Songs of Another Age

I’m working on a couple of fairly large collections of poems and songs at present. So here’s a collection of pieces from before these:

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Lothario’s Charms

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Emma Lee Moss

This was commissioned by a weirdo called Larry (played by Emma Lee Moss) eight days ago on the last day of an online songwriting course. Larry claimed he’d moved on from his Lothario image and wanted to impress Shakespeare. I sussed him out though and wrote a song where he’s trying to impress Shakespeare but is still a Lothario. After I’d performed the song, Emma revealed that Larry had been listening in and his agent had just rung to say he would be putting the song on his next album. One of my fellow course mates said: “I think Larry would take it just for that one line: ‘Break me off a little piece of your exquisite life.’” I owe a debt to the diction, tone, and cadence of the lines in Leonard Cohen’s “Dance Me to the End of Love”.

Click on the title for the sung version.

Lothario’s Charms

for Larry

I talked to you this morning.
The way that you were stalling  
Lothario’s charms
made me think you might consider
a literary dinner
while lyin’ in my arms.
Woobidoobidoo, wabadoobidoo, ah.

So meet me late in the library,
at a quarter after ten,
an’ if you choose to lie for me,
I’ll never ask again.
Break me off a little piece
of your exquisite life.
We could honeymoon in Greece,
an’ you could be my wife.     (Ha, ha, ha, ha.)

I spotted you this evening.
The fact that you were leaving
sent shivers down my spine.
An’ I think of you tonightly
although it’s quite unlikely.
It’s only just gone nine.
Woobidoobidoo, woobidoobidoo, ah.

So meet me late in the library,
at a quarter after ten,
an’ if you choose to lie for me
I’ll never ask again.
Break me off a little piece
of your exquisite life.
We could honeymoon in Greece,
an’ you could be my wife.     (Ha, ha, ha, ha.)

Komshulak at Moniack

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Dan Willson, Emma Lee Moss, Kapka Kassabova, Kathryn Williams, Kris Drever, Michele Stodart, Moniack Mhor

In November I went on a songwriting course at Moniack Mhor, near Inverness, in Scotland.

The Hobbit House, where we played

Inside the Hobbit House

Outside the Hobbit House

The tutors were Kris Drever – the reason I’d booked the course as I’m a big fan of his – and Michele Stodart.

I got on very well with the midweek guest, Dan “Withered Hand” Willson.

Dan

Kris and me watching Dan

Haggis and pipes on the last evening: Lorraine, Susie, Danielle, Michele, Emma, Lindsay, Phil, Heather, Kris, Neil, Mick, Emily, me, Ken

On the first morning Kris walked around handing out a book to each of us. We were encouraged to plunder its treasures. We had a brief discussion about plagiarism, where Michele said that we shouldn’t worry about that, not least because we’d find we’d want to tweak the original. Kris gave me Border by Kapka Kassabova (2017). I opened it at random and read the phrase, “the history of komshulak”. I quickly found the beginning of the chapter, where the concept was explained as the Bulgarian word for peaceful coexistence.

Leafing back through the book, I then found a sentence that appealed to me: “And somewhere waits a ferryman whose face can’t be seen.”

Jumping ahead again, I came across a sub-heading, “The Monk of Happiness”. I then used these three elements, plus the title of the book, to write a song.

I started out with “Somewhere there waits a ferryman / whose face cannot be seen.” And I started the second verse with “He is the monk of happiness”. I thought this was a good description of Kris, which inspired the subsequent line, “and plays a mean guitar”. When I found the word “mean”, I couldn’t help but let out a laugh. No doubt because of the contrast between “happy” and “mean”. Kris asked me later what I’d laughed about, and I told him. Also that I’d thought of him as “the monk of happiness”. He liked the concept.

My first title was “Secret Star”, which then became “Shooting Star”.

I sang it for Kris in the afternoon, and he thought it sounded finished. His one suggestion, which I eagerly took on board, was to repeat “He’ll bring us back”.

When I recorded the song three days later, I’d changed “ferryman” to “foreigner”, “He is the monk of happiness” to “He wears a mask of happiness”, and the title to “Komshulak”. I later changed the gender of the foreigner from male to female as a tribute to Kapka.

