Simon Allen, Cara Jeffries and Jemima Bullock at the St. James Wine Vaults

On the face of it I was attending a gig with three performers armed with guitars and heartfelt avowals. As I bounded up to familiar musos’ in the Wine Vaults I didn’t envisage leaving as a friendly neighbourhood critter. This was due to the current Zeitgeists of the singer songwriter ilk like Damian Rice creating intense anthems (conducive to shying from your own shadow). This left me with a notion of guitar wielding troubadours like Cash being replaced by a lethargic mainstream where one man and a guitar became a limited framework- until Cara appeared.

 

Astonishingly the perception of women being unable to make the guitar speak is still abundant. Ms Jeffries not only expels it, she emasculates Youtube virtuosos in exposing their extra strings and hurricane of notes (showing their gimmicks to be like taking paracetamol for the perforated eardrums that their music has left me with). Moreover during her patented anthem ‘love hangover’ she balances musicianship with soulful melody. She offers a self-deprecating intro about it raising a generic theme of feeling disconsolate about love. The soaring melody and disjointed groove alleviates the intensity of angst filled lyrics. Nevertheless these lyrics encapsulate and boldly resonate a universal feeling that is often worsened by people not addressing it. The whimsical nature of Cara’s tunes heighten the experience as I wonder about this gig going on a rumba or polka tangent. My guitar aspirations are rallied up as she pushes herself out of her comfort zone to the point of quickly brushing past any tempo ramps or random notes. It takes determination to not be precious about your instrument to the point of jeopardizing intricate tunes. Yet when she breaks into some percussive guitar (potentially the most hazardous) it feels restrained with the beats not detracting from her rich chords. It’s interesting hearing the imaginative jazzy chords juxtaposed with her lyrics of crippling uncertainty in your twenties. The mundane hasn’t been elevated this much since Horace first coated banal topics in ethereal hyperbole. After a day of tackling humdrum issues of student debt and sporadic work it assuages my mind to hear her genuine declarations of pursuing her passions. The rapid fluctuations keep me guessing, as it reminds me to not rely on 4/4 in my own music.

 

 Sadly it was too esoteric for her to be snapped up by record companies when she last went out on a limb. From a marketing angle it would have been linked with candid female singer songwriters like Kate Nash. Yet it transcends the genre and the record companies vision of a homogenous cash cow. It may possess the same accent but it lacks the vacuous Nash style male barrages where the C word is squawked. Moreover she exudes twice the musicianship through a beguiling musical palette.

 

This leads me to the next performer Jemima as she also no stranger to the slow burning tunes that etch into your mind. From the outset she sustains the attention of an audience of musicians through her unique chord and tuning repertoire. It contains an element of Nick Drake in the way that she thinks outside the box with idiosyncratic melody and chord development. Unlike Cara she doesn’t have the funk to detract from tormented topics so after about five songs it feels perilous for a fragile mind. Until the dynamics come alive in a track that contains the soaring vocals reminiscent of ‘Creep’ that leaves the audience speechless. Her acrobatic vocal range and Buckley style vibrato is enthralling for the crowd as she creates a booming, dour tone in ‘Bird’. With similarly soaring melodies to Cara that evoke real intensity she differs in not singing with a London accent as hers is more of a neutral, annunciated style. Both artists play like there are no limitations to the guitar and voice format in not being tentative or monotonous with their instruments.

 

The last performer to hit the stage is Simon Allen. After a subdued hello he hurtles into a stirring ‘Jolene’ rendition. The vulnerability that this man evokes in his voice is reminiscent of tormented performers like Ryan Adams. As the subtle dynamics to his voice resonates through my whole body. He illustrates a common denominator of self-deprecation with the previous performers as he makes excuses for what in reality is a captivating flare. This artist shares another trait with Adams in that he reacts to crowd feedback as someone cackles after he makes a jibe at himself. His own material lacks the creativity and imagination of the previous artists. His declaration of experiencing family bliss alludes to a possible factor. Moreover the previous performers are younger musicians toiling nomadic jobs and completely striving alone. They are also battling with the gender prejudices of women being the lead instrumentalist and vocalist who translate this in their pioneering anthems. There’s hope for Jemima and Cara to pervade the mainstream, as they would bring the guitar and voice format back to a time where it could command the attention of arena fans in the vein of Michael Hedges. Personally I’m feeling desperation for them to prevail as I turn on the radio to the haughty word decay of ‘Chipmunk’.  

