what is an english family like when they've left their home territory and come to a strange land where they don't know anyone and don't speak the language very well?
A more pertinant question in this case would be - what is an english family like when they have a 16-year-old, an awkward and typically argumentative 14-year-old, a dog, two seemingly feral pet cats, 6 llamas, 3 donkeys, a wild and untamed 4-year-old and a chicken with one leg.
It's an often asked question in some circles and the answer is usually far from satisfactory. This one will be no exception.
Things here hang together, just, even though the family currently have essentially no income. They theoretically make their money from giving llama treks through the local woods (evergreen and very beatiful), selling llama wool and renting the luxury gite they own just up the road. Unfortunately the llama trekking website is a bit cranky so they have no punters, the llamas have not yet been sheared so they have no wool, and the luxury gite up the road is actually a crumbling old hovel with no mod cons and even fewer rustic charms.
Happily, this gives us plenty to do during the days. I've been doing a host of jobs I have no qualification to do, but learning lots and doing them reasonably well. Today I sanded and scrubbed two doors, chipped plaster out of a filled rut with a screwdriver and painted some shutters. This was all accompanied by local radio playing "classic" (read "cheesy but hummable") tunes, llama shaped shortbread biscuits and frequent cups of tea. All good fun.
That's it for now. I'll give you more of my thoughts about the family another time.
Love from,
Rob
Friday, July 21, 2006
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Rains, Pains and Automobiles
This description of my road trip is going to get dangerously long unless I cut to the chase somehow. I think what I'll do is just note down the raw facts and if anyone's interested in anything I can elaborate. This blog entry will therefore be an aide memoire for me rather than anything particularly interesting to read. You have been warned.
Day 1.5, On the road
Things started pretty merrily. Felt good. I think I may have even taken a photo at this point.
About an hour into the first day, though, it started raining. Like seriously raining. With lightening crashing down everywhere. I'm not scared of storms, being a rational engineer, but being out on a moped in a wild electrical storm wearing a t-shirt and sandals in the middle of absolute nowhere made me want to cry "Galileo Figaro!" and hide under a tree. This is what I did. I dumped my moped in a bush just off the road and went to look for shelter. Unfortunately southern french trees just ain't made for keeping you dry and I passed an miserable ten minutes being dripped on before deciding to make a break for it.
I arrived in a small town called Le Malzieu-Ville utterly utterly drenched and pissed off and had an unbelievably lonely steak and chips before scoring an early night. Bad karma for the first day.
Day 2, The Aubrac Road and Rodez
Weather much better. Feeling top. Stopped in beautiful market town for lunch after a taxi driver had driven right behind me beeping his horn for a good minute or two. I was very much of the "Fuck off and overtake me then" mood when I pulled over and learned that he had picked my sleeping bag of the road when it had fallen off my rucksack and was trying to get my attention in order to give it back. Oops.
Le Route D'Aubrac was an absolute dream. Started to feel more comortable on the bike (rather than being filled with images of my impending horrible injuries upon the inevitable falling-off-at-high-speed scenario) and the scenery was absolutely to die for. Arrived at around 3 o'clock into a largish town called Rodez. Spectacular cathedral. Every thing closed.
I drove around for ages looking for somewhere to stay, but in the end had to settle for a campsite. For 4 euro 30 the man said it was fine to have a pitch without having a tent and I planned a night under the stars as the weather was beautiful. Laid out my sleeping bag and had a nap.
Awoke after around half an hour to the sound of distant thunder. Hoped against hope that it would miss Rodez but, alas, the rains came and came with great vengeance and a furious anger. I sheltered in the TV room while 8 old frenchmen watched the Tour De France at maximum volume. Low point, but, as so often with these low points, the rain precipitated (no pun intended) the most pleasurable part of the whole drive.
I stumbled into town after the rain eventually stopped in the hope of getting some food and found a bar open just by the cathedral. As I went in I heard the strains of a piano being played and played well. I thought I recognised the piece and said after watching in amazement as the guy played the piece to the end, "Rachmaninov", and the guy playing said in perfect if heavily accented english "Chopin actually. Can you play Rachmaninov?". The guy was very good-looking with long curly brown hair and a cheeky glint in his eye reminding me very much of Tom Nelson. We were instant pals as we gushed over the piano and I played the opening bars of the Rachmaninov I know.