When I got back to Denmark, I put myself on the waiting list for another songwriting course at Moniack in January, with Dan and Kath (from Devon) as the tutors. I was number four on the list, so I felt it was rather unlikely I’d be offered a place. But I was called up at the last moment. I extended the song with two verses originally written in the first person in an a cappella exercise on the last day. I changed “foreigner” to “traveller” in the first piece as a nod to this new piece, but after I’d integrated it, I changed “traveller” to “wanderer”.

This song was the source of inspiration for other songs. Now called “Kapka with Kris”, it is the first of a group of four songs entitled “Komshulak at Moniack”:

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I wrote “Part of a Group” on the last day of the course with Kris and Michele. “No More Poisoned Promises” was another combination of two different compositions, the verses written in Denmark in December and the chorus in another a cappella exercise on the first day of an online course this month with Emma and Kath. I wrote “My E-type Jag” there too, using the old chorus of what had become “No More Poisoned Promises”. Emma and Kath gave me some good tips and nudges in my tutorials with them.

Here are recordings of the four songs:

Kapka with Kris
Part of a Group
No More Poisoned Promises
My E-type Jag

Kath & Dan

I wrote a song with Kath in my tutorial with her on the course in January. It’s called “Written in the Stars” and took us under half an hour. The mid-week guest, Louis Abbot, heard us perform it that evening, and the next morning he told me it was a classic. Kath and Dan are going to perform it on their forthcoming tour.

Dan and Kath did a video for a single from their forthcoming album on the last day:

I appear for a split second at 0:11:

and again at 0:54:

Back row: Anna, Phil, Chris, Scott, Tom – middle row: Pam, Martin, Jamie, Jack, Jess –  front row: staff member, Kit’s dog, Ken, Kath, Dan, me

Kath and me performing “Written in the Stars” on the final evening

“You swore in Bath Abbey!”

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Kieron Jones

So, I attended a memorial concert in Bath Abbey for my mate, Kieron Jones, on Friday 3rd November. I introduced the final act, The City of Bath Male Choir, conducted by Kieron’s father, Grenville, and I started out by swearing – in the Abbey for Christ’s sake.

We’d just heard a pianist, Nurry Lee, playing. She’s an international star, and she was totally brilliant.

I looked at her and said: “That was bloody amazing!” My comment went down okay. I’d have known if it hadn’t – you know, that horrible moment when all the energy gets sucked out of a room? But that didn’t happen. And then I paused briefly, and in another tone said: “You’ve been practising!” That got a laugh, and I was irrepressible after that. I said hello to everyone, introduced myself, and said some nice things about Kieron. Finally, before introducing the choir, I sang the four lines that I’d written the evening before his funeral – to great applause. Everyone was very positive about my little performance. Kieron’s mate, Dave, was impressed I’d sworn in Bath Abbey. Kieron would have loved it. He was the irreverent one in his rather religious family.

Here’s the song accompanied by guitar.



I saw this goddess on the way out of the Abbey, and it turned out she was a university friend of Kieron’s. We ended up chatting in The Crystal Palace. I gave her the rose I’d been given for my presentation. She said to me, “You really loved him, didn’t you?” “Yeah,” I said. And then she told me she’d loved him once. I didn’t pry. I’ve tried to contact her since, but she hasn’t responded. So, here’s a companion piece to “For Kieron”:

For Ally

Your face is easy on the eye.
I like it very much.
An’ even though we said goodbye,
I’d like to keep in touch.

Here are a couple of photos of Kieron with his two brothers:

The three brothers – Kieron, Laurie, Dan

The three brothers – Laurie, Dan, Kieron

Now That You’ve Gone

Now That You’ve Gone

   I was torn by a thorn
   on the morning we met.
What the hell did you do to me?

   It was dark in my heart
   when the spark of your love
found me out in Assisi.

You taught me how to live, how to kiss you madly.
Just the thought of you, an’ I miss you badly.
There’s nothing else to do but sing this song sadly
   here in my den.

Can’t you see I’ll never forget you,
never regret the day that I met you,
never believe that I can’t upset you
   ever again?

   There once was a time
every single day was a pantomime.
   Now that you’ve gone,
it’s hard to understand why I’m hanging on.

