Another August evening.

Another August Evening.

It has been a perfect blue and blustery day, and looks set to continue being such into the evening. But no matter how perfect the weather outside, such days can also lend themselves all too readily to spells of cat nap dreaming within, and that, combined with Joyce’s “Dubliners”, has been the focus of much of my day.

I write my journal entry now, before retreating to the garden bench for a sunset of tea and jammy dodgers, the jammy dodgers having been bought from the corner shop just minutes ago, especially for this purpose. My short walk there took me past that rather dubious “Aryan” looking gent, seated as he sometimes is upon the low wall opposite, his white hair visible in the dark shade of the tree. He hates talking to anyone, so I couldn’t resist confronting him with a cheery “Hello”, and some banal comment about the “lovely day”, forcing a response from his grudging expression. I’m “old school” when it comes to cheery hellos and chat with strangers, not discouraged when some show visible signs of surprise if offered a courteous “Good morning” on the street, or a “take one for yourself mate” tip at the bar.

Patricia the Show Girl (I have no idea of her real name) is “old school”. She recognised me last night in The Bell Inn from the time before; the time she saw the light of my camera screen in the darkness above the heads of her audience, as she performed her solo enactment of Bill Sykes’ grisly death scene from “Oliver”.

So, it was nice having a little banter with Patricia the Show Girl. Maybe one day I’ll get close enough to find out her story, without wanting to pry or cause distress. There is something about her disposition which might suggest a once institutionalised person whose behaviour might never again fully align with the expectations of the outside world. Good for her.

Dave the Fish Guy is definitely “old school“. He doesn’t do what he does simply to sell fish from pub to pub. It’s more a performance for him, donning the white hat and coat overalls, strolling amongst us. It’s the fine details, like his bow tie, and kitchen foil silver-lined basket, with carefully self-printed label, which give him away. All combine to suggest one thing: “Show time”. Another clue as to why Dave the Fish Guy does what he does was his asking price when I asked him to pose for a photo. Any other market trader would have accepted a purchase in return, but not Dave the Fish Guy. His stated price was to be photographed alongside the lady friend I was with. We obliged, and at his request I posted that photograph to him today.

Nottingham is presently proving an exceptionally sociable place to be. Once again, I had to walk home, having got the bus time wrong but feeling safe along the way. I think I’m relating to the city in a way I’ve never done before, even though I once spent countless hours behind its nightclub doors. I like it that some of my sketches of the city’s venues come up on Google’s search page. There does seem to be an undercurrent of creative things happening here. Even David Hockney is on his way, or at least a retrospective of his work at the Contemporary Gallery.

My neighbour tells me summer officially ended yesterday. That’s not true. Summer cannot possibly end until the children are all back inside school. And even then, we can all make wishes for an Indian summer of sunny mid-September outings. Outside is still blue and blustery. I shall go and devour my jammy dodgers.

All text, pros, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.

Something about Elvis.

 Something about Elvis.

The big white cupboard with the 1950s style plastic handles, to the left of the tiled fireplace, is where we kept our records, along with the large wooden needlework box, an assortment of simple board games, the all but forgotten pages of a great grandfather’s sketchbook, and a sea captain’s black writing chest. Almost all of these records were of the large, shellac, 78rpm variety, lying dormant in those dark recesses for 53 weeks of the year, until my father’s Hogmanay celebrations came around, for which the entire nearby village of Perlethorpe would seem to cram into our front room. Not surprisingly then, the titles would favour endless Scottish reels by Jimmy Shand and his Band, alongside bland British versions of “popular music” epitomised by the likes of Malcolm Vaughn‘s “You Are My Special Angel”, with just a smattering of Tommy Steele and Jim Dale. I think the only American record present was Harry Belafonte’s “Mary's Boy Child”. Not for our family the vulgar excesses of Johnnie Ray.

As a small child I was more fascinated by the little silver fish which would scarper across the tiled hearth of the fireplace next to that cupboard, but by the age of nine the contents of what was inside became more intriguing. Two discs in particular caught my attention, being smaller than the rest. These were the new-fangled 45rpms which heralded the change from “popular” to “pop”.

I cannot imagine for the life of me how Elvis Presley made his way into our home. Of course, I thought I knew what “rock and roll” was. I thought it was anyone who wore flashy clothes and topped the bill on TV’s “Sunday Night at the London Palladium”. Surely Alma Cogan was rock and roll, and Liberace, and certainly Tommy Steele, judging by the full colour picture of him on my Big Sister’s wall, wearing a blue shirt with red guitar. I had no idea that Elvis pre-dated both Tommy and Jim Dale by at least three years. So, imagine how I felt when I first played those pieces of black vinyl with the triangular centres? It would have been akin to opening my “Lion Comic for Boys”, and having a topless picture of the lady from “Watch with Mother” drop to the carpet. Even more, it was like discovering something which had hitherto been kept secret, and which no-one else appeared to know about, like it had been planted in that cupboard for me, by hands unknown, the final piece in the jig saw picture of dawning teenage puberty.

