AGAs, Dirtboxes, Emergency G-strings

“The AGA, she is dead. The eggs, they will not scramble. This breakfast, she is not working. Le poopie.”

This morning, in countries all over the world, my friends of the facebook persuasion were greeted by this mournful statement. Messages of sympathy and condolence rushed in, with offers to mail scrambled eggs from near and far (mostly far, which is why I didn't go for it), expert tips on the alternatives of eating scrambled eggs (to wit, not eating scrambled eggs, which isn't an option I'm prepared to entertain) and in one case (Barra) a full and comprehensive list of links of where to buy all the things I need to make and eat scrambled eggs without the use of a static cooking apparatus. Thanks Barra. Through the tears and the heart-wrenching moans, it struck me that some of you may not understand how someone can develop such a strong symbiotic relationship with a cooker. It's very simple, but to be properly fathomed, it requires a little history lesson. Please note that, over the course of my research, there have been several areas where information has not been forthcoming, interesting, or both. I have therefore used by own common sense to fill in the blanks

AGAs. They're an interesting breed. Paleontologists have found fossil evidence to suggest that great herds of AGA once traveled the plains and grasslands of Sweden. They were briefly hunted for their horns, but man's interest in these dwindled when it was realized they don't have any, and there was much awkward shuffling of feet. Sometime between 1322 and 1911, a male and female AGA were presented to the King and Queen of England by a naturalist and confirmed hanky-pankyist. The pair promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the Los Angeles underground. Today, still wanted by the government, they survive as soldiers of fortune. If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find them, maybe you can hire the A-Team and slowly populated the British Isles with their progeny, and the modern AGA was born. In stark contrast to its distant ancestor, this modern AGA was a solitary and slow-moving exothermic creature. Mindful of the whole 'horn' debacle, they avoided humans (cos you just don't forget that shit), and humans, being generally a bit embarrassed about the episode in question, pretty much left them to their own devices.

This peaceful co-existence was brought to a big ol' cock of an end when scrambled eggs were invented by Sir Joshua Scramble (who also invented the popular past-time Chicken-On-A-Trampoline on the very same day... the talented scallywag). When it emerged that these great hulking gentle giants were best for scrambling eggs, they were mercilessly hunted throughout the countryside. Typically, a highly paid mercenary (known for some reason as a Matthew-Of-The-Hidden-Valley, and later, simply as an Aga-man) would spot a wild AGA and alert his employers, who would build a house around the poor creature and then move in. It's a common misconception that the house comes first and the AGA is later installed; a gross disrespect to the noble animal in question. Subscribing to the tenet of 'Location, location, location', an Aga-man, a team of builders and the eventual home-owners would sometimes follow an AGA nonstop for months until it reached a suitable south-facing location.

For the discerning cook, the AGA is an ideal pet. In exchange for a modest diet of oil or gas, the AGA will cook your food, boil your water, and heat the kitchen. They require little in the way of cleaning up and training. My efforts to take ours for a walk has, to date, been largely fruitless, but I shall persevere. The total inability to increase or decrease the amount of heat provided instigated the 'It'll Be Ready When It's Fecking Ready!' school of culinary design. Research shows that AGAs introduced into the wild has a hard time adjusting, especially the red ones. It's important to remember how dependent we are on one another, ever more so in April which, as we all know, is Hug An AGA Month. So take time out of your busy schedule to hug an AGA, then bask, as I do, in the worried faces of concerned family and friends.

... anyway...

Music is also going well. The Easter bank holiday was a finger-bruising affair of four One Horse Pony gigs unceremoniously stuffed into three days, mentioned in my last post as 'PonyFest' The final night was a bluesy marathon of two 2-hour shows played back to back; first our weekly acoustic session, followed by a midnight show in another venue. Luckily, some friends were on hand to help us out at the session, and knowing that we were very much under the gun, took over some of the singing duties to spare our lovely voices (...), and in general kept us perked up and playing well. It was well and truly a helter-skelter blast of a weekend.