I asked him if they had any lunch going and he told me that they only did sandwiches which I said would be fine. He brought out a large toasted ham and cheese sandwich with a glass of frosty cold water and a cigarette. In no mood to turn down either the ham or the cigarette (I hadn't eaten that day and had been close to going nuts at the frustration of the rains, given my tentless situation) and it was a massive tonic.
I ended up staying there all evening and chatting to, and then falling in love with, a french girl in her early thirties who also worked at the bar but spoke no English. Wow, they really design their women well, the French. She was unspeakably attractive. Not just aesthetically, but she had such poise and a kind of relaxed regality about her. I was enthralled.
Predictably enough she turned out to be the good-looking guy's girlfriend and I was heartbroken. Ah well. And I was already imagining how I'd sack off the road trip, get a job in the bar, move in with the girl and live out the rest of my life happily playing the piano while she danced. Maybe some other girl in some other bar with some other piano...
Day 3, Requista
Anyway, she lent me a tent so it wasn't all bad. Left Rodez quite early the next morning just as yet another storm was brewing. Drove down the side of a mountain in furious hail. Was later amazed to find that I wasn't horribly bruised on my hands and ankles as I took many stinging halestones on the way. Stayed the night in a tiny outpost called Requista. Very bored but they had satellite tv. Hoped (and stayed awake for) porn on french tv but was sorely disappointed.
Day 4, Arrival
Had another very pleasant day's motoring in the sunshine (bar running out of petrol on a secluded mountain road and having to freewheel back down the hill and into town!) but was an absolute pro on the bike and got all the way to my destination in one long leg. It is here from where I write (I arrived the afternoon of yesterday).
The description of this place is, I'm afraid, another very very long blog entry as it's extremely wierd here.
This is what I've done so far: Scythed (blisters to prove it), reputtied a window frame, bonded with the "difficult" teenage kids by teaching them shithead (a card game for those not in the know. Rules can be found on http://www.yourmumworksatmcdonalds.com)
This is the end of my supposedly short blog entry. I see my verbal diarrhoea problem transfers neatly to the world of blogging. And here I don't have that irrating other person trying to say their piece to. Bliss.
Rob
Day 1.5, On the road
Things started pretty merrily. Felt good. I think I may have even taken a photo at this point.
About an hour into the first day, though, it started raining. Like seriously raining. With lightening crashing down everywhere. I'm not scared of storms, being a rational engineer, but being out on a moped in a wild electrical storm wearing a t-shirt and sandals in the middle of absolute nowhere made me want to cry "Galileo Figaro!" and hide under a tree. This is what I did. I dumped my moped in a bush just off the road and went to look for shelter. Unfortunately southern french trees just ain't made for keeping you dry and I passed an miserable ten minutes being dripped on before deciding to make a break for it.
I arrived in a small town called Le Malzieu-Ville utterly utterly drenched and pissed off and had an unbelievably lonely steak and chips before scoring an early night. Bad karma for the first day.
Day 2, The Aubrac Road and Rodez
Weather much better. Feeling top. Stopped in beautiful market town for lunch after a taxi driver had driven right behind me beeping his horn for a good minute or two. I was very much of the "Fuck off and overtake me then" mood when I pulled over and learned that he had picked my sleeping bag of the road when it had fallen off my rucksack and was trying to get my attention in order to give it back. Oops.
Le Route D'Aubrac was an absolute dream. Started to feel more comortable on the bike (rather than being filled with images of my impending horrible injuries upon the inevitable falling-off-at-high-speed scenario) and the scenery was absolutely to die for. Arrived at around 3 o'clock into a largish town called Rodez. Spectacular cathedral. Every thing closed.
I drove around for ages looking for somewhere to stay, but in the end had to settle for a campsite. For 4 euro 30 the man said it was fine to have a pitch without having a tent and I planned a night under the stars as the weather was beautiful. Laid out my sleeping bag and had a nap.
