awesomelies

GrrraaaaAAAARRRRR

Fri, 20 Nov 2009 19:30:36 GMT

I'm not by nature much of a joiner; Amnesty, CND, Liberty and NO2ID are merely a few of the many worthy organisations that should, but don't, see any of my cash, plus I'm not a member of any political party (and here on the left, it's not like we're short of variations to choose from, either). But this shit has just inspired me to go off and sling a bunch of money at the Open Rights Group. I'm not sure I can afford to, but then I am sure I can't afford not to.

Richmond KY, day 2 (belatedly continued)

Tue, 07 Jul 2009 17:14:15 GMT

That was... very English, and very American, and completely wonderful.

Very English: the previous week's blazing sunshine giving way to a steady and insistent drizzle which necessitated umbrellas all round:

or Stetsons, for those so inclined:

(this has drawn comparisons with Terry Pratchett and Garth Brooks. I'll take Pterry, please)

and the cancellation of the planned post-wedding football match. Although we did still manage a quick drunken kickaround in which the (barefoot, gowned) American women ran rings round us more sensibly attired (and, we would have hoped, more competent) English men:

Very American: the bride's brother-in-law (prison officer, ex-Marine, bigger muscles than any three of us put together) firing his shotgun in the air and lobbing flash-bang grenades around.

Very English: an impromptu London Loves set afterwards, with obligatory "join in a circle and bellow along to Don't Look Back in Anger" action:

Very American: the fact that this was taking place beside a swimming pool:

and followed an impromptu hoedown:

Very wonderful: the air of joyful chaos that kept threatening to break out and play havoc with the carefully and lavishly planned arrangements - tears:

and laughter:

a near-tumble or two on the muddy grass, the aforementioned cat deciding all these people must be here to see him and marching cockily between the happy couple right at the vital moment of the service; the service itself, which had been drawn from a sort of choose-your-own-wedding-adventure book* and ended with an entreaty to "be excellent to one another".

And, most of all, these two. Together. Happy. Long may this last.

*"If you want to spend the rest of your life with your true love, turn to p119. If you want to run screaming into the hills pursued by the shotgun-toting father of the bride, turn to p87"

Richmond KY, day 3

Sun, 05 Jul 2009 15:54:41 GMT

By way of killing time between here and Cincinnati airport, we are doing a bit of tourism. At Big Bone Lick state park. On Beaver Road. Near the town of Beaver Lick.

*falls about giggling hopelessly*

Ahem. In other news, James and Morgan are totally married. More on that to follow when I'm back in London (by which time, hopefully, this hangover will have cleared. Ouch).

Richmond KY, day 2

Sat, 04 Jul 2009 17:48:55 GMT

Out of the hostel, Greyhound, cigarette, car, cigarette, Richmond KY, with just enough time to drop my stuff off before the rehearsal dinner, featuring a bunch more Brits a long way from home,

some gorgeous views,

and a well-fed cat convinced he's in charge of the whole thing:

(he may not be wrong).

Then it was on to the boozer, a fun Irish pub* which appears to be Richmond's only bar worth a damn, meaning it's got the full gamut of Southern stereotypes†. Plus a thankfully permissive attitude to an idiot Englishman who'd left his ID at home. I was briefly impressed by their savvy when I spotted that one wall had a huge display of An Phoblact front pages from the height of the Troubles - finally, an American Irish bar that actually has some clue about Ireland! - until I looked in the other direction:

Yep, um. That'd be the Red Hand of Ulster. Not sure how that goes down with whatever Irish clientele they have.

Anyway, that was all yesterday. Now it is today and in a couple of hours we'll have to drag ourselves away from the flagwaving-fest on TV** and head off for the WEDDING. Which is to be held outdoors. On a day when the forecast is for thunderstorms. How perfectly English it would be to have rain stop play.

*whose main concessions to Irishness beerwise were, um, London Pride and Newcastle Brown. Might want to work on that, guys

†and both kinds of music: country and western

**happy July 4th to such American readers as may care about such things!

Nashville, day 3

Fri, 03 Jul 2009 05:08:57 GMT

This country never lets you forget you're an alien.

Every time I come here it seems like I pick up some new aspect of this whole strange bundle of quirks and assumptions and linguistic tics* that's called "being American", to the point where I just about think I'm getting a handle on it all†. And then you get something like tonight, at the Ryman Auditorium with Ricky Skaggs and his Kentucky Thunder**, which reminds you that no matter how well you think you speak the language, you're still a stranger in a very strange land.

It wasn't the show itself, which was predictably awesome - I'd seen Skaggs at the Cambridge Folk Festival, and blazin' picking and tight harmonies are assured. It's how he acts in front of a home crowd. He was personable enough at Cambridge; jaunty, telling the odd story, geeing up the crowd for the obligatory drunken audience participation bit. But tonight was something else altogether. Quotations from scripture to back up his idea that bluegrass needs to blend old and new; a near-to-tears appeal for prayers for Ralph Stanley's grandson (badly injured in a car crash, apparently); down-home tales of mother's fried chicken rubbing shoulders with assertions that no-one need fear these hard times, because the Lord will provide for everybody. Not a hint of irony from Skaggs, not a hint of scepticism from the crowd. He was right at his ease, chatty, friendly, knowing full well he and his crowd had the same rapport as decades-old friends. And there was me, sitting front and centre, never feeling so far from home.