The excitement didn't end with the long weekend. The Fast.Like.Fun track 'Good Girls With Bad Dreams' was played on national radio and the DJ gave us a lovely shout-out. Happy days! I'm also happy to report that all that mucking around I did with my pedalboard has paid off! Not only is my rig free from unwanted buzz and hum, I'm also happy to welcome back one of my favorite pedals back into the fold; the EHX Big Muff Pi with Tone Wicker! This particular version of the Muff is essentially the same old dirtifier used since the dawna'time, but with a switchable top boost (which can be handy sometimes) and the ability to take the tone stack out of the circuit (which is handy ALL THE TIME). Flicking that little switch brings on a huge volume boost, crystal highs and lovely tight lows. It really shows you how much a passive tone stack takes away from mids, and depending on the EQ of the amp, will make every other hatebox sound thin and/or muffled by comparison. Thing is though, I haven't been using it, as I thought the facility to power it off the mains was kaputt (and I dislike using batteries). Turns out I was using it with a power supply that wasn't giving it enough juice. A quick rearrangement of power supplies has seen me reunited with my favorite distortion pedal, causing me to do all kinds of happy dances. I must say however, that the Boss DS-1 deserves an honourable mention here, as it proved a fine substitute while the Muff and I weren't talking, and it'll stay on my board, both as a standby and as it has a significantly different texture to to the Muff.

So what else is new...? Last monday at the session, I experimented (due to necessity as much as curiosity) with using a G-string (huh huh huh shuddup) an octave higher than usual. In a moment of horror, I realized (erroneously as it happens) that I didn't have a spare G to replace the one I had just snapped. Acting purely on instinct (and alcohol), and with deftness of hand (and alcohol), I slapped on a .012 gauge, generally used as the high E, and tuned it up an octave higher than a G normally would be. The result was surprisingly excellent! It gave a lovely shimmery 12-string effect in the midrange. I encourage all you guitar players to get good and drunk and then give it a go. It makes lead work a bit pants, but it provides a lovely textural difference to chord work. I'm giving serious thoughts to re-stringing one of my acoustics and tuning it to 'Nashville tuning', which is essentially standard tuning, but raised either one or two octaves (depending on the string). Summit to fink about anyway...

Anyway, enjoy the rest of Hug An AGA Month, guys. Here's hoping it'll be the best HAAM yet. Mmmmh, ham...

More to come guys

Much love and thanks for reading :-)

R

PS Just to clear things up a bit, the AGA is fine. It just needs a service. More on this story as it develops. Here's Tom with the weather.

Reflections on Kitchens, FLF, Time Warp, PonyFest

60^th birthday last night. Not mine, o' course. Only knew a handful of people there and, as is the way of these things, I was the youngest there, bar a very young lamb (and lambs are generally pretty young to begin with) who was inexplicably to be found in the Old Kitchen. The party took place in a beautiful big old house in the country; the kind of place that warrants an Old Kitchen that everyone uses, and a New Kitchen, where nobody wants to touch anything or learn how to use the trendy new kettle. On completion of the New Kitchen however, the people who own the house (with admirable foresight) totally stripped the Old Kitchen of the trappings of Kitchenhood (probably not a word), making the New Kitchen just The Kitchen, and everyone's just going to have to come to terms with the New Kettle, hereafter The Kettle.

My musings on the subject got me through that initial 'I don't know anyone here' period, but duty called after a while, and it was time to introduce myself, not as the guy who had spent the last half hour running between the New Kitchen and the Old Kitchen, pointing at kettles and giggling uncontrollably, but instead as charming young Rob, always ready with a smile, a helping hand, and witty retorts that, on balance, would have sounded fantastic about five minutes previous, and would have made everyone laugh. Ah well.

This week is gonna be a bit crazy. Fast.Like.Fun are in action on Thursday night, supporting a really cool band called Fred. Fred also happens to be my father's nickname in school (he's one of those educator types), so he was quick to point out that, on hearing I was supporting Fred, this was a welcome change since Fred had supported me long enough. Much huh huh huh-ing ensued. After my midweek dose of rock, it'll be acoustic skullduggery all the way for the weekend. One Horse Pony are in action on Saturday and Sunday in the Franciscan Well on top of our usual Monday session, after which we'll be hightailing it across town to play the midnight show in the Crane Lane. Thank God, Buddha, Zeus and feckin Yoda we'll have a PA for Saturday and Sunday, cos if we were playing unplugged (and more importantly, unmic'ed) the normal dulcet angelic quality of my voice (huh) would be reduced to the thin reedy squawk of a primitive string bowed instrument being inexpertly played by a young yak. Yeah. That sound. Even at that, I'll have to take it easy at the Monday night session.

