Crotchet Drawing

C and I are making drawings of a piece of Elgar's music. My old french teacher Mr H pours us copious glasses of champagne and we feel deliriously happy.

Our ink is running out and Mr H is reluctant to give us any of his. He has an idea -  he will search for a later part of the music which will not require so much ink- I think he must mean that it has more minims and quavers rather than crotchets.

I secretly think that as he will be buying our drawings anyway he should give us his ink so we can get on with it.

Scarey Rolf

Rolf Harris sings softly on Top of the Pops. His face is covered in hair and his mouth filled with white space.

The Important Message

I have organised a party and in Polish tradition we are each to name a cause for us all to toast. The hall grows to accommodate perhaps 250 people. Music plays and one by one each person offers their particular blessing into the mike. 

I have a short text in my notebook that I want to read.  It is the reason I assembled everyone in the first place, so I am desperate and excited for my turn to arrive. 

I ask for the deafening William Tell overture to be turned down. The audience continues chattering loudly.

"PLEASE...LISTEN," I beg them, "this is such an important message." 

And I turn to my book to find the passage, but of course the page is missing. 

TV Liberty

A stamp on the 10th of January in my diary. All the extras in Coronation Street gather in an aerial shot of the street singing the US national anthem. The telly is really pushing home this liberty/land of the free theme at the moment.

Fragment Of Song

A French boy tries to recall a very sweet song- something like- "Je ne reste..." (...I am not staying...or I can't rest/stay)

Silent Talk

In a chaotic courtroom resembling something by Hogarth, I am to take part in a conference with three other artists. The main speaker and my old college tutor stand half way up the stairs trying to make themselves heard above the jazz blasting out of the sound system. I raise my hand, "This is an obvious point," I say, "but wouldn't it be better if the music were turned off?" The DJ kids are indignant- it is there to create an informal atmosphere. But they do as they are bid, and now the speaker can be heard clearly.
Except he stands and says nothing. He is not tonguetied. His "talk" is about listening to the silence.

Jonathan Aitken On My Bed

I have just spent some time with a group of women sorting through a collection of music. Singing to myself, I return home to my loft apartment in a big house. Jonathan Aitken is reading on my bed. He has been playing the piano and makes some comment about the song I was singing. I am impressed he knows it so well.

Buddhist Led Reality TV

A Buddhist teacher monitors the contestants at the start of a new reality TV show. The first entrants are a mainly female pop band . I practise with them but am always behind with the dance moves. They are alarmed when they are told that they will be expected to sing live. Next on is a successful male singer, a political agitator, media savvy and far too sure of himself. Last on is an ordinary man , a non celebrity. He stands before the monk aware that he may speak only when asked. He is presented with a Buddhist HOAN written in large black ink. Keep reading he is instructed or you get hit.

(HOAN = something to do with hone, haiku and possibly inchoate- also found the Chinese word huan from the I-Ching which means dispersion)

Tuning My Banjo

I have just joined an all male jazz band, playing the banjo. We rehearse a set. I am ok-ish although the others keep asking me to tune my instrument. I pretend to fiddle with the tuning pegs but don't have a clue what I am doing. After the session I confess that tuning the banjo will take me a long time and that I might need a little help to begin with from the others when we go live.

Subtitles For Music

Alice is sleeping in my flat. M has set up a portable TV/computer very close to her head and is watching some vintage performance art accompanied by music with an annoying insistent beat - lots of bleeps and clicks. When she asks him to turn the sound down he raises his eyebrows and just pretends to alter the volume. "Can't you watch with subtitles?" she suggests.

Daft Suggestion

Some ghastly competition for the best band is taking place - something like Pop Idol with its waspish producers. We watch overworked kids full of hope - some angelic voices and crazy dance routines. Seems to be set somewhere in East Europe - everything a tad rough round the edges. At one point I make a suggestion about everyone getting together to create one group. But I know no-one is going to listen to that.

Lame Attempt To Run Music Workshop

I am running a music workshop for teenagers alongside another teacher. They are quite a rowdy and sullen bunch but I realise the main reason for this is because the other teacher is getting them to sing naff songs. I work with one boy to set up the stage for him to use as he wants - I have no idea what I am doing but arrange a record player surrounded by piles of boxes. He is not that happy with it but settles for it as a kind of compromise. I have no time to do anything for the other kids.

Esther Rantzen's Wish

"Write down or draw all the things that are missing in your life", a woman half Esther Rantzen half an old teacher instructs me. She carries a pile of A2 drawing pads into the room. I thank her singing in an operatic style. She chants back that one of the main things missing in her life is time spent with her husband Desmond Morris (sic). "Perhaps I should add that to my list," I sing in reply.

Songs In Jars

Behind the bar the music is stored in clearly labelled jars on the shelves. I am drawing lines connecting the songs.

Sleeping In The Ruins

I am sleeping in the ruins of an old abbey. I have to get up to turn off the music blasting from the sound system. My friend Keith (who died thirteen years ago) is trying to sleep in the next room. Another young man, lying on a crumbling ledge, has been woken by the noise. As I return to bed I notice air is being pumped through an ancient air conditioning system buried amongst the rubble.

Nightmare Opera Divas

A blond opera performer is repeatedly put forward as my potential future bride. I am not interested. As the cast line up I know she will be at the end of the row and I try to arrest the action. I am foiled - she disappears concealed by two glittering divas who chase me into a lift. Endless velvet shutters slam shut where the lift doors should be. The scene changes abruptly and I find myself in bed with some big black creature jumping on top of me.

The Unhewn Cello

Princess Diana's funeral cortege is parading outside a grand old house. I step to one side: I have priorities elsewhere - I am carrying parts of an unhewn cello that I am supposed to play in a concert. I have never played before but there is no other cellist around. Music emerges from different rooms inside the house. I look in at a group of primary school children using charcoal to draw an animated oboeist.

Lifeless Room

I am leaning into the corner of a small hall where evensong is taking place. The congregation consists of white haired women and young children. The music is substandard and slow, "Get a move on", one of the kids mutters. Two women limp out. The organist, an old man with Downs' Syndrome turns and says, "It's not working." Someone tries the keys - the organ has broken down.

If you feel that love, can't you beam it up here

In a smoky bar the customers are transfixed by a very ordinary looking man who is singing a heart rending love song. He leans against a pencil smudged pillar dragging his fingers through the graphite surface. As the song grows in intensity his whole body creates a drawing of marks left behind by the unexpected twists of his limbs. He slides down across the floor and ends on a clear high note, "If you feel that love, can't you beam it up here..." The audience hoist him up and carry him outside.

CD Images Converted To Dirge

I take a pile of CD's from the junk shop and shrink all the images saving them on one CD. The CD is now converted into a hymn sung by schoolboys. A pianist mutters his apologies as he plays the introduction which sounds like a car revving up. The hymn is sung unenthusiastically on one low mournful note, "Oh happy days..." There is a long contemplative pause before the next verse.