You taught me how to live, how to kiss you madly.
Just the thought of you, an’ I miss you badly.
There’s nothing else to do but sing this song sadly
   here in my den.

Can’t you see I’ll never forget you,
never regret the day that I met you,
never believe that I can’t upset you
   ever again?

Maskless, We Were Free

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Snakeskin

Published in Snakeskin this month, with a sung version here.

Barbie MacLaurin Sixty Today

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Barbie MacLaurin

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For Kieron

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Kieron Jones, Shakespeare, The Rosendale

Kieron Jones

* 13th July 1976
† 11th July 2023

Kieron with his wife, Mariana, and their children, Artur and Melodie, in Lugo, near Bologna, in 2022

I came across your name by chance
and landed on your star.
It was a joy to see you dance
close-up and from afar.

Kieron Jones. Like Winston Smith (1984), he was both spectacular and ordinary. Your regular guy, with a spark of genius. The mix was charming. He had a brilliant mind, a sharp wit (a scathing sense of humour), and yet a down-to-earth temperament that made him accessible to all. A Shakespearian actor who had turned to teaching, he was also a gifted storyteller and singer/songwriter.

Over the last 15 years Kieron came to the schools I taught at in Denmark to do Shakespeare workshops. He stayed with me on many occasions, and we became great mates. I’m from Scotland myself, and Kieron was quintessentially English. He told me I was the only Scottish friend he had, and I sensed that he was glad to have a friend from Scotland. My name is Duncan, which no doubt had a special resonance for him, what with the Scottish play. The last time I was with him, just this February, I explained to the company that the Scots and the English have a love-hate relationship. “Yes,” said Kieron, “we love to hate you.”

Kieron was such great fun to be with. He made work seem like play. He was the envy of me and my colleagues as he held the students in the palm of his hand. Easy-going by nature, he had developed a gritty, no-nonsense attitude that made him a force to be reckoned with. And the students loved him because he made them feel special. He had a talent for assessing people and invariably chose the right students to play significant roles in his workshops. He was, no doubt, the best teacher I have ever known, and I’ve known a fair few.

Kieron was a star. He knew this. Otherwise, he would have been unable to perform as he did. He gave and gave of himself in the sure knowledge that what he gave would be given to him in return, and this was what sustained him throughout his workshop marathons. A miracle at work every time.

Thank you, Kieron.

After Kieron’s funeral on 17th July family and friends met for lunch at this pub

Songwriting course at Totleigh Barton

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Alex C., Arvon, Ashley Horner, Chris Albery-Jones, Danielle Banks, Dartford, Davey Gabriel O., Devon, Drew Stephenson, Dutch Van Spall, Emma-Lee Moss, Food Banks, I Daniel Blake, Jess Tuthill, John Murray, Johnson, Kathryn Williams, Land of Plenty, Leonard Cohen, Martin J. Grundy, Martyn Macdonald-Adams, Matt Deighton, Phil Lovell, Rees-Mogg, Richard Vahrman, Spark of Love, Sunak, Suzanne, Totleigh Barton

Since chucking in my teaching job in February, I’d been on the waiting list for an Arvon songwriting course at Totleigh Barton in Devon in south-west England, 19th-24th June. Four days before its start I was contacted because there was a free place, and I jumped at the chance. The two tutors – Kathryn Williams and Emma-Lee Moss – and the other thirteen participants were a lovely, talented, vibrant, colourful bunch of people, and we had a fabulous time. Several of the participants had previously been on the same course with Kath. It was Emma’s first time.

On the first evening we introduced ourselves by performing a song. I was so unprepared that I had to pare my nails and play the one song I know by heart, Leonard Cohen’s “Suzanne”. There was a great vibe.