Awoke after around half an hour to the sound of distant thunder. Hoped against hope that it would miss Rodez but, alas, the rains came and came with great vengeance and a furious anger. I sheltered in the TV room while 8 old frenchmen watched the Tour De France at maximum volume. Low point, but, as so often with these low points, the rain precipitated (no pun intended) the most pleasurable part of the whole drive.
I stumbled into town after the rain eventually stopped in the hope of getting some food and found a bar open just by the cathedral. As I went in I heard the strains of a piano being played and played well. I thought I recognised the piece and said after watching in amazement as the guy played the piece to the end, "Rachmaninov", and the guy playing said in perfect if heavily accented english "Chopin actually. Can you play Rachmaninov?". The guy was very good-looking with long curly brown hair and a cheeky glint in his eye reminding me very much of Tom Nelson. We were instant pals as we gushed over the piano and I played the opening bars of the Rachmaninov I know.
I asked him if they had any lunch going and he told me that they only did sandwiches which I said would be fine. He brought out a large toasted ham and cheese sandwich with a glass of frosty cold water and a cigarette. In no mood to turn down either the ham or the cigarette (I hadn't eaten that day and had been close to going nuts at the frustration of the rains, given my tentless situation) and it was a massive tonic.
I ended up staying there all evening and chatting to, and then falling in love with, a french girl in her early thirties who also worked at the bar but spoke no English. Wow, they really design their women well, the French. She was unspeakably attractive. Not just aesthetically, but she had such poise and a kind of relaxed regality about her. I was enthralled.
Predictably enough she turned out to be the good-looking guy's girlfriend and I was heartbroken. Ah well. And I was already imagining how I'd sack off the road trip, get a job in the bar, move in with the girl and live out the rest of my life happily playing the piano while she danced. Maybe some other girl in some other bar with some other piano...
Day 3, Requista
Anyway, she lent me a tent so it wasn't all bad. Left Rodez quite early the next morning just as yet another storm was brewing. Drove down the side of a mountain in furious hail. Was later amazed to find that I wasn't horribly bruised on my hands and ankles as I took many stinging halestones on the way. Stayed the night in a tiny outpost called Requista. Very bored but they had satellite tv. Hoped (and stayed awake for) porn on french tv but was sorely disappointed.
Day 4, Arrival
Had another very pleasant day's motoring in the sunshine (bar running out of petrol on a secluded mountain road and having to freewheel back down the hill and into town!) but was an absolute pro on the bike and got all the way to my destination in one long leg. It is here from where I write (I arrived the afternoon of yesterday).
The description of this place is, I'm afraid, another very very long blog entry as it's extremely wierd here.
This is what I've done so far: Scythed (blisters to prove it), reputtied a window frame, bonded with the "difficult" teenage kids by teaching them shithead (a card game for those not in the know. Rules can be found on http://www.yourmumworksatmcdonalds.com)
This is the end of my supposedly short blog entry. I see my verbal diarrhoea problem transfers neatly to the world of blogging. And here I don't have that irrating other person trying to say their piece to. Bliss.
Rob
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Travels and Travails
I'm constantly fighting against the inexplicable urge to start every blog entry with the word "well,", or worse, the phrase "well, it's been an odd few days here in X" but seriously - it really has been an odd few days.
For the hard of reading amongst you who are looking for some pictures to punctuate the streams of self-involved text that is spewing onto blogspot's servers I must warn you that I've lost the cable that plugs my camera into a computer so there's not going to be any visual footage of any kind for a while.
For those of you (and I'm sure there are many) plotting my course Indiana Jones-style with a red dotted line on an antiquated map, I'm in Labastide Rouairoux in the Tarn department of southern France and what follows is an entirely factual account of how I got here. It's long. Ready yourself.
Day 1, langeac
After having hung around for ages in Langeac I realised I was waiting for a motorcyle repair man who wasn't going to show. The French only work till noon on a saturday anyway and I was out of time. I did however have another lead: a friendly waitress in a bar had told me of another motorcycle guy way out on the road to Brioude but it was a long way. Well I no had no choice. After getting the nice Mme at my hotel to phone the guy and make sure he was open, I set off in the sweltering pre-midday heat to find the man who could kick-start my journey.