The Bookseller of Kabul by Asne Seierstad
Little, Brown, £7.99, pp.256

It is not surprising that Seierstad chose to recount Sultan’s tumultuous tale as his charisma transcends dedication to creative passion. For something so easily obtainable in the west like an eclectic mix of literature, risking your life for it is hard to comprehend. Sultan is unfazed by the Taliban as he fights to have the west’s egalitarian press and thus stoically stomachs his prized collection being burnt. While reading this we picture him as an unwavering stalwart like Baba from The kite Runner in the way that he stands strong in the face of brutality. However we swiftly discover that due to not being fictitious like Baba he’s prone to serious contradictions. This is illustrated in that despite jeopardising his life for literature he pushes his long suffering mother of his children into submission. With his yearning for a younger wife he turns his beautiful doting wife into someone that has ‘lost her radiance’. It causes her beautiful eyes that once he described as ‘the most lovely in Kabul’ to be ‘encircled by heavy lids’ as she feeds the gossiping public an alibi about being unable to lie with her husband. As Sultan’s flaws appear it becomes abundantly clear why Seierstad didn’t use real names which is backed up from The Observer doubting whether this book will ‘get onto the shelves of Mr Khan’s shop‘. Nevertheless when we discover the Taliban caused Sultan’s two stints in jail as he showed fortitude to promote free speech it rallies the reader, particularly if you live in a town where many simply exist.

If Seierstad had depicted Sultan Khan as a passive aggressive Braveheart figure of unflinching justice, the book would have no way nearly been as enthralling. This book brims as the surface with intrigue due to the protagonist’s complexities. On the one hand he is a militant patriarch reaping the benefits of selling sisters. As the reader you feel disgust that Sultan so dispassionately fobs his sister off for pittance with an ’arrogant, slightly uninterested expression’. On the other he’s an admirable entrepreneur who goes out on a limb to provide children with objective textbooks. He works hard to abolish textbooks that have the alphabet being drummed into kids in violent terms like ’k is for Kalashnikov’. As westerners with a scope of creative outlets we are particularly drawn in by Sultan’s staunch views when he ’thunders’ lines like ’u’ll never again hear music, never dance again’, after hearing Taliban support. This is after previously feeling disgusted by Sultan not only condoning the savage beating of sixteen year old Saliqa for simply meeting a young pauper in a taxi but calling her a prostitute.

As the horror stories of female abuse become more shocking it is difficult to read on. Seierstad doesn’t spare any details as she recounts Jamilla’s despicable killing by none other than her brothers on strict orders from her mother. The manner in which the tales distort through close knit neighbourhood conjures up parallels in tennis club speculation from English housewives. We begin to take to stock of our relative peace as we feel guilty for agonizing over western quandaries of early debt and bewilderment. It is easy from our western perspective to be horrified by the lack of pride of aging suitors pursuing girls as young as thirteen. In particular Sultan’s brother Yunus being thirty and courting thirteen year old Belquisa despite her parents suggesting Belqisa’s twenty year old sister. However it raises the debate of whether there would be such a battle with paedophilia within positions of authority and internet viewing if we adopted their policy. As readers we are stirred by the regime dehumanising women by not allowing them to not utilize their intelligence. As we follow the plight of Sultan’s sister Shakila having to postpone her burgeoning teaching career while the Taliban suppress her gender. Seierstad’s economical use of language and matter of fact tone amplifies the effect. Which is illustrated when she writes ‘a woman’s longing for love is taboo’.