Thankfully, after the Jan/Feb Slump of Doom and Destruction, things are beginning to pick up. The prevailing wisdom in this part of the world is that St. Patrick's Day reminds people that having fun is nice, so gigs are beginning to trickle in, crowds are growing (and not in the gaining weight way) and people are starting to ask about guitar lessons again. Excellent stuff altogether!

Sorry, sorry sorry sorry sorry

I started writing this entry last Sunday. It is now Saturday. See, I told you it was gonna be a mental week. Fast.Like.Fun show the other night was a blast! I think we gave a pretty good account of ourselves. Among the crowd were a whole bunch of people I hadn't seen in far too fecking long, such as acoustic heartbreaker Sea Moose and former Alamo Bandit (my blues-rock 3 piece) bass players The Goose and Mowgli. Like me, they're also alumni of the Howling Dead of The Confederate Army, a shortlived blues-rock supergroup that got together in the New Bar in UCC for a jam, and were asked to be the house band after 3 songs. 

Yesterday I tried desperately to remember what I used to do for fun on a friday night before I was allowed to buy alcohol (The sale of alcohol is illegal on Good Friday... Yoda wouldn't have put up with this). If memory serves (and at this point, you're probably aware that I'm not the most cerebral of individuals) I think cartoons were involved. So that's what I did, with a side order of colouring thrown in for good measure. Staying in the lines and everything!

Another upshot of the weird time jump that occurred at the start of the last paragraph is that 'this weekend' has become 'now'. Meaning that PonyFest is upon us. For the next three nights, you'll be able to catch One Horse Pony in our regular spot in the Franciscan Well, strumming things, hitting things, blowing things (huh huh huh shuddup), singing at things, drinking things and plucking things; all to introduce some Stomp into what's already going to be a thoroughly excellent weekend. The beer festivals in the Well are legendary. For two or three days, beer connoisseurs flock (or whatever the term for the habitual locomotion for a beer connoisseur is) together to experience the bar's own award winning brews, as well as those of most of the other brewers in the country. And we'll be right in the middle of it.

I know what you're thinking Do we have the necessary self control to play three gigs in the presence of the best beer in the country and not get completely rat-arsed? Do we have the professional comportment and self respecting bearing to do our job in a clean, sober and efficient way? These are very real concerns, but put you're mind at rest. We don't. No fecking question about it. This is probably the last time I'll be able to pronounce 'connoisseur' (not to mind spelling it) for the next few days, so I might as well make the most of it; connoisseur... connoisseur... connoisseur... connoisseur...

In actual fact, the desire to do a good job, and our thorough love of playing together will keep us away from temptation (within reason of course...)

Thanks for reading, guys. Might see some of you over the weekend :-)

laters

R

OHP gig, Rory, the etiquette of peeing oneself

I always forget! I mean, I'll be the first to admit that I'm not the sharpest cornflake in the toolshed, but surely something that crops up every year and lasts over two months is likely to make an impression. In my defense, it hardly happened at all last year. Still though...

I am referring of course to the January/Febuary slump that hits musicians (and everyone else) every year with the force of a hurled plaster bust of Seth McFarlane, with approximately the same comedic effect, which is to say, no comedic effect. Luckily, the early months of a fledgling 2013 have been peppered with lovely gigs that, if not keeping my pockets jingling (which reminds me, has anyone seen my keys?), are certainly keeping a smile on my face and whatever orifice the body uses to store artistic pride full of same. Last week saw Fast.Like.Fun get in the Funmobile (it's actually a red Transit van) and head to Waterford for a gig in a lovely little venue called Murphy's (just opposite the bus station if you're in the area). All and sundry had a great time. Ohio the OHP cello-meister came up to see us, in the company of his mother and sister who are over from the States visiting their no-good son/ ne'er-do-well brother. I also had a chance to catch up with some friends from college, which was long overdue, and really added to the friendly atmosphere of the gig.