The bike was incredibly heavy and, the bike having no clutch or gears, I was doing the work of a two-stroke engine manually. It was tiring work and no good for my back. I had word that it was around 1.5km out of town so I crossed the bridge to take what I thought was the only route out and walked for around 2km. I stopped to ask an incredibly old toothless french man and he told me, in a french accent which owed more to liberace than liberte fraternite etc. that I was not on the road to Brioude, and that the road to Brioude started just over the bridge into Langeac. So, back I went pushing the bike that had already come to feel like a cross to bear than a crosser of countries. I got on the right road and, to cut a long and deeply unpleasant journey short, arrived at 11:50am drenched in sweat and delirious with thirst and sunstroke. The man took a look at the bike and told me that it was unfixable without a part that wouldn't be in until the following week, but that the bike was perfectly usable as long as I could do the work of the kickstarter myself. This basically involves sprinting down as steep as hill as I can find to jump the engine into life. This has turned out to be doable but a huge pain in both a metaphorical and literal sense.
But, after a ridiculous struggle with a steep gravel path and a falling off I was on the road.
The travel section of my blog will have to wait as my hostess needs to use the computer.
Blog again soon.
Rob
For the hard of reading amongst you who are looking for some pictures to punctuate the streams of self-involved text that is spewing onto blogspot's servers I must warn you that I've lost the cable that plugs my camera into a computer so there's not going to be any visual footage of any kind for a while.
For those of you (and I'm sure there are many) plotting my course Indiana Jones-style with a red dotted line on an antiquated map, I'm in Labastide Rouairoux in the Tarn department of southern France and what follows is an entirely factual account of how I got here. It's long. Ready yourself.
Day 1, langeac
After having hung around for ages in Langeac I realised I was waiting for a motorcyle repair man who wasn't going to show. The French only work till noon on a saturday anyway and I was out of time. I did however have another lead: a friendly waitress in a bar had told me of another motorcycle guy way out on the road to Brioude but it was a long way. Well I no had no choice. After getting the nice Mme at my hotel to phone the guy and make sure he was open, I set off in the sweltering pre-midday heat to find the man who could kick-start my journey.
The bike was incredibly heavy and, the bike having no clutch or gears, I was doing the work of a two-stroke engine manually. It was tiring work and no good for my back. I had word that it was around 1.5km out of town so I crossed the bridge to take what I thought was the only route out and walked for around 2km. I stopped to ask an incredibly old toothless french man and he told me, in a french accent which owed more to liberace than liberte fraternite etc. that I was not on the road to Brioude, and that the road to Brioude started just over the bridge into Langeac. So, back I went pushing the bike that had already come to feel like a cross to bear than a crosser of countries. I got on the right road and, to cut a long and deeply unpleasant journey short, arrived at 11:50am drenched in sweat and delirious with thirst and sunstroke. The man took a look at the bike and told me that it was unfixable without a part that wouldn't be in until the following week, but that the bike was perfectly usable as long as I could do the work of the kickstarter myself. This basically involves sprinting down as steep as hill as I can find to jump the engine into life. This has turned out to be doable but a huge pain in both a metaphorical and literal sense.
But, after a ridiculous struggle with a steep gravel path and a falling off I was on the road.
The travel section of my blog will have to wait as my hostess needs to use the computer.
Blog again soon.
Rob
Saturday, July 15, 2006
An unexpected weekend break
The last couple of days have been strange, to say the least, but quintessentially French which I suppose must be a good thing.
I was dropped off by Jules in the small town (biggish village really) of Langeac with the mobylette (scooter) I was to use to take to Toulouse. We had tried to get the mobylette fixed the previous day but disorganisation meant that by the time we phoned the chap here with the bike shop, he had closed.
So, I resolved to spend the night in Langeac and get the mobylette fixed first thing the following morning. Sadly, although not untypically for my fates dark sense of humour, I arrived on July the 13th meaning that the following morning was July 14th, the day the French celebrate the revolution. It's a public holiday. EVERYTHING is closed.