The next morning one of the exercises was to write a song in plenum. I kicked it off with:

I’m sitting in Devon,
I think I’m in heaven…

I’d never written a song in collaboration before, nor written a song to a deadline before, but I wrote five songs in four days: three collaborations and two alone. We had to write them during the day and then perform them at the evening concert. Fifteen minutes before the final evening concert on the Friday (where we performed our greatest hits from the week) Emma asked me if I’d written a song since lunchtime, where we’d done a solo acapella. It was the only free time we’d been given the whole week, and I said, quite rightly, no. She then said that I had fifteen minutes to write a song to start the concert with. I might well have refused, but one of the other participants on the course, Ashley Horner, was present, and he insisted that I had to do what the tutors said, so I thought I might as well give it a go. Its theme had to be “Tomorrow”, and I had to use the chords C G F Am. It took me just ten minutes, and it went down a treat. I asked Emma to present me, and she just said: “May I present… Duncan!” I had to explain what I’d been asked to do myself. I later asked Kath and Emma if they’d asked anyone else to do a song in fifteen minutes, and they said no. “What makes me so special,” I asked. And Kath replied: “Because you’re lazy, and we think you can do better.” Now, this might sound harsh, but she said it with a twinkle in her eye, and she was instantly forgiven. I’ve been in survival mode for over three years now, and it’s great to be challenged by empathetic creatives. Ashley told me afterwards that he felt that the song was finished, but he’d have liked me to repeat the verse at the end. Which is what I’ve now done. I’ll be doing a new version soon with my wife’s cousin Claus on trombone. Click on the title for the sung version.

Spark of Love

Call me up in the morning.
don’t give any warning,
just call,
just call me up.

It’s never too late, baby, you’ll see.
I’m gonna make you crazy, just like me.
’Cause I’m skating in the dark,
waiting for a spark
of love,
your spark of love.

Call me up in the morning.
don’t give me any warning.
just call,
just call me up.

Here’s the first song I wrote last week, a collaboration with an accordion player, Richard Vahrman. We had quite a bit of preamble, sharing anecdotes etc., but then we got talking about Ken Loach’s film I, Daniel Blake, and when I told Richard I’d recently read an article about Tory councillors in Dartford enjoying a lavish buffet after the opening of a food bank, our indignation was fired. Click on the title for the sung version.

Land of Plenty

Kicked out of my home.
Sunak’s got five.
Living all alone,
barely alive.

I’m running on empty
in this great land of plenty.
Champagne and caviar for you.
Give me a reason
to spend the Christmas season
standing in the food bank queue.

Had to sell my car.
Rees-Mogg’s got four.
Can hardly play guitar,
cold, sick, and sore.

I’m running on empty
in this great land of plenty.
Champagne and caviar for you.
Give me a reason
to spend the Christmas season
standing in the food bank queue.

First child on its way.
Johnson’s got ten.

Again, this is a primitive version. Richard is working on a more sophisticated one.

At my request we performed it again at the final concert. Kath said to me afterwards that I was a charismatic performer: “You don’t always hit the notes cleanly, but you have such self-confidence and charisma that it doesn’t matter.”

This group photo was taken just before the final concert:

Back row: Ashley Horner, Martin J. Grundy, Martyn Macdonald-Adams, Phil Lovell, Duncan G. MacLaurin
Middle row: Chris Albery-Jones, Danielle Banks, Richard Vahrman, Jess Tuthill, John Murray
Front row: Drew Stephenson, Kathryn Williams, Emma-Lee Moss, Alex C., Davey Gabriel O., Dutch Van Spall

The Chinese characters on Emma’s sweater mean “Trust yourself” (reading from the right).

We had a superb guest midweek – Matt Deighton – and had a bit of party afterwards, so we were still partying when my birthday and birth time came along at 1 a.m. on the Thursday. I was spoiled stupid on my birthday. Hugs, songs, cakes, presents. Kath drew a tree on a card for me and inside wrote the words of the song we’d composed on the first morning. Dutch gave me a sweet birthday card. I told him I didn’t get to celebrate my birthday at boarding school, and when we were later asked to write a letter to someone, he wrote me this beautiful letter:

Jess had been ill on the Wednesday, but she’d recovered on Thursday, and I told her that that was the best birthday present I could have hoped for. She and Chris made a fantastic duo, and it turned out they only live ten miles from each other. We were set a special challenge on Thursday, where the tutors dressed up as different weird pop stars and asked each of the five groups to write a song for them. The level of writing had been high before, but this time we went totally through the roof. Freed of our egos, we just set about writing good songs.