Another rockin rollicking good time was had last wednesday, when One Horse Pony finally played a gig in the Crane Lane. You've heard me talking about the place many times at this stage. It's a place I've been playing for years with various different bands. Last wednesday's performance could well have been my favorite performance there to date. The difference between the youtube clips I sent the booking agent (clips which are over a year old) and the band that we have become is profound. The visual difference is as good as any to illustrate just how much we've grown. The clip featured meself, Badger, Harmonica Niall and a guest drummer dishing it out goodo. Plenty of energy, good music and much shape-throwing to get the crowd into the spirit of things. By comparison, the band that played on Wednesday featured guitars, harmonica, bodhran (the lovely Irish traditional drum made from dead animal), cello, low whistle and harmonica (courtesy of Kev, our new brother-in-arms). Seated in a horseshoe shape rather than standing, but still giving out goodo and relying solely on the music to speak for itself and get people going was the order of the day. It worked. Five-part harmonies? More or less, yeah! We were lucky to be playing to a large crowd (who wasted no time in showing off their excellent dancing abilities), and we were well-rehearsed, tight and comfortable. But you know what? Excellent performances from everyone, a great crowd, a happy venue, a few fluff-ups that made us giggle and every other facet that makes a great gig great will forever be eclipsed in my memory by what happened after the gig.

So let me set the scene. The bouncers are clearing everyone out. We're all hanging out at the back of the smoking section close to the cigarette machine and the toilets, having a well deserved cigarette and a bit of communal back-patting session (that sounds bad, but isn't). A girl, having dodged the army of eight foot bouncers, made her way towards us and started talking what can best be described as gibberish. Fair enough, we go along with it and whole-heartedly concur with all the bits we can understand, and generally agree that yes, on balance her boyfriend is a twat, her friends are an awful shower, and, all things considered, her shoes ARE very nice. She then unceremoniously pissed herself.

The tomes of social etiquette are silent on what to do in this situation. Naturally if the person in question looks justifiably mortified, you assure him/her that these things happen to the best of us, and they're among friends. If it happens to be a very pretty girl doing the peeing, I (being the chivalrous type) might even pee my own pants in solidarity and sympathy. That's not quite true, but a little giggle-inducing to think about. The girl in question however, did not look shocked or embarrassed, but instead comported herself as you would stubbing out a cigarette or checking the time; a perfectly understandable reason for briefly stopping the flow of conversation, and best done quickly and efficiently, so as not to delay the chat. I took this opportunity to make an exit, owing to a deep-seated belief that incontinence is contagious.

Fast.Like.Fun were in operation last night supporting Irish metal heavyweights Time Is A Thief. We had a great gig with a great response from the attending rawkers *devil horns rock gesture thing* but it was the second time in as many gigs I've had a glaringly bad 'pedalboard malfunction' which is a little like a wardrobe malfunction, but with marginally less nipple. At the crucial time, instead of hitting the 'makey-louder' pedal I accidentally pressed the 'mutey-poo' one. These are technical terms. Yep, still not brightest bridge in the box, but now I have an excuse to spend a few hours industriously mucking about with my pedalboard. I can positively feel the envy radiating off you.

On a slightly strange note, I just realized (mostly because facebook just told me) that it's Rory Gallagher's birthday today. Being from his hometown, and a blues-rocker at heart, I'm a tremendous fan of Rory, spent many an hour learning some of his solos note for note (or so I thought at the time... I was but a young'un) and cut my teeth in a blues bar founded in his honour. In that blues bar, I first performed in public and, especially significantly today, fronted a band for the first time, on Rory's birthday. That would have been this day six years ago. Teehee. It's coming up to 9pm at time of writing, and it doesn't take a colossal leap of imagination to think of my younger self completely shitting it, half an hour away from playing a gig with my first full blues band. It went pretty well as I recall. At some stage I'll sit down and write an entry about Rory. He's certainly a guy worth talking about. For now, happy birthday Rory! You're missed.

