290 (or however many) pages to write a piece that I hope is entertaining, interesting and engaging, then how is it possible to condense it into a single page? But it must be done. Just not at the moment as I’m writing this.

And what inspired me to use this avenue to waste time is I wanted to share a discovery I’ve made. Late, I know, but monumental tome. I’ve discovered AI. Well, ChatGP. It could become a completely new category of displacement activities all of its own! Here’s what kick-started my new obsession.

Take a look at this before image, snapped by me on Easter Sunday walking in Waterlow Park, which is north London and right next to Hampstead Heath.

A decorative cartoon character resembling an egg with a smiling face, dressed in a plaid shirt and blue pants, sitting on top of a brick wall surrounded by greenery.

I sent it to my daughter, and it came back from my son-in-law like this.

A cartoonish character resembling an egg with a smiling face sits atop a brick wall, while three mounted soldiers in historical uniforms stand below, looking up at it.

It made me laugh. More than that. It made me want to have a go myself. In fact, it became so much of a temptation for me, I wasted no time and began to adulterate other images take on that walk, using the same software that created all the King’s horses and all the King’s men..

A black coot swimming in a reflecting pond surrounded by trees and water lilies.

I selected this sweet, innocent, springtime image, and imagined something altogether more interesting and ludicrous!

A surreal image depicting a prehistoric flying reptile hovering above a blackbird in a tranquil pond, surrounded by leafy branches.

I have to confess to being somewhat troubed by AI. Can you believe anything you see anymore? But this tool can open up the imagination to all manor of things . And timewasting opportunities.

What’s more, maybe I can use AI to write my synopsis? Maybe I’ll look it up in Wikipedia and see it it’s possible.

But not yet. I’ll have a coffee, first.

(But look out for Made For Walking. If I get my synopsis and other necessary stuff done, it’ll be in the bookshops later in the year.)

When the mobile fails

This is how my iPhone looked before I went to bed. I’d set it for the update it was due, with new features and security measures.  Fourteen hours later, it looked the same. Which I why I found myself standing outside the Apple store in Covent Garden. The update had obviously frozen. After searching the interweb on my laptop and trying all the tricks offered for iPhone restoration, I was no further forward.  In a blind panic, and after an umpteenth unsuccessful press of every button on the side, I decided to follow the final online suggestion as to what to do. Get help.

It’s only when denied access to something that your complete dependency is revealed. Back in the day, contacts might be on a Filofax, phone numbers in an address book, money in a wallet, time worn on the wrist. To lose them all at once would be impossible. Well, nearly. I once had them all in a briefcase that I inadvertently left in the waiting room of a car showroom.  By the time I’d realised, the showroom had closed, but I went back anyway.  Through the plate-glass window, I could see it beside the sofa I’d been sitting on. I just prayed it would be safe until morning.  Yet, what if cleaners dumped it, or there were burglars, ram-raiders . . . every eventuality played on my mind. I would have camped outside on the pavement had it not been cold and wet. As it was, I was in pole position to retrieve it a good hour before the showroom opened.

And, in truth, being denied access to my phone has happened before. I’d accidentally locked it inside my car. It was a hatchback where the hatch could be unlocked without unlocking the whole car. I was on a farm, taking off my coat and throwing it inside while encircled by a cloud of horseflies. I’m irresistible to biting insects. To stop them swarming into the car – I could imagine them feasting on me as I drove home – I slammed down the back, only to realise that in my haste, the car key and my mobile were in the coat’s pocket. So I know how helpless I am without my iPhone. I was rescued by a friend who waited with me until the AA came to my rescue.

But with my locked iPhone, I was on my own, and facing certain armageddon. It’s a relatively new model, not that you can tell by looking at it. I’d bought a cheap cover years ago that has decayed, to the embarrassment of my two daughters who have tried to shame me into buying a new one – and even to treat me to one as a Fathers’ Day gift. But I looked upon it as a mark of independence and individuality. And anyway, it was stuck to the phone itself and I had no idea how to detach it without also ripping off the back of the phone. Safer to leave it be.

The trouble is, the mobile has become such a a vital part
of modern life

The trouble is, the mobile has become such a vital part of modern life that everything seems to centre around it, nothing much functions without it. And all I could think of, as I waited outside the Apple store, was the messages I needed to respond to, let alone the ones I wasn’t expecting and that the senders would be waiting for my response.

I also had appointments later in the day and now I was going to be late for them, and no way of contacting the people I was meeting. Even if I found a red phone box, their numbers were locked behind the frozen screen. They’d be calling me, wondering why I didn’t pick up, or wasn’t calling back. And what if the “big” call came? ‘Richard, your book is wanted for a movie. Are you happy with that? The producers need a response straight away.’ ‘Richard, you need to call me back now.’ ‘Richard, don’t bother. The offer’s gone.’