So, I resolve to book myself another day in my hotel and wait out this public holiday like a stroller might wait out a period of rain. And here I am. One day in Langeac spent lazing in a Cafe then watching fireworks and an accordian band with the entire population of the town and it's Saturday.
Yes, the weekend has sprung upon me like an unwelcome uncle. The french don't do much work at the weekend. The shop that could potentially fix my scooter is still closed as I write this (10am), although it was due to open at 9am. I'm waiting with bated breath for the guy to arrive late and hung over after much "vive la revolution" last night, but I'm starting to think it might not happen and I'll have to sit out the weekend here too. This would be ok, although the hotel is costing me 30 euro a night, and the solitude and lassitude of having nothing to do and no-one to do anything with might drive me crazy.
We'll see. If I don't blog again for a while, you'll know I'm merrily zipping past sunflower fields on my 50cc en route to Toulouse and if I can't get my bike fixed, then I'm sure I'll be drowning my sorrows in an unhealthy dose of self-obsessed reportage.
Lots of love,
Rob
I was dropped off by Jules in the small town (biggish village really) of Langeac with the mobylette (scooter) I was to use to take to Toulouse. We had tried to get the mobylette fixed the previous day but disorganisation meant that by the time we phoned the chap here with the bike shop, he had closed.
So, I resolved to spend the night in Langeac and get the mobylette fixed first thing the following morning. Sadly, although not untypically for my fates dark sense of humour, I arrived on July the 13th meaning that the following morning was July 14th, the day the French celebrate the revolution. It's a public holiday. EVERYTHING is closed.
So, I resolve to book myself another day in my hotel and wait out this public holiday like a stroller might wait out a period of rain. And here I am. One day in Langeac spent lazing in a Cafe then watching fireworks and an accordian band with the entire population of the town and it's Saturday.
Yes, the weekend has sprung upon me like an unwelcome uncle. The french don't do much work at the weekend. The shop that could potentially fix my scooter is still closed as I write this (10am), although it was due to open at 9am. I'm waiting with bated breath for the guy to arrive late and hung over after much "vive la revolution" last night, but I'm starting to think it might not happen and I'll have to sit out the weekend here too. This would be ok, although the hotel is costing me 30 euro a night, and the solitude and lassitude of having nothing to do and no-one to do anything with might drive me crazy.
We'll see. If I don't blog again for a while, you'll know I'm merrily zipping past sunflower fields on my 50cc en route to Toulouse and if I can't get my bike fixed, then I'm sure I'll be drowning my sorrows in an unhealthy dose of self-obsessed reportage.
Lots of love,
Rob
Thursday, July 13, 2006
The Second Departure
Well blogfans. The first of my periods at the Beatafarm are over. Jules' mum arrives tonight and in real teenage-style adultophobia, I am leaving; to go and stay in a hostel in a nearby town. I suddenly don't fancy staying in a remote farmhouse when the prospect of its adult owners being present looms.
Hopefully this will mark the second phase of my unusual journey: a moped journey from Chavaniac Lafayette (near to where I am now) to Toulouse (near where the Llama-farm is) sleeping rough (possibly) along the way.
I have no idea whether I can do this supposed fantastic voyage. I don't even know if I can ride a moped. But I'm trusting myself and my safe passage to Toulouse, once again, to Levy luck. I have to go into town tomorrow to try and get the moped fixed and will stay in a hostel for as long as it takes to get it on the road.
On a different tack, there is now a track of mine on beatabet.net, called 'all the lovers in the world'. Check it out if you get a chance.
These are the lyrics in their original raw form:
That's how for now.
Love
Rob
Hopefully this will mark the second phase of my unusual journey: a moped journey from Chavaniac Lafayette (near to where I am now) to Toulouse (near where the Llama-farm is) sleeping rough (possibly) along the way.
I have no idea whether I can do this supposed fantastic voyage. I don't even know if I can ride a moped. But I'm trusting myself and my safe passage to Toulouse, once again, to Levy luck. I have to go into town tomorrow to try and get the moped fixed and will stay in a hostel for as long as it takes to get it on the road.