That's all for the moment, guys. I'm off to play a game of Hunt The Keys.

Thanks for reading. More to come :-)

R

1926, FLF show, OHP recording session, Balanced breakfast.

“Four score and seven years ago...”

When someone starts with this, you know shit just got real...

*ahem*

“Four score and seven years ago...”

Gettysburg, wasn't it?

Anyway...

“Four score and seven years ago...”

Look, being honest, I don't have bearded notion what was happening 87 years ago. This little Lincolnian device was meant to add a certain gravitas to my first buh-log of 2013, and it really hasn't panned out. So let's see what Jimmy Whales has to say about this. According to Wikipedia, 1926 began on a friday. In the proceeding twelve months, Fascism features heavily in the news, Mussolini survives two separate assassination attempts, and the average Cool factor per capita on planet Earth is substantially increased with the births of Miles Davis (with whom I share a birthday, but not THAT birthday), Marilyn Monroe and John Coltrane. Other notable births include Hugh Heffner and Mel Brooks. A Dick Dale was born. This Dick Dale, however, was not THE Dick Dale. Just A Dick Dale. Well done, 1926. Not bad at all for a small-town year that began on a Friday.

Moving on...

Four score and seven years ago, or more accurately, 11 months ago, I took to the stage in one of Cork's more prestigious venues with Keith and Barra to play a short support slot for our friends Senakah. This band had rehearsed twice, had four songs, and no name. 11 months later (that's last Wednesday), having released an EP and three videos, having garnered over 10,000 youtube views, and gained a whole heap of new friends and fans, played a bunch of shows, and with national radio-play and offers to tour internationally well and truly in the bag, Fast.Like.Fun (oh yeah, we picked up a name along the way too) returned to the Crane Lane Theatre to play our own show.

And? And??? It went wonderfully! We pulled in a massive crowd (far bigger than I expected, and it wasn't like I was being overly pessimistic), got everyone dancing, and got a great review from an online tv station (I'm not actually sure what that is, but the young people assure me it's what all the cool kids are doing). Maybe I'm being a little overly dramatic about it, and I'm not altogether sure if I can explain the way I feel about it, but it felt like a landmark gig. I suppose it just book-ends the last year (give or take) of Fast.Like.Fun-related hijinx nicely, with us returning to our first stage, this time with a full set and a full house of people who know and like (hopefully) the music. I suppose the gig last Wednesday is the end of the first chapter in the FLF story (a raunchy and exciting tale of questionable grammatical integrity) The first chapter of many, I might add :-)

The shows in the Crane run pretty late (pretty late for Ireland anyway). I was on stage for 1am, off by 2am and gratefully collapsing into my bed at 4am. A leisurely three hours later the alarm went off and out of bed I stumbled in preparation for the penultimate recording session for the One Horse Pony album. I've long been in the habit of setting my alarm clock ridiculously early in these situations, simply because I know that these early-mornings-after-late-nights are fraught with all manner of confusion and accidents of the porridge-in-hair-instead-of-gel variety. After only three minutes of methodical experimentation, I managed to unlock the front door and, benefitting greatly from the balanced breakfast trickling down the back of my neck, off I toddled into town.

We set ourselves a timetable which, at best, could be described as rigorous for the day's recording. Over the course of the ten hour session we wrapped up the last guitar parts and Badger's vocals, unleashed the Meerkat and his Low Whistle of Destiny (+5 to Dexterity, +8 to Groove) on our take on the Robert Johnson classic Last Fair Deal, kazoo'd some kazoo, laid down some seriously soulful backing vocals, and even found the time to knock out some handclaps (or 'claps' as they're commonly known...) on some of the tracks. Handshakes (and accompanying winces) ensued, and we made our way back West, thoroughly exhausted, but satisfied at a job well done. Big shout-out to Jenny Mac, a stunning singer based in San Francisco who happened to be back in Ireland. She added a lovely country vibe to the backing vocals on a song of mine called 'Blue When I Go'. There are some photos of the session to be found on the One Horse Pony facebook page (link waaaay over there on the right), so take a look, leave a comment and/or engage the Blue Thumb of Approval on anything that takes your fancy. I've got to say, the more I listen to the album, the more I love it. I can't wait for you guys to hear it! 