But still. Fantastic show, which fully made up for my serial failure to see any damn bluegrass while I've been here††, and I came away with a baby American flag*** and ruing a near-miss at winning a couple of tickets to a bluegrass festival here in ~~the fall~~ autumn (they went to the lady in the seat next to me, who was very excited indeed). And it's a perfect signoff from Nashville, which I leave tomorrow morning for Richmond KY via a (probably awful) Greyhound journey and a brief halt in Louisville.

A freight train precisely like the one I will not be hopping tomorrow morning

I've been in this city too long and not long enough - two days is plenty for tourism, but two months wouldn't be enough for the music scene. There's clearly a massive depth of talent here, beyond the hordes of bands in the Broadway tourist bars (although a few of them ain't bad). The Station Inn seems like the kind of place you could go every night for a year and not see a bad act, and the hostel alone has four or five guys who are here to play the open mic nights and work the A&R men, hoping for a headline gig or a record deal (a hell of a lot of the American music industry does its business out of Nashville). I've lacked the energy or the money to join the hostel party animals on their nightly jaunts hopping from bar to bar and band to band since dawn, alas. Next time. I am resolved there will be a next time.

Nashville in numbers:

Confederate flags spotted: 2! South may rise after all†††

Number of times I've bought the Tennessean: 2****

Number of times killed crossing the road due to instinctively looking the wrong way: still a big fat 0. I might make it out of here alive...

Hours 'til my Greyhound out of here: 11

Hours 'til the wedding: 36

Days left 'til I leave America: not damn enough

*I've been merrily "have a good fourth of July, y'all"-ing with the best of them today

†I've even, at the third time of asking, just about got to grips with the stupid shitty coinage

**none of whom are from Kentucky. False advertising! I demand my money back

††turned up 10 minutes after showtime at the highly-spoken-of Station Inn last night, was told it was full, stuck around for a bit then gave up and went to drink beer at the hostel. Another guy from here turned up 10 minutes after I did and waltzed right in for what was apparently a "fantastic gig", damn him

***some charity was handing them out to all and sundry for July 4. I asked if I was allowed to wave one and was told "Sure! if it wasn't for you there'd be no us!"

†††Admittedly, they were both ratty antiques framed in a second-hand bookshop run by a guy who seems to be fighting the good fight for the Confederacy single-handed - shelves full of Civil War books, dumb liberal-bashing jokes pinned up everywhere, general vibe of "right-wing racist asshole" overlaid on the standard "cranky old misanthrope" template for bookshop owners. Great place, though, and I came perilously close to spending $150 I don't have on a full set of the fabulous Foxfire books

****I know I said I'd never buy it again, but I gave it another go after learning it has a reputation as a liberal bastion. It, um, isn't. Although it was heartening to read an impassioned defence of gay marriage in the letters page

Nashville, day 3

Thu, 02 Jul 2009 17:38:14 GMT

This hostel's been overrun by a horde of Canadians down from Toronto for Canada Day* and July 4. They have chosen to mark the occasion by growing big old moustaches† and chewing tobacco constantly, and having only stumbled to bed six hours ago their first act** on waking was to crack open another beer. I salute their dedication to the redneck cause.

*I have no idea why they thought Nashville was the place to spend it. These inscrutable Canadians and their mysterious northern ways.

†The none-more-redneck horseshoe

**They seem to do everything in concert, with the precision of an ant colony. Clearly Canadians have some sort of sinister hive-mind thing going on, and more study is required

Nashville, day 2*

Wed, 01 Jul 2009 20:33:58 GMT

HAHAHAHAH FUCK YOU WORLD I HAVE A STETSON HAT. And a poseable Johnny Cash action figure, but that wasn't one of my primary mission objectives. I can now declare this holiday a success and head home†.

Today has mostly been about the rampant consumerism so far, in fact. But I did manage to get a pic of the previously-mithered-about Union Station building, which I am still disgusted is no longer a station:

Since we're on the subject of trains, a snippet of last night's beery tomfoolery: some Yanqui (New York, intelligent, well-travelled, should surely have known better than this) remarked off-hand that it wasn't surprising I hadn't been to mainland Europe much, what with the lack of rail connections. I asked him if he was joking. He wasn't. I asked him if he'd heard of this Channel Tunnel thingy. He hadn't. I told him we'd spent years building a giant rail link sweeping clear under the Channel from London to Paris. He laughed in my face. I recruited a nearby Glaswegian to back me up. He still didn't believe us, and continued to maintain it was all a giant wind-up until a chap from Minnesota allowed as how we weren't making the whole thing up.