On a different tack, there is now a track of mine on beatabet.net, called 'all the lovers in the world'. Check it out if you get a chance.
These are the lyrics in their original raw form:
That's how for now.
Love
Rob
Monday, July 10, 2006
Full moons and honeymoons
So, Italy win the world cup on the night of a spectacular full moon. How do I know? Because Beatabet and I travelled in Jules' knackered old car down to une petite village with a "Sports Bar" (a bar with a 30-year-old tv in the corner, and a Table Football machine) and watched the match with some local fans of les bleus. Why do I bother writing this in my blog? Because I feel like this event marked a phase of my time here which is over. My honeymoon period.
As we travelled down squashed together in the car, it became more tangible that these people already know eachother. A clique exists. Not only do they know eachother already but they do not know me. They are not my friends.
This isn't to say that they never will be my friends. This isn't even saying that it will be a while before they are. I'm pretty good at making people be my friends. I suppose it just highlights the fact that I am utterly unaccustomed to hanging out for any extended period with people who haven't known me for ten years or more. I seem to have come to rely on the fact that people already understand my moods and my meaning without me having to suffer the indignity of being excluded from a joke or misunderstood. Still, I suppose that this is a learning experience, isn't it?
I'm pretty sure things here will not only be fine, they will truely be great. But now, in this period after the honeymoon and before the comfort of familiarity, I am married to a group of people I don't know and haven't won over, and it's a bit odd.
As we travelled down squashed together in the car, it became more tangible that these people already know eachother. A clique exists. Not only do they know eachother already but they do not know me. They are not my friends.
This isn't to say that they never will be my friends. This isn't even saying that it will be a while before they are. I'm pretty good at making people be my friends. I suppose it just highlights the fact that I am utterly unaccustomed to hanging out for any extended period with people who haven't known me for ten years or more. I seem to have come to rely on the fact that people already understand my moods and my meaning without me having to suffer the indignity of being excluded from a joke or misunderstood. Still, I suppose that this is a learning experience, isn't it?
I'm pretty sure things here will not only be fine, they will truely be great. But now, in this period after the honeymoon and before the comfort of familiarity, I am married to a group of people I don't know and haven't won over, and it's a bit odd.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Life as Art
France, 2006, the seemingly infinite weekend. But is this experience of rural France any more than just a merry-go-round of swimming in the pool, reading De Botton, eating great food (and fresh baguette of course) and drinking unfeasibly cheap wine?
Well, just maybe it is. Maybe.
Art has begun to happen. In fact, art is starting to weave itself into the lives of the 6 of us here (Sam said a fond farewell yesterday, leaving Sayriol, Julie, Jules, Abe, Dave and I). Our activities drift almost subconsciously from sitting, talking and drinking wine, to recording cello tracks, arranging 5-part vocal harmonies and, in the case of last night, making a piece of music into a whole evening. Let me explain,
Following dinner, we decided to make some music collectively. Two stereo microphones were set up in the barn and we musicians drifted towards a particular instrument (the barn is litttered with the equipment and tools of music in the same way that bedrooms are littered with old underwear) that took our fancy. Making music in this way requires faith and a suspension of disbelief. It inevitably starts sounding weak and laboured as we struggle with hackneyed musical ideas.
But given enough time (this particular recording lasted for an hour and twenty minutes) things develop and grow, and without knowing it, and certainly without anyone's control, you find yourself stamping out a rhythm on the dinner table or mournfully bending a guitar string in and out of tune. Our improvisation included a cello, a piano, some congas, a guitar, several beer bottles (now broken!), assorted wine glasses and mugs, a very long and noisy roll of brown paper, the heavy metal parts of a socket set and three matches, struck directly into the microphone.
As 'art-house' and 60's as this sounds, it certainly fely real enough, the mixture of wine, beer and moroccan hash stirring my mind variously into tribal frenzies and apocalyptic funeral dirges that I never anticipated.
So, real or put-on, music or noise, art or nonsense, it was an experience that left me breathless. Listening to the track afterwards was like discovering that someone had been recording while I was dreaming: "Oh yeah, this bit was weird" or "This doesn't sound familiar. Where was I at this point? Which of these crazy sounds are mine?". All very strange.