Life remains sweet. The Hound and I have start running again after a sedentary winter. Let the local poultry population beware! I continue to be surrounded by (and at times, propped up by) wonderful people, and 2013 promises to be a good'un. A bit late, I suppose, but I wish all of you a happy new year, and sincerely hope that it's happy, productive, and filled with love, laughter, good friends, good food and good music.

Thanks for reading guys, more to come :-)

Later

R

Concerning Ties, Gigs and Onesies

It has been a tiny little chunk of 'far too fecking long!' since I buh-logged some buh-log in your general direction, dear Reader. Here's my best middle class apologetic-and-politely-embarrassed face to make up for it. Notice the scrunched up cheeks and a general forehead topography your average Klingon would be proud of? Please also note that I'm smiling in a way that suggests I'm going to get away with it. Gimme a tick, let me put on this tie and stand next to this water-cooler. Better? Look, the point is that I'm sorry. That used to be enough for you! I'm taking this tie off in disgust.

The truth is, it's hard to think of stuff with which to load the buh-log cannon. I could be rocking out all over the place, playing a whole host of great shows with the cool cats I'm lucky enough to play with, but by the end of the week, the only thing I can remember about the week is that we're trying a new type of peanut butter and the Hound tried to kill a chicken. Speaking of peanut butter and the Hound, we're trying a new type of peanut butter (preliminary results indicate that it's ok), and the Hound tried to kill a chicken while we were out walking. Not happy about that at all. The chicken didn't take it well either.

As it happens though, the last two weeks have been dotted with some lovely gigs, a few of them quite landmark in their own small way. Small landmarks. You get those, you know. Chrono-mologically speaking, the first was Fast.Like.Fun's first headlining gig, in a lovely venue in Cork called An Bróg. That's Irish for 'The Shoe', which takes away from the place's rock credence I suppose. Pronounced 'brogue', by the way. And that's where 'a pair of brogues' comes from. That little ingot of info would very likely qualify for a “...and knowing is half the battle...” if G.I. Joe had been more footwear-oriented. So yeah, Fast.Like.Fun gig! I'm happy to report that it couldn't have gone better! The support acts we got in were fantastic, we drew a sizeable crowd of people fully intent on rocking out, and the new material went down a storm! One of the things that really got me was that I recognized quite a lot of heads of the local music scene in attendance, everything from punk rockers to metallers, from folkies to jazz-heads, and everyone seemed to be enjoying it. That's alright with me! We played tighter than we've ever done before, and although we deviated from the setlist once or twice, the set we eventually played had a lovely flow to it. The fact that we have now have a full set, in which we have the confidence and comfort needed to properly play it means we'll be able to take Fast.Like.Fun further afield, which will be kicking off in the new year. Interesting times ahead!

The second gig that really stands out in the last few weeks was far more intimate and chilled out. In one of those scenarios that often happens in any music scene, I had played with each of the two singer-songwriters I was accompanying in the past, and they have worked extensively together, but it was the first time we had all shared a stage. The result was fantastic! The room was packed, and yet still had a lovely intimate feel, the sound was great, and the fact that we all have different playing styles meant that the three acoustic guitars were very complimentary of one another, rather being muddy. We got a great response from all and sundry, so I won't be surprised if there aren't more of these down the road. If you get the chance, check em out; Lynda Cullen and Fintan Lucy. Both have a wealth of self-penned songs in their repertoire, and are absolute joys to play with. The barman even suggested a name for this incredibly attractive and effortlessly harmonising little ensemble (not biased...); LynFinTintin, owing in part to the Hergé-esque nature of my hair on the night. Much guffawing ensued...