The only section that feels drawn out is when Seierstad goes into major detail about printing and publishing. Perhaps the book could have benefited from Seierstad involving herself as a character because it would have evoked fascinating behaviour and insights from Sultan’s family. The fact that she could act as a social chameleon and didn’t have the restrictions of Afghani women is an indication that her presence as a character would have lit up the page. Public attitude to her would have been unexpected and interesting because they viewed her as a ‘bi-gendered woman‘ and she was from a polarized culture. Seierstad conveys that her presence prompted intrigue in that she was unable to commandeer answers as they would ‘spontaneously’ arise from questions she ‘wouldn’t have had the imagination to ask’.

The book seller from Kabul most certainly is worth a read as even the descriptions of the scenery and landscape are as captivating as much as the study of the culture. This is illustrated when Seierstad vividly writes about the paths between Afghanistan and Pakistan describing them as routes for smugglers for ‘opiates and coca cola’. like many opinionated, driven individuals Sultan holds your attention constantly, which illustrates why this book was a best seller across northern Europe. It broadens the reader by raising fascinating debates about nature over nurture, morality and gender issues. As it causes the reader to ask themselves how they would react in those circumstances, which hopefully will cause prejudice and superiority notions of our nation to dissipate.


Bibliography

Tim Judah, The Observer, Sunday 31st December
I Looked at various culture magazines that come with the independent.

This is intended to be from the culture magazine that comes with the Independent

An extract from The Busking Belly by Max Webster

My grooves are floundering. Drowned out by the Tiggy‘s cacophony. The buskers stray from stressing that his guitar and voice are debilitatingly out of tune. Synchronised squirming as we witness his Toboggan tyke routine, warming the hearts of those singing a call and response tune with him. I’m still feeling astounded that he relented in letting me sample the prime spot s’morning. ‘I’m not your son, I’m old enough to be your fucking dad’ was his response to my enquiry. Duality has never been so apparent. Nevertheless it was a small opening in a long oppressive period. When Silver Stan (the human statue) growls about Tiggy living in an illustrious pad in Bristol my surprise and scepticism almost compares to hearing that he hails from a funk legend‘s lineage. His unhinged nature and connections dictates that busking won’t become a meritocracy, let alone an equal occupation for everyone to attempt. ‘Avoid eye contact and have one finger on the 9 button on your phone’, is my new amigo Michael’s attempt at assuaging my unease. I can make my peace with being drowned out by Michael’s organic Sax playing, but by a sheriff of Nottingham figure jars.

I am struck with the ethics and consideration of my new peers. ‘If you carry on sitting on the ground playing your gonna get ill, borrow my sheet’ is grizzled bill’s startling avowal. He stresses this while he guzzles the deadliest brand of hooch from a plastic KFC mug. ‘ Ah bill, I think you’ve become my roadie,’ I gush until his penetrating glower silences me. I’m nearing despondence after a day of wrestling falling hobos’ who bash into my amplifier and drench me in a medley of fluid. The acrid stench prompts me to pack up my gear as I yearn for the power shower at Dad’s palatial abode. My feverish graft is answered by some middle aged folk burying me in accolades and pound coins. I’ve found my demographic. While Tiggy exhilarates the French tourists by butchering ‘hotel California’ by trying to adlib, I relish a fan base that sit and gaze at my sporadic finger picking.

Submission is essential. No one wants to end up like the unsuspecting Silver Stan with scissors imbedded in the chest. Tiggy’s sneer and morality indicate that he‘s taken the torch from Pablo Escobar. The fact that the fictitious hierarchy in private school felt insurmountable seems absurd to one that’s topped by a homicidal nutbar. The fruitless attempts to bump him off have tragically resulted in pedestrians being hurt. One hobo launched a bottle, which ended up pulverising a random woman. I don’t feel like a martyr able to take on the top tyrant so my efforts are governed by trying to shape peoples misconceptions.