Oh, and there's the possibility of a song in the more traditional sense of mine will be posted on the beatabet website at some point. I'll blog it up when it happens.
That's all for now. We're off into a small French town tonight to watch the World Cup final. It'll be my first experience of anything actually French!
Love Rob
Well, just maybe it is. Maybe.
Art has begun to happen. In fact, art is starting to weave itself into the lives of the 6 of us here (Sam said a fond farewell yesterday, leaving Sayriol, Julie, Jules, Abe, Dave and I). Our activities drift almost subconsciously from sitting, talking and drinking wine, to recording cello tracks, arranging 5-part vocal harmonies and, in the case of last night, making a piece of music into a whole evening. Let me explain,
Following dinner, we decided to make some music collectively. Two stereo microphones were set up in the barn and we musicians drifted towards a particular instrument (the barn is litttered with the equipment and tools of music in the same way that bedrooms are littered with old underwear) that took our fancy. Making music in this way requires faith and a suspension of disbelief. It inevitably starts sounding weak and laboured as we struggle with hackneyed musical ideas.
But given enough time (this particular recording lasted for an hour and twenty minutes) things develop and grow, and without knowing it, and certainly without anyone's control, you find yourself stamping out a rhythm on the dinner table or mournfully bending a guitar string in and out of tune. Our improvisation included a cello, a piano, some congas, a guitar, several beer bottles (now broken!), assorted wine glasses and mugs, a very long and noisy roll of brown paper, the heavy metal parts of a socket set and three matches, struck directly into the microphone.
As 'art-house' and 60's as this sounds, it certainly fely real enough, the mixture of wine, beer and moroccan hash stirring my mind variously into tribal frenzies and apocalyptic funeral dirges that I never anticipated.
So, real or put-on, music or noise, art or nonsense, it was an experience that left me breathless. Listening to the track afterwards was like discovering that someone had been recording while I was dreaming: "Oh yeah, this bit was weird" or "This doesn't sound familiar. Where was I at this point? Which of these crazy sounds are mine?". All very strange.
Oh, and there's the possibility of a song in the more traditional sense of mine will be posted on the beatabet website at some point. I'll blog it up when it happens.
That's all for now. We're off into a small French town tonight to watch the World Cup final. It'll be my first experience of anything actually French!
Love Rob
Thursday, July 06, 2006
What have I done?
So,
what have I done in the three days since I got here?
Well, work(music-making)-wise, I've written the start of a typically tuneful Levyesque ballad with a dude called Abe from Brighton (now living in Barcelona) on the guitar; I've written and started to arrange a proper old-school barbershop song with a jolly tune but sad lyrics (this is always how barbershop songs are); We also spent around 3 hours one evening making up words by writing down the first thing that came into our heads and then handing the sheet of paper on to the next person in a circle for them to respond to it in an improvised way. It's like everything here: Very arty-farty, surprisingly fun, and remarkably productive.
Social-wise: There are currently seven of us here:
Me and Sam - Cambridge, UK. Drove down together
Jules - The don of the project. We're staying in his mum and dad's house (his Dad is a knight of the realm no less!) so he knows the workings of the place and is in charge of making sure the washing up gets done, the septic tank has whatever-it-needs-doing-to-it doing to it, we don't run out of gas or water (our water comes from a well at the bottom of the garden. Apparently it occasionally runs dry in the summer months so we have to conserve water). He's also a great pianist and does lots of the production for other people's tracks.
Julie and Seyriol - These two are not an item but they are certainly a double act. Julie (originally from Wolverhampton, now doing physical theatre in Paris and teaching adolescents for a living) and Seyriol (A Welsh guy living in Brighton who writes plays and sings) are both incredible bright sparks. Very over-the-top and spontaneous, they riff off eachother and occasionally burst into song.
Dave - Record producer, Electronic music whizz, flute player. He's quiet compared to the others but he seems like a genuine and gentle guy.
Abe - The wild man of the group. He smokes a lot of dope and serves to entertain at all times.