I soon discovered that the ideal place for playing my new found treasures was the little used Dining Room at the rear of our property. It was here that the hollow space beneath the floor boards, aided by the penny I taped to the record player’s arm for extra bass, would enhance the sound of the track, sending it resonating out into the surrounding forest. I had no concept of what songs were current, or new. To me they were all records. Danny Kaye sat easily alongside Lonnie Donegan on my play list. All that mattered was the magic of the sound. And there was no sound more magical than Elvis.

The intro to “Dixieland Rock” is long, building up the tension, anticipating the moment when Elvis will start to sing. I would try and guess that moment, trying to come in at the same time as him: “Well down in New Orleans at the Golden Goose, I grabbed a green-eyed dolly that was on the loose”. What the heck? I had no idea what he was singing about, but long before I even saw a picture of him, I knew how he moved. However, the real slice of heaven came on the B-side to “It’s Now Or Never”, where Elvis’s superior post-Army vocal chords slide in unison with the honeyed left hand of Floyd Cramer pumping the ivories, as the doo-woppin’ Jordanaires urge them both on from the sidelines: “You say that you love me, and swear it to be true, well a’ think that’s fine if a you ain’t lyin’, just make me know what t’do”. That moment was like Gabriel had arrived with his horn. No digitally enhanced CD will ever match the sound of the first few seconds of “Make Me Know It” as it reverberated atop those hollow floor boards, courtesy of a portable mono record player, not forgetting the all-important penny taped to the arm. And nothing ever will.

It would be a year or so before we got to see what Elvis looked like, aside from a few out of date pictures in Big Sister’s comic, the editor of which surely favoured the safer home-grown sounds of Cliff Richard. We were on holiday in Ingoldmells, when “G.I. Blues” was playing at the nearby cinema. From that moment on Elvis Presley was a constant “presence” in our house.

As short years passed we all had our individual heroes. Big Sister would embark on an imaginary love affair with mop-top heart throb George Harrison. I would be caught trying to listen to a hidden copy of Sgt Peppers at grammar school. My Middle Sister would subsequently scream her lungs out over David Cassidy, to be superseded in turn by Kid Sister becoming the first (and only) punk in town. But we ALL came back to playing an Elvis record from time to time. It kind of united us when apart, and at family gatherings when wild renditions of “Lawdy Miss Clawdy” were the order of the day.

On August 16th, 1977, I was at “home” in my parents’ house, watching the TV. Mother came through on her way to the downstairs toilet. Whilst she was in there the news came: “We are getting unconfirmed reports from Memphis, Tennessee, that Elvis Presley has died”. I started thinking how I could best break that news to mother. Such are the silly details which define our lives. Kid Sister was also at home, and we spent the following hours of the night and well into the morning, listening to non-stop Elvis on Radio Luxemburg. It was hard to believe that someone who had in part orchestrated our lives for so long was now gone, and yet at the same time it seemed somehow “right”. Warning photographs of a “fat Elvis” had never appeared in the British press, who hadn’t really been near a recording studio for the last three years of his life. Also, 42 years seemed so old for a pop star back then!

Elvis was “The King”. He’s still regarded as such. The people gave him that title way back in the 1950s, without being prompted or paid to do so. John Lennon once said “Don’t worship dead heroes simply because they’re dead”. And I don’t. I “worship” Elvis partly because he was one of the greatest performers that ever lived, but mostly because of something which was ignited in me by the contents of that big white cupboard to the left of the tiled fireplace, a long time ago.

All text copyright ian g craig.

August Evening.

August Evening

I’m in the garden. Sunset to the left, not that I can see its orb depart behind the rooftops. Two pigeons coo in the trees to the right, sexually and lovingly fulfilled. Above me, airliners like small silver bullets leave white vapour trails across a sky bluer now than any witnessed in recent days. Occasionally there is a rumble across the heavens as they strain to gain altitude. Decades ago, I painted a portrait of an air hostess. This year she sent it back for lack of wall space. Or was that last year? I have no sense of time.

It’s been a good day. Emulsion paint has given way to spirit based undercoat, bare timber has turned white, and the kitchen has two new blinds. But last night was not a good night. I have a second recurring dream, worse really than the one about the open back door which I can never lock. Maybe if I write it down I’ll break its spell:

The dream finds me having to go back to work as a teacher. It seems someone made an error and I couldn’t leave after all. In the dream I have no control over the classes. No-one listens to me, and I’m forced to scream louder and louder and louder, but never gain their attention. I wake up alarmed and distressed. The dream bears no resemblance at all to the reality of my working life, where I always enjoyed positive relationships with my students. So maybe I don’t feel in control of my life right now, and the dream is a manifestation of that? Maybe. But enough about dreams.

A young couple with a baby have moved into the house opposite. It’s a nice sound. Every evening the man of the house seems to come home with something new for their garden: Wind chimes; a Buddha; ornamental animals. And he rides a multi-mirrored mod scooter. You have to like people who ride multi-mirrored mod scooters.

As for my own garden, I intend changing that around come September. The tree I bought with a previous girlfriend years ago, seems to be naturalized, extending now far beyond the 4 metres maximum height I was assured. It’s going to need trimming, but one has to “wait until the sap stops rising”. Unlike the way she left me without waiting for my sap to stop rising. I suppose rules are made to be broken.

The sun is almost gone. What now? Another mug of tea in my Workhouse souvenir mug? Or wine? One last hot tea I think. Time enough for wine later.

All text, pros, photos & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.