Buskers being viewed as beggars. Regardless of the spectrum of talent within the circuit they are still going out on a limb for their passion. They remain to be stigmatised as clutter with crippling heroine addictions. You learn to spot the ones that harbour such inflictions because they decline food that people offer. I notice them to be in the minority as I busk more and more. Even the homeless that pensively glance at the world hurtling past them over their Special Brew don’t incite the stream of abuse. Yet ‘My taxes are squandered on you bastards’, is the regurgitated insult. Mainly from strung out Armani yuppies who prance along and at any moment could sneeze a snowman. As they are fuelled by the white stuff they increasingly don’t discern between buskers and beggars. One haughty fella rasps the taxes tirade at a homeless Sax player. The sax player retaliates with the timeless ‘enjoy the power, because with the recession your going to be where I am in a heart beat.’

After a fruitful day I reconvene with Michael. He seemed disquieted. ’Did gramps finally cut you off,’ was my Hindenburg of an icebreaker. After a swift boot that may have dampened my chances of procreating, he began an account of finding an overdosed man in an alley.
‘Eyes glazed over, convulsing and unrecognisable, Blood curdling screams were almost as terrifying as the saws that covered his face.’ Michael called an ambulance and they promptly came. When injected with an adrenaline shot the moribund gasped in a writhing frenzy. ‘Like a paralyzed deer wriggling as he becomes road kill,’ was Michael’s chilling description. As Michael began to wipe the man’s shirt he noticed it to be designer. It seems my attempts at changing misconceptions won’t be needed.


‘Afternoon Simon’ as I greet the manager of my favourite haunt. My triumphant efforts that day are some what dampened. The manager is given a break from my wallowing as he sprints after a cadaverous man bolting into the gents. ‘Not again, why can’t you be deterred,’ bellows the portly manager as he traipses down the stairs. I recognise the skeletal chap as he is dragged by the cusp of his neck. ‘Such a unique talent’, I murmur to the manager on his return.
‘Why can’t it outweigh his love of smack, which he relapses on even after having all his blood changed in a specialist clinic,’ replies the manager. He has a valid point. Paradoxically Michael is the only person who has the drive to sustain 5 hours of busking but still lets heroine impede his chances of pervading the pub circuit. 
I slam down the receiver. ‘Why did you do that man, I know where he is, the police can get him done for possession,’ retorts the manager.
‘If you’d witnessed what he had earlier, you would be drinking more than your eight pints of lager quota for the day, so give him some leeway for a relapse.’

My prevailing efforts are replaced by pittance the following day. 5 pounds for 2 hours. Despite the debacle of the previous night, Michael’s tunes are dominating. This jars. I experience an inner discourse as I feel myself buying into the hierarchy. Tiggy seems to be silenced by the masses crowding around gymnasts in g-strings revolutionising deft acrobats. Vengeful thoughts leave the minds of the penny whistle brigade who notice Tiggy’s decline. His Intimidating methods are stymied as the police begin to monitor busking and organise auditions as it is now deemed as a privilege. Rapidly becoming an elite activity. Vitriol is redirected as it surges through the minds of the ousted. That is the vitriol that the police believe drove them to their position of power.
’You fucking pigs, get off our case’, yells a man with tears tattoed under his eyes. 
‘look, that’s why your falling further into the gutter, cos you can’t control that rage, now move along, your not even enriching anyone by playing yanky doodle in the wrong key.’
Tiggy was easier to predict as the authorities seem changeable as they vacillate about our presence. A chasm forms between Michael and his former counterparts as he is the only one who keeps a permanent spot amidst a horde of ivy league flamenco dynamos. I view it as a blessing as it’s an incentive for him to not relapse as he now has a status. He may become an institution. Previously it would be easy for him to squander his success in a heartbeat on a powdered boost. Now that busking is no longer a laizez-faire area he can’t afford to bow out as the restaurant gigs are amounting.