‘What time do you open?’ I mouthed through the glass doors at a security guard inside the Apple store.  He raised both hands, fingers splayed that I interpreted as meaning 10 o’clock. I waved my frozen screen at him to show I had no way of telling what the time was now. He exaggerated a frustrated shrug and opened the door, but instead of telling me the time, pointed at a church tower that, when I leaned forward, I could see had a tower with a clock. 9.40.

Assuming it was accurate, I knew I had twenty more minutes of perdition to endure. A coffee stall across from the church offered me respite and sanctuary with a clear view of time passing. At 9.59, I headed back to the store, arriving just as the doors opened.

By 10.01, my iPhone was restored.

‘All you had to do was press these buttons on the side,’  a young, enthusiastic assistant explained, as the screen sprung back into life.

‘But it didn’t work when I tried it.’

‘It was the protective cover.’ She’d unpeeled it, revealing that it wasn’t stuck to my phone at all. ‘It was stopping the buttons from being pressed properly’

‘I didn’t know that came off like that.’

She nodded sympathetically. ‘Would you like me to put your cover back?’

I shook my head while trying to conceal my embarrassment at being so stupid. But her benign expression was one I’d seen nurses give in care homes as their elderly charges struggle with the simplest of things.

I suppose that’s one advantage of being a senior citizen. At least my stupidity is put down to my age, not just to being plain stupid.

I still haven’t got a new protective cover.

If you liked this blog, Richard’s latest feelgood novel, I’m Still Standing, with music, ’80s nostalgia and a touch of environmentalism is in bookshops and on Amazon now.

BOOK TOUR – what’s been said

Here’s what people are writing about I’m Still Standing, taken from their Instagram accounts. My thanks to them for the positive things they’re saying.

NetGalley

A heart-warming story of a reluctant and unlikely friendship between a pair of misfits,

Richard Smith takes us back to the 80s as we follow Harry and Jill, a pair of misfits brought together as they work to save a local green space. Interwoven with the narrative is their shared love of music.

The author’s background in cinema comes through in his writing, as I could visualise each scene in my mind (Simon Pegg would make a great Harry!) and the music references provided the soundtrack. I really felt as though I was back in the late 80s, alongside the characters.

A moving story about finding passion in life and love with a music theme recommended for fans of Nick Hornby (High Fidelity, Juliet Naked) and Daisy Jones and the Six.

And if you’re interested further….. https://shorturl.at/vsoBV

‘A joy to read’

The first reviews are in for I’m Still Standing – and it’s getting four and five stars!

Blogger _clairereviews_ describes it as, ‘the heartwarming tale of a friendship formed when two socially inept misfits come together to try to preserve a city’s wildlife area.’

‘It was impossible to put down’

She goes on to write, ‘The vast array of supporting characters are a joy to read, each having their own foibles, which adds to the book as a whole. The smallest detail has been considered, and I was so caught up that I read the entire book in a single sitting. It was impossible to put down!’

Meanwhile, josliteraryadventures has said of it, ‘I’m Still Standing by @richardwrites2 is the kind of book you feel held by on a warm summer evening. It’s full of wonderful characters, friendship and community, with a teeny bit of romance added in. I read it pretty much in one day sitting on the swing seat in the garden on a beautiful sunny day.’

NetGalley, the online site that shares reviews and champions literacy writes, ‘The author’s background in cinema comes through in his writing, as I could visualise each scene in my mind (Simon Pegg would make a great Harry!) and the music references provided the soundtrack. I really felt as though I was back in the late 80s, alongside the characters,’ adding that it’s, ‘a moving story about finding passion in life and love with a music theme recommended for fans of Nick Hornby (High Fidelity, Juliet Naked) and Daisy Jones and the Six’, giving it four stars.

Here are the full reviews from the blog sites.

You can buy I’m Still Standing at bookshops (pictured below with me signing copies at a launch in Highbury’s Ink@84 bookshop) as well as boookshops online and https://shorturl.at/vsoBV

That’s it for the KitKat

I started this blog as ‘Praise be the KitKat’. How quickly things can change.

I was inspired when I ate a KitKat at half time at an Arsenal match. The team was on a bad run – the three games before the KitKat had been three consecutive defeats. But with KitKats, the season was turned around, and a long unbeaten run began. There could be no doubting the power of those four chocolate fingers. After all, it’s happened before as I do have form.

My first encounter with the magic of the KitKat at halftime was at the start of the 2003-4 season, and as I repeated it, game after game, the team matched me with wins and draws, never losing, going on to become ‘the Invincibles’, undefeated during an entire Premier League campaign. 