Here are a few more photos taken by Chris or by Kath or Emma when he’s in the photo:

Remembering Ann, 2023

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Anders Bilde, Ann Bilde, Carsten Bilde, Christine BIlde, Claus Bilde, Erik Bilde, The Bildes

Ann at 20, four years before I met her

Not long before my wife died, she asked one thing of me: to remember her after she’d gone. My first thought was: “Well, I’m hardly likely to forget you, am I?” Then she said she wanted me to remember her the way she was before she “blossomed”. My first thought here was that she had already blossomed when I first met her. And I said so. But she was convinced she blossomed later. And she should know. She then said that she wanted me to write poems/songs about her, so “remember” was already then given the nuance of “commemorate”. She added that she wanted me to describe her from before I met her as well. No problem!

Today is our 36th wedding anniversary, the third one since Ann’s death. On the first one I was one of nine of her family members that scattered her ashes at sea from her cousin, Carsten’s, boat just off the island of Hirsholm, which houses the lighthouse she could see from her childhood home.

Family became all-important to Ann in 2012 after the death of her eldest brother, Anders. At her wake I found the speech she gave for him at his funeral in my jacket pocket. She’d learnt it by heart. I read it aloud for the gathering, and we could all see that what she’d said about Anders applied equally well to Ann herself. Here’s my translation:


Dear Anders – we are gathered together around you here today.

And it is with deep sorrow. Mum has to say goodbye to her son. Peter, Pia, Christian, and I – to our big brother. Dun and Else – to their brother-in-law. And Mads, Maja, and Anne – to their uncle. Grethe – to her soulmate and partner. Knud, Ingrid, and Viggo – to their nephew. Søren to his friend and fellow student – and many more along with us…

You were so alive – yes, so full of life and enthusiasm. And so strong. Now we are grieving, and our loss is a great and painful one.

We have lost someone who gave us so much. For us – your loved ones – you were the someone who gave us most. You were the one who was there for each and every one of us and played a part in our lives. The one who helped us, supported us, taught us so much – and understood us. You gave of yourself. And that is the most beautiful thing we human beings can give each other.

Anders – you were a good person! A true human being! And a beautiful person!

You were well-balanced and had integrity. That’s how you found your path in life. And it WAS YOUR PATH. And what a beautiful path you showed us – and so sublime! Even though it ended far too abruptly.

But you were you, Anders! In a class of your own, a unique individual. And the life that was yours was the life that YOU created. Your farm, your forest, and your barn, with your glassmaking and pottery and your creative courses – you created it all.

You did well in life, Anders! So well that you were admired and respected by many others. But for you it was never about the money, the prestige, or the success. No, because you were modest. You never made a big noise – never used big words. Your actions said so much more. They said it all.

For you it was about playing, curiosity, the desire to create, the challenge… that was your motivation – AND THE JOY OF CREATING AND WATCHING LIFE UNFOLD AND BE FULFILLED.

Anders, you always insisted that you were a craftsman. YES! And in all that you created, all that you accomplished IN YOUR WAY, HERE IN LIFE, indeed in the whole way you lived your life, you were also an artist – and a great life artist at that.

And what a gift that the most important thing for you in this life was us – your family, your partner, and your friends! I know I speak for all of us when, with love and gratitude, I say:

Thank you, Anders! Thanks for everything! For everything you were! And for everything you gave! And thank you for letting us join you on your beautiful, sublime path through life.

On our paths – throughout the rest of our lives – we will carry you in our hearts!

THAT’S WHERE YOU BELONG FOREVER!

Ann wrote her final book, a children’s book, Den smilende Kamel kommer til søen (The Smiling Camel Comes to the Pond) while she was terminally ill with cancer, publishing it herself just 3½ months before she died. It meant a lot to her that it was her cousin, Christine, that illustrated it, and that it was designed and printed by her second cousin, Erik. All the animals are representations of real people. Ann’s the duck, and I’m the owl.

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It’s fitting that it’s Ann’s cousin, Claus, a fellow sæbynit (someone who lives in Saeby), playing the trombone in this recording of “Remembering Ann”, the third of ten pieces in this second edition of my pamphlet, Remembering Ann, with six new pieces:

remembering-ann-2023-2Download

Claus and I intend to record the two pieces not yet showcased here soon (“Ann Gone” and “Simply Standing There”). I would love to perform the ten songs in concert as well as – Dream on, babe! – do a proper album.

I have a few unsung pieces for Ann too:

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