Bar Bedlam Beats (embellished from the initial encounter with the lout)

My guitar playing blends into glistening leather furniture. A  frenetic bar hoping for sub woofer mayhem. I muse whether playing dinner jazz to a deluge of Arsenal fans is one of my poorer judgments. The thought is expelled, as it seems heinously elitist.        ‘Mate, that’s a fucking lullaby,’ thunders a colossal lout. In being the overly sensitive, Apple Tizer drinking variety of man, this feels like a cataclysm. Nevertheless I persist with my fret board meandering, which becomes spasmodic with the interference. I remember that Arsenal embraced one of the few openly gay footballers in their side, so maybe they’ll change their tune tonight and show a shred of sensitivity.                  The facts may have been confused! The towering lout’s cronies join him in a chorus of ‘sing you wanker.’ This infringes, as all of my pieces are instrumental. ‘Surely the percussive stoff, will silence them’ I think as I pummel a beloved instrument to reach an even keel with ones who rule this bar. Astoundingly it grabs their attention… for a nanosecond. Amidst the heckling I shimmy up to the mike to seek retribution;   ‘umm, you gotta love the….. rugby buffoons.’                                              The host truncates my set because the roaring becomes too consuming.‘Well played man, but who would have thought the most benign acoustic music would cause such friction,’ is his passing comment as I hand over the guitar. It feels like the Hindenburg of conversation killers after the ordeal. Yet as I slump in a chair the compare’s words ring true as he bellows ‘My Sherona’ and the boozehounds are diffused to a civilized level of sound. The peril of being an internalized guy means I brood until my head feels near combustion, while being vanquished in a glower off with the main lout. I gradually disconnect as the guttural roar of a ‘Superstition’ rendition governs my attention. This player has reached a happy medium with the unruly audience, as he is absorbed in the iconic Wonder riff and soaring vocals. I ponder over whether the next performer will engage an erratic audience as they expressed such vitriol towards the Spanish Jazz section of my set. The lads on tour reveal a thirty second quizzical look as they process the distinctive African voice. But proceed to parody the voice, presuming that he’s singing in gibberish. Apparently their bracket of ignorance felt confined as xenophobia makes the cut. The Zambian performer is a relentless optimist so he feeds off their enthusiasm. Fortunately the ambience in the bar is too distorted for the Zambian legend to register the sacrilege. In completely thinking on his feat the host bolts up to the raucous punters. he receives curious kudos-‘Eh its stevie wonder, super kitchen right back on my wall,’ they bellow. An attempted harmony with ‘super kitchen’ as the chorus ensues. As they deem it the pinnacle of hilarity, they slap each other.                             ‘Ah yes, nice parody fellas, I see what you did there, and with a timeless Wonder track, good taste’, humors the host. He finally manages to catch the eye of the ringleader.                                               ‘Buddy, you seem distracted,’ enquires the host.               ‘What the, why are you talking to me?’ retorts the punter with a accusatory glare.                                    ‘I was just wondering why your wasting time at this dive, when there’s a night at Club Explicit which is dedicated to last ten years of Magaluf,’stolidly mutters the host.  ‘What’s your point’ grunts the lout.                                  ‘Well it says girls get in free, come on man, you have to work out the numbers, the ratio is in our favor, I might go so far to call it a hotbed for talent.’                             I clock the cogs turning in the man, here it is…. A crystallizing moment-‘um mate, I’m not simple, I was watching Mr. Kyle the other day and he talked about a hurt wife using this thing called reverb psychology on her husband, don’t try any funny business.’                   The host’s expression froze as he tried to comprehend the plan floundering.                                                       The lout continued, ‘Why don’t I make the most of the tail here.’ The boys heard the tail end of his declaration and did numerous rounds of cheers.  The next performer was a man with pallid unhealthiness to make you estimate his age a couple of decades over the reality. In being a very affable chap I couldn’t look as he guzzled neat Grouse. He sluggishly churned out brooding anthems. You could see and smell his ‘sweet nectar’ oozing out of him. He had a vantage point over me in the way that when the philistines showed their umbrage he relied on the ‘behind song’. The utmost statement of masculinity that expressed these feral characters reason for remaining the whole night. ‘I like your weight, it makes me masturbate,’ didn’t tally with this performer’s life style as he was a family man. Yet it allowed the horny bar dregs to be on his side. A strategy for teasing in sensitive tracks afterwards. Musical heresy use to be deemed Bob Dylan playing an electric guitar! There’s no signs of the Judas label being thrown around tonight even though the ‘Behind song’ fuels the lechery of the football buffoons. A girl’s rape alarm sounding, curtails the alcoholic’s set. The bruisers with tunnel vision hurtle out the bar, not out of embarrassment. One of them had caught the eye of a hen party crew dressed as angels. In their absence genuine ammo for the louts appear on the stage. A man with an air of Axl Rose begins to slaughter Thin Lizzy classics and becomes restless with the stolid audience. Spitting on the tiny stage and storming off while exclaiming the most offensive reference to a woman’s entities is his calling card for a passing career. 