The one match they did lose was an FA Cup semi-final, played at Villa Park. Walking from my car to the ground I couldn’t find a confectioner- or at least one that was open for the early kick-off. It meant, as I entered the ground, I knew the result was predestined, defeat was inevitable. And so it came to pass.

But for the rest of the season, KitKats blessed the team and they lost not a single game. (For purists, who will argue Arsenal lost matches in the European Champions’ League, that doesn’t count. It’s obvious the power of the KitKat won’t stretch beyond English competitions. Or the League Cup, for that matter.)  The following season, the KitKat’s energy drained away, finally extinguished by Wayne Rooney. But I was going to have to give it up anyway. Too many KitKats meant I was at risk of becoming obese.

Miraculously, thirty-two years earlier, there had been a similar sweet arbiter of success. In the 1970/71 season, it was a fresh cream cake that wove its magic spell over the team. I bought one before a match (a cream meringue, if I recall correctly) to consume after, and Arsenal went on to win the domestic double of League and FA Cup. (Dave and Ansil Collins were top of the UK singles charts, in case you don’t remember!)

The one match where the shop had sold out before I reached it resulted in a 5-0 drubbing at Stoke. Otherwise, it was unprecedented success for the club, and I had no doubt what was causing it. Who knows what heights might have reached if I’d continued. But the shop stopped selling cream cakes and an Eccles cake didn’t have the same efficacy.

And so to this season. I was religious in keeping the KitKat buying routine once the team started winning, the result being an undefeated run. And even when it came to a crushing end at Liverpool, I didn’t doubt the KitKat. I put it down to my wife, who’d bought one for me as a helpful gesture, rather than leaving me to buy my own. I returned to the proper routine for the next match and the result was a victory, so my faith was restored. I knew that it was the change of routine that had broken the spell.

Except, now I know differently. In the two matches since, the results have gone against the KitKat. My faith seems to have been misplaced. It didn’t ensure success after all. I should have realised.

Next match, I’m buying a Lion Bar.

A version of this post also appears on aisa.org

Dido changed my life

Dido changed my life.

Dido – Thank You, White Flag, Life For Rent, Stan (with Eminen) – yes, that Dido. She has changed my life.

I don’t suppose anyone – not least Dido herself – would have expected her music to be behind such an epiphany. How did it happen?

It started when I woke up in the middle of a BBC televised Radio 2 Live concert late one night. I’d fallen asleep during a particularly dull Match of the Day and was woken by Dido in full flow. I often fall asleep watching television. I close my eyes, with the intention of simply resting them and listening for a few moments . . . then it’s an hour later. I know it happens but I still do it. More than a few times, I’ve started watching a film, drifted off and woken up and continued watching, not realising until the end it’s a different film with different cast and plot.

Back to Dido. She was singing a song I know now to be called Friends. Dido’s usual gentle, mournful but appealing (to me) delivery was suddenly interrupted by a wild guitar break and even wilder drumming. I was hooked. And that’s always a cue for me to want to go buy it.

Trouble is, in these digital times, it’s been increasingly hard to buy new music. I like it on a physical medium, something I can touch, hold, read and smell – and possess. I’ve bought high-end equipment and so I can hear it at its best. Not for me Alexa or my laptop’s squawky speakers. 

This, some might say, obsession began in my childhood. I have assembled an array of vinyl (it’s too random to be called a ‘collection’) since my first singles at the start of the 1960s, gradually embracing LPs (albums as they became known).

No particular genre, just if it takes my fancy. And it’s probably as diverse as you can get. Sharing shelf space, Jimi Hendrix sits cheek by jowl with Heron Oblivion, Henry Cow, the Herd, Herman’s Hermits and Woody Herman. I also assembled CDs in the Dark Ages when records were few and far between. But in recent times, with the growth of mp3, I’ve missed out. And it’s left me feeling disenfranchised, as there’s a lot of good music out there, even to these ageing ears.

And Dido’s Friends, had taken my fancy. The worry I had was that it would only be available on mp3. So I was relieved to find that it was on a traditional vinyl album and, what’s more, on the shelf of my nearest surviving record shop.

Back home, on the turntable, I went straight to that track. But while sounding smooth and rounded, there was none of the drive from guitars and percussion that I’d imagined on the live show. Perhaps it was the way the record was pressed.

I have noticed that digital recordings sometimes don’t sound so good on analogue vinyl. So back I went and bought a CD version. No go. A little crisper, sharper, but none of what had first drawn me to the song in the Radio 2 session.

Desperate, I turned to YouTube and checked the performance online. The answer stared me in the face. The guitars were additional to the recorded version and the drumming came from a person not a synthesiser.

At first, dismay. And then, the epiphany.