The third was a few nights ago. What made this one is bit strange was that it was the first time I've played a solo gig in years, and the first time I've ever played a show of just my own songs. I've got to say that I have a newfound respect for singer-songwriter-y types. It can be a bit lonely up there all on your lonesome! For all that, it went very well. I played a few songs of mine that fit neither the One Horse Pony groove nor that of Fast.Like.Fun, so it was nice to give them an airing. Since playing on my own is something on which I want to focus more, it gave me a lot to think about. Figuring out a way to fill the spaces I'd generally leave to for a lead break is one that comes to mind. Although that ability to play a melody over a basic rhythm part is something I admire in many of my favorite guitar players (particularly in the acoustic world) it's not something I can do very well for much of my stuff. Definitely something worth taking a look at. The kazoo (commonly referred to as Satan's kazoo by OHP) made an appearance, but the kazoo is, to me at least, a novelty in my material, and I'm reluctant to make it a bigger part of my set. The kazoo is just going to have to deal with that.

On a none musical note (there's probably a joke in there somewhere), life in this neck of the woods continues to be sweet. In the sticks though, you feel the seasons a lot more. The desire to hibernate is positively palpable. Productivity has gone way down, and doses of the flu, colds, shivers, sniffles and sore throats are never more than a few steps away. A crappy summer, crappy weather and the onset of Christmas-related financial woes have left all of us at the Ranch a little drained and more dependent on vitamin C supplements than we have any business being. Both the Hound and I are really feeling the lack of running. Luckily, I've discovered that the trick to surviving such bleak days and chilly nights is to surround oneself with good people, invest in a good onesie and to never pass up the opportunity of engaging in a rigorous game of 'Rob has Stick, Rob throws Stick, Hound gets Stick, Stick belongs to Hound now, feck off Rob'. As an aside, if anyone out there knows where I can find a onesie that looks like a Star Trek: Next Gen uniform, please let me know. You don't know how happy owning such a garment would make me.

More to come, dear Reader. Thanks for reading

Later

R

PS

As a bit of a PS to the blog I posted 30 seconds ago, I just thought I'd let you know that, aside from album magical-ness, all's good in the hood. Last weekend saw One Horse Pony having a lovely time back on Sherkin Island. The weather was beautiful, the drink flowed, the music thoroughly rocked, and we were joined by a few guests who came over especially. An impromptu jam was had on the ferry. Weird sporty croc-type shoes were found in a ditch. I went for a run in a pair of ladies shorts that wouldn't quite close. There was a dog.

Tomorrow night will be the first official gig of the new One Horse Pony line-up, to which I'm really looking forward. To celebrate, here's a photo (taken by Barra Vernon) of us having a bit of a jam at the tail end of our recording session at the house. Take a look, and marvel at how such a crowd of malignant, malicious looking mouth-breathers can make such a heavenly sound :-)

One Horse Pony; Meself, Meerkat, Ohio, the Badger 

We'll have a bit of rehearsal a little later on, and tomorrow is dedicated to getting ready for three days of buses, gigging and teaching, followed RAWKING with the Pony. Given all that, I think I shall accompany the Badger, the Dame and Ohio for a quick expedition to the pub.

later,

R

Album, Captain Picard, Click-tracks...

“Right,” said he, giving the old blogging muscles a bit of a flex, “time to sit dull-eyed in front of my laptop while I have a gap between lessons and buh-log a mofo'in buh-log!”

This last month has been mental. Not 'kind of interesting', and not 'lots of fun, when you think about it'... no, it's been taking-off-your-clothes-and-running-from-the-police, the-studio-audience-are-zombies, talking-to-a-fish Mental. With a capital 'M', and possibly a capital 'E' too, just for good measure. In the last month, One Horse Pony did most of the tracking for our debut album! With a capital '!', cos thats how I roll...

After much talk over fine cigars and brandy (or possibly beer and cigarettes; my memory of that night is a little hazy) Badger and I decided that, in order to make the best album possible, inflicting ourselves on an unsuspecting studio wasn't a viable option. There could be casualties. Instead, after much humming and hawing (although I'm not actually sure how one 'haws') we decided that there was really nowhere we felt more comfortable, and nowhere we bounced off each other better, than home. So Ranch, sweet Ranch was where we recorded! And who better to bring down to engineer than Barra Vernon; engineer extraordinaire, not to mention drummer in Fast.Like.Fun.