Peter Green at Moles, 2nd September

Earlier that evening I had been grasping onto nostalgia through You tube videos of Peter Green. This was to convince myself that iconic numbers like ‘Black Magic Woman’ and ‘Oh Well’ would remain timeless signature anthems. My scepticism stemmed from disbelief of someone overcoming such tribulations that have plagued Peter Green whilst remaining a soulful virtuoso. When I first wandered in and the music commenced it felt indistinguishable. The plodding tunes seemed synonymous of aging performers like Clapton, missing the hunger of the gritty anthems that had launched them. Furthermore it felt like a style of music that had been a record company cash cow since Elvis. So I fell into a mingling frenzy to detract from the tunes that I could barely hear. I was oblivious to a massive difference in sound behind the dance floor as sporadic feed back slightly tarnished it. Fortunately a friend’s Mum was brazen and trail blazed her way to the front with a potent combo of feminine wiles and brawn that didn’t appear to exist. Suddenly the harmonies and meticulous musicianship came alive as they surged in momentum. When they began to feed off an eager crowd the band’s bubbly stage persona became infectious. Mr Green who had been a distant hat, now was scaling the fret board in front of me in cohesion with a gyrating guitarist. The organ player and rhythm guitarist were the earthwire as they alleviated Green’s strain by taking the lead sometimes. Despite looking weary at moments Green rarely flagged and the only noticeable strain was from the intensity of ‘Oh Well’. It was an odd experience to hear a man in his late sixties stutter lines about teenage insecurities. He compensated by creating a captivating transition into ‘Albatross’. The live embellished version of this hit was so inspiring that it toppled hearing it as the backdrop to dripping treacle pie (M and S advert).

Initially it was tricky to be immersed in the vibe of the place as I had to continually hear ‘you’ve brought the average age down by forty years.’ They would often express the significance of each track and I would be left blank, as to a child of the 90s it would sound like tepid blues. Their reply would always refer to an upbringing in the sixties being crucial in feeling an essence of Green being a zeitgeist, as it separates a lot the tunes with individual meaning. This tallied as Dylan’s work had captivated me more when covered by musicians with more flare on their instrument, which would sound like sacrilege for a child of the sixties. The hit that possibly refers to Green being a spokesperson of his generation the most, was the one I was most hoping to hear. ’Green Manalishi’ exposed Green’s revolutionary thinking amidst never ending extravagance in the music business. It was a very rare thing for a young musician in the seventies to agonize about not distributing enough wealth to the homeless.

Fortunately the diversity of the second section salvaged it for me as tracks like ‘Black Magic Woman’ are his patented fusion of styles. As they mould such genres as Spanish, blues, soul and rock’n’roll they become a lot more accessible for someone listening presently as they haven’t been emulated to any effect. Previously I had seen musicians of Green’s era let their age decline their consistency and meticulous edge. As was the case when I saw the Police in 2007 being let down by Summers convoluting classics like ’Message in a Bottle’ with drawn out solos. Which emphasised the feat of Green’s prowess still being strong as Summers had imbibed and indulged a lot less than him without battling schizophrenia. There was a role reversal on this evening as Green and his band began to take over where Summers left off (prior to the 2007 gig) by entrancing the audience with succinct and powerful solos. After leaving that evening what spoke louder than the pulsating riff of ‘Oh Well’ was Green’s fortitude to not let the human condition detract from the passion he had been imbued with from an early age.