I found I could plug my computer into my hifi’s pre-amp and, wow! The track came to life for me. With a couple of tweaks on the graphic equaliser, it sounded even better.

It was just a small step before I was Googling other live performances and listening to artists with an online presence only. What’s more, I started discovering tracks I don’t own or haven’t the space for. A new world of music previously unavailable to me. At my fingertips. In a decent quality. Online.

So late in the day, I have entered music’s digital age. And I’m excited at the discovery.

Dido, Thank You.

Friends is on Dido’s album Still On My Mind. (And the other tracks have hooked me too and are well worth a listen, I should add!)

Richard Smith’s first novel, Homeward Bound, is available on lone and from bookshops.

The tyranny of the pen

We weren’t allowed to use ball point pens at my school. The very word, Biro, was never mentioned. All writing had to be with a fountain pen, preferably using Quink blue-black. We also had lessons in how to form capital letters, and no essay would be accepted if the wrong form of ‘F’, ‘G’ or ‘T’ was used, or words were not joined up correctly.

I was sitting with my feet in a pool a while back, reflecting on life, and this early ‘60s memory flashed back to me. Having published my first novel, Homeward Bound, I’m often asked how I write; longhand or straight into a computer. My first response is it’s a wonder I write at all after that induction and suffering the tyranny of the fountain pen.  But the answer is that once I’d been given a Parker for my 18th birthday, I never looked back and now I compose entirely using its cheaper successors – a Biro, Bic, or one of those freebies you collect at exhibitions.

Why I like a ballpoint is it’s so easy to write quickly and even easier to make changes, ideal if thoughts are spilling out of your head at a rate of knots. And if there’s an inspiration for later, a word that’s just come to me to improve a previous sentence, or a paragraph that needs moving, I scribble it down and add an asterisk, a box, or an arrow to signal something to come back to later.

It takes just a second and  – more importantly – it doesn’t interrupt the flow of ideas. Add to the fact that I write on scrap paper – the reverse of single-sided photocopies or envelopes that held today’s consignment of bills and begging letters and I can add feeling virtuous about my recycling into the argument for longhand.

I’ve tried starting on a computer but, for me, it’s a slow, laborious and stultifying experience. I’m quite fast – a self taught two fingered style serves me quite well – but the plethora of red underlines and strange line spacings distract me, making me want to correct as I go, and the practicalities swamp and submerge the original inspiration. Using a ballpoint, the ideas can just flow.

There is a downside to paper. A puff of wind and the pages scatter across the room, a disaster when I’ve not numbered them. And worse, the speed that the ballpoint allows me invariably comes to the detriment of legibility. I’ve invented my own form of shorthand, with vowels omitted and words often just a squiggle between first and last letters. Their meaning is all so obvious as I write, but when it comes to reading back, it’s often impossible to decipher.

The answer? I don’t read it back! For the next stage is to transcribe my manuscript into my laptop and as often as not, I make it all up again. This is partly because I can’t make head nor tail of my longhand, but also because, having created a sense and the structure, I can recompose it straight into my laptop from memory. A second draft, as it were.

Once the page is on the laptop and saved (how many times did I use to lose a day’s work because I hadn’t saved my manuscript – and pardon me while I save this one, it’s still Document 29. Done it), the next question is proof reading and revising for a next draft. My preference would be to do it by printing out the pages. I find reading for content easier on paper, and making amendments using my ballpoint brings all the advantages of being able to scratch out words, move paragraphs and make comments to myself along the margins. But this is very wasteful of paper, even if the reverse does provide new scrap for the next handwritten manuscript.

My solution is to use an iPad with one of those electronic pencils. That way I have all the advantages of longhand and the sheaves don’t blow away. Then it has to be transposed on to the master laptop, but that’s OK as it’s yet another drafting and improving stage. By the end, I may have dozens of fragments of manuscripts on paper, laptop and iPad, not to mention bits I thought were good but left out, in case they should come in handy for something else.

It was one of these I was searching for just the other day. While working on my second novel, I thought I might be able to incorporate a section I’d written and left out of a first draft of Homeward Bound. I rummaged through a box stuffed with papers.

They’d been hidden there, away from my wife’s perfectly reasonable wish not to have every surface in the house awash with scrap paper and old envelopes. It didn’t take long to find the very manuscript I was seeking. Except I couldn’t read a word of it. Completely inscrutable.

But also in the box, an old school exercise book, with my handwritten notes on Shakespeare in blue-black ink, clear and legible.

Perhaps my school had a point

Cheering people up!

I’m really pleased with this review/blog, saying that, ‘After struggling at times during lockdown to have a desire to read, this book was exactly what I needed to remind me why the world of books is so wonderful.’

With more COVID restrictions, maybe this will cheer a few more people up!