Granted, inventing weird lies about Britain to feed to Americans is a fine sport (I think my brother managed to persuade someone that heroin was available in supermarkets and it was briefly fashionable to contract AIDS during the '80s). But the finest sport is when you tell them entirely true things and they will not be convinced. (Can't remember if the same brother ever convinced anyone that yes, all swans are owned by the Queen and it's illegal to kill them).

Nashville in numbers:

Confederate flags spotted: still 0. Seriously, what is wrong with you people? South ain't gonna rise unless you buck your ideas up.

Portions of grits eaten: 1. I have no idea why. I got terribly excited about the idea of eating grits last time I came to the south, and discovered last time that they're the sort of hideous slop you work hard and better yourself in order to get away from forever. Biscuits, on the other hand, remain fantastic.

Number of times I've been invited to have a great day: dozens

Number of times I've invited someone to have a great day: 3 or 4, but the phrase is tripping off the tongue more and more easily

Number of times I've forgotten to tip due to transatlantic cultural differences: 0. Score one for the downtrodden service workers of America!

Number of times I've bought the Tennessean newspaper: 1

Number of times I will be buying the Tennessean again: 0††

Number of times killed crossing the road due to instinctively looking the wrong way: still 0. Hooray!

*really 3 or kinda 4 and so on. We'll drop this footnote now, right?
†I should probably go to the wedding I actually came here for, I guess. But hey, STETSON**
**however, the damn thing's black, which may be the colour of awesomeness but is extremely impractical in 35-degree heat. Oh well
††seriously, no wonder the American newspaper industry is fucked***. Hideous page design and typefaces, maybe two original stories plus a bunch of rehashed AP tape, and a loathsome op-ed calling on Christians to beware the coming dark times now that sinister anti-American, anti-Christian, pro-world government forces control the White House? I wish I had a pile of Morning Stars to run around sticking into the newspaper vending machines†††
***granted, the British newspaper industry is also fucked, but for somewhat different reasons
†††which are the only thing I would keep about the American newspaper industry

Nashville, day 1* (continued)

Wed, 01 Jul 2009 04:31:34 GMT

Late night porch on a hostel. Cold beer; warm breezes and mournful train whistles blowing in from downtown, all of them from freights or from Amtraks heading any place but here. How is it possible that a city built on country music, to which railroads are as misery is to the blues, has no passenger train service? Went past the old Union Station earlier, a massive old pile oozing grandiosity and Civic Weight, like all good railway stations, which deserves to be the heart and soul of the city. Making it a hotel is like turning Trafalgar Square into a car park†. Of all the many things I don't understand about America, how the railroads have fallen so far, so fast is the most baffling. Even if I understand the economics behind it... dammit, a city like Nashville needs a railway station, one as grand as the building it used to have. And maybe one day it will once again have one.

*except it's really day 2 etc and so on blah blah
†except that might actually be a goodthing

Nashville, day 1*

Tue, 30 Jun 2009 21:58:16 GMT

For utterly inexplicable† reasons, Nashville has a Parthenon**. It is made of pebble-dashed concrete, built on land awarded to some woman for covering some Injuns in boiling water, and is probably not as impressive as the one in Greece. It did, however, give rise to the best sign ever:

$10 for bike rental at this hostel... and it'd be worth it.

Nashville in numbers:

Red necks acquired: 1 (note to self: buy Stetson)
Number of times killed crossing the road due to instinctively looking the wrong way: 0, but subject to change
Number of times a native assumed†† I was Irish: 1
Number of times I have had to pronounce "tomatoes" wrong because I could not otherwise make myself understood: 1
Number of Confederate flags seen: 0, disappointingly

*Technically it is day 2 in Nashville and day 3 in America but no-one wants to read about a 10-hour layover at JFK followed by 16 hours sleeping

†Well, OK, I'm sure there are reasons. But that would involve me looking it up on Wikipedia and then coming back here to explain them, and it seems easier to outsource the workload***

**I'm going back tomorrow to hack the marbles off. These foreigners can't be trusted to look after 'em, after all.

††This seems to happen to a lot of people. I'm guessing that calling someone English off the bat is a deadly insult round these parts

***Although as that second sentence suggests I went ahead and did some "research" on Wikipedia anyway

An eerie silence prevails

Thu, 08 Jun 2006 23:20:01 GMT

~~As of yesterday, any substantive blogging (mostly pseudo-intellectual musings about old music) is rather more likely to be happening over here.~~

(belatedly erased, as I shut that blog years ago and it was only causing confusion)

Tue, 11 Oct 2005 00:02:31 GMT

Overheard while disembarking from the spiffy driverless Docklands Light Railway at Stratford:
Whiny child turns accusingly to mother as she drags him onto the train. "You lied! You said it's a magic train! That's not a magic train!"
Kiddo, it's powered by invisible numbers sent flying ten miles through the air by a giant brain made out of sand. What do you want, dragons?