I've played a lot of table-tennis, drunk a lot of 80p-a-bottle wine, watched a far off thunderstorm, played an accordian, eaten and cooked some great food (I've even induced Beatabet into the realms of Lentil Spaghetti!) and got ill. I seem to have contracted a mild version of man-flu called kid-flu. It's lame and involves having to carry around a loo roll all the time to save my sleeves from being deluged by snot.
Weather is generally great but it's been raining a lot. That's it.
what have I done in the three days since I got here?
Well, work(music-making)-wise, I've written the start of a typically tuneful Levyesque ballad with a dude called Abe from Brighton (now living in Barcelona) on the guitar; I've written and started to arrange a proper old-school barbershop song with a jolly tune but sad lyrics (this is always how barbershop songs are); We also spent around 3 hours one evening making up words by writing down the first thing that came into our heads and then handing the sheet of paper on to the next person in a circle for them to respond to it in an improvised way. It's like everything here: Very arty-farty, surprisingly fun, and remarkably productive.
Social-wise: There are currently seven of us here:
Me and Sam - Cambridge, UK. Drove down together
Jules - The don of the project. We're staying in his mum and dad's house (his Dad is a knight of the realm no less!) so he knows the workings of the place and is in charge of making sure the washing up gets done, the septic tank has whatever-it-needs-doing-to-it doing to it, we don't run out of gas or water (our water comes from a well at the bottom of the garden. Apparently it occasionally runs dry in the summer months so we have to conserve water). He's also a great pianist and does lots of the production for other people's tracks.
Julie and Seyriol - These two are not an item but they are certainly a double act. Julie (originally from Wolverhampton, now doing physical theatre in Paris and teaching adolescents for a living) and Seyriol (A Welsh guy living in Brighton who writes plays and sings) are both incredible bright sparks. Very over-the-top and spontaneous, they riff off eachother and occasionally burst into song.
Dave - Record producer, Electronic music whizz, flute player. He's quiet compared to the others but he seems like a genuine and gentle guy.
Abe - The wild man of the group. He smokes a lot of dope and serves to entertain at all times.
I've played a lot of table-tennis, drunk a lot of 80p-a-bottle wine, watched a far off thunderstorm, played an accordian, eaten and cooked some great food (I've even induced Beatabet into the realms of Lentil Spaghetti!) and got ill. I seem to have contracted a mild version of man-flu called kid-flu. It's lame and involves having to carry around a loo roll all the time to save my sleeves from being deluged by snot.
Weather is generally great but it's been raining a lot. That's it.
A roadtrip sounds like a great thing. It fills the mind with thoughts of convertible vehicles, nevadan desert plains, louche girls in summer dresses smoking loosely rolled cigarettes as Jimi Hendrix fades tastefully in, obligingly playing his most recognisable riffs one last time from beyond the grave.
I can tell you about a roadtrip: This one. Mine. Ours. And I can tell you it accompanied with a very small number of snaps that I took along the way.
The journey that began with a wedding in the South-West of England
We arrived at around noon (that's 25 hours after I left Devon, for those that want to be boggled by facts) and all seemed pretty happy.
That's the travel part of the blog over. I'll go on and talk a little bit about life here.
Dearest all,
welcome to my blog. This is exactly the sort of thing I said I'd never do, but my situation has changed a little over the last 2 weeks or so and hence I feel that I may have something vaguely worth saying.
There will be no wild opinion on this blog. There will be no votes to find the greatest movie of the 20th Century. There will be no midnight weepies, no personal vendettas and definitely NO multiple exclamation marks.
It will simply be some facts about my current existence and a few bits of analysis. I'm also allowed to post a photo or two.
These being the rules of engagement, let us begin....
welcome to my blog. This is exactly the sort of thing I said I'd never do, but my situation has changed a little over the last 2 weeks or so and hence I feel that I may have something vaguely worth saying.
There will be no wild opinion on this blog. There will be no votes to find the greatest movie of the 20th Century. There will be no midnight weepies, no personal vendettas and definitely NO multiple exclamation marks.
It will simply be some facts about my current existence and a few bits of analysis. I'm also allowed to post a photo or two.
These being the rules of engagement, let us begin....
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