In the weeks running up to starting recording, the whole thing was put in danger by a serious personnel change. Harmonica Niall parted company with OHP for personal reasons. Despite the fact that it wasn't an easy parting, I wish him well. 'Nuf said, really. We decided to truck on regardless, and were rewarded almost instantly. The week before we were set to record, we had a big jam session at the Ranch, for which we had finally got our hands on a cello for our houseguest Ohio, a self-confessed cellist and reformed Heavy Metal enthusiast. No sooner had he bowed that strange bastard instrument of doom and destruction, smiles erupted on the faces of all present. Cello works in blues!! I mean it really works! The way Ohio plays it, the cello does the work of a double bass, as well as occasionally raising up an octave or three to deliver lead breaks that will cause all and sundry to grab their partner, skip the dosey-doh'ing entirely , and move right on to doing unspeakable things to various parts of them. His inclusion on the album was immediately agreed upon.

So recording week arrived, bringing with it an atmosphere of excitement, anticipation and perhaps a wee bit of trepidation. Barra's extensive arsenal of recording equipment was deposited in the lounge (henceforth, the live room) and the man-cave (henceforth, the control room). Meerkat (henceforth, the Meerkat) was deposited in the spare room (henceforth... ah, you get the picture), all ready for kick-off bright and early the next day.

And, despite an attack of batarang-wielding vampires and that guy from my old work who was inexplicably dressed as Captain Jean-Luc Picard, that's exactly what happened. Maybe that last bit was a dream. No, I remember it clearly. Anyway, guitars went down first, a seriously long and lengthy process. Long and lengthy due to the fact that we decided early on use a click track, which is metronome-like audio track that is used by cunning engineers to frustrate musicians through their headphones. That, and it keeps us excitable types in time, allowing further instruments to be added to the track at a later date with the greatest of ease. It means though, that the first track to be put down on every song is a thundering beee-atch to do properly. I've worked with click tracks before, and experience has taught me that we don't get on. They're inconsiderate and refuse to compromise, their taste in wine sucks and they're respective mothers didn't raise them right. Eventually however, we managed to get it all done.

After that, in fairness, all went well. Once the primary guitar track was lovingly (huh) set down by either Badger or myself, the other put second guitar track down. A mish-mash (a word? I think so...) of bodhran (the traditional Irish hand-drum, played expertly by Meerkat), cello and vocals, followed and were individually ticked off, track by track. In my experience, recording can be a seriously stressful affair. Regardless of the studio, be it Abbey Road, or a converted living room, that search for the perfect take, frustration at oneself, nerves, and Satan-worshiping click-tracks, can cause tempers to fray like kittens attacking a tapestry, chairs to be hurled at walls, bandmates to be defenestrated, and, in the extreme case of a Ary Barroso recording in August 1939, a world war. Our recording process, on the other hand, was a peaceful and productive affair, where any frustration was brief and spirits remained high, mostly due to the lovely atmosphere, copious amounts of good food, and the presence of automatic weapons.

One particular piece of good luck occurred on the last day of primary tracking. Having maintained a bit of a 'closed shop' policy for most of the week, we suddenly found ourselves with half a dozen guests on the sunday afternoon, just in time for everyone to don a pair of headphones and roar along with No More Water, an a cappella gospel song of mine. The results sound like a fire 'n' brimstone congregation, ready to lay some righteous smack-down on sin, temptation, and probably click-tracks. Or something like that.

So that's about it, as it stands. A few more recording sessions, and everything will be done. We'll be well on the way to unleashing a great album, of which we're exceedingly proud, on an unsuspecting public. Low whistle (a traditional pipe common to Irish trad music, again played wonderfully by the Meerkat), backing vocals, claps, shakers, a little bit of guitar and a few other bits and pieces all need to be put down, and thankfully I'm surrounded by dear friends who can do all that with the very best of 'em. This is the first album on which I'll be producer as well as musician, and the people I'm working with have made it an absolute blast. The ball is well and truly rolling on a very exciting time in the life of the Pony. As always, I'll do my best to keep you posted. Life remains sweet.

More to come, guys. Thanks for reading :-)

R