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”.
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.)
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”:
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.
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
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.
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”:
Vi slænger os på Palmestranden
her i Frederikshavn.
Og så fortæller vi hinanden,
at vi gør stor gavn
og skråler højt: ”Det er jo godt,
vi melder, vi er klar
til MARS og radioaktivt skrot.
Hurra! Hurra! Hurra!”
De første borerigge kommer
hjem til os til jul.
Når storken lander næste sommer,
kryber vi i skjul
og skråler højt: ”Det var jo godt,
vi meldte, vi var klar
til MARS og radioaktivt skrot.
Hurra! Hurra! Hurraaa!”
(Tekst: Ann Bilde og Duncan Gillies MacLaurin)
Det er oprindeligt en fødselsdagssang:
Vi hygger os i Dannevang
Vi hygger os i Dannevang –
du, Birgit fylder år.
Nu synger vi din hyldestsang
og skåler med en tår.
Og vi vil feste dagen lang
med dig, vores fødselar.
Så spred du blot dit vingefang.
Hurra! Hurra! Hurra!
Vi håber, du er veloplagt
til nye rejsemål.
Nu skråler vi (og helst i takt): Skål! Skål! Skål! Skål! Skål! Og kagerne, dem har vi bagt,
og kaffen, den er klar.
Så råber vi med pomp og pragt:
Hurra! Hurra! Hurraaa!
(Tekst: Ann Bilde og Duncan Gillies MacLaurin; musik: Duncan Gillies MacLaurin)
(Med tak til Birgit Munch og 1.m fra Frederikshavn Gymnasium og HF-kursus for indspilningen.)
Frederik Bloch Münster, Nicolaj Aarøe, myself, and Theis Henriksen, during the Leavers’ Dinner at Esbjerg Gymnasium, 25th June 2014
Towards the end of June I said goodbye to my third-year students as per usual, but this year was different as I was also saying goodbye to the school I’d been teaching at for nineteen years.
In April I was invited to give the traditional teacher’s address at the Leavers’ Dinner. I had often wondered why my colleagues agreed to take on such a thankless task. A large number of the students are rowdy and inattentive by that stage. It’s their evening after all, and listening to what some teacher wants to say is not high on their list of priorities. Perhaps we teachers have some kind of sado-masochistic streak. Anyway, I happened to have a song I wanted to perform that evening, so I said I would do it.
In January one of my third-year students, Nicolaj Aarøe, had e-mailed me asking me to write a preface to their Who’s Who. It was at very short notice, but I wanted to oblige as they were a great bunch and we’d had fun together.
To keep it simple, I decided to play to my strengths and write a wee ditty.
This class had been given the same classroom for all three years, which was not something I’d witnessed before. And it’s not just any old classroom either. No, it’s indisputably the best in the whole school. Not only is it on the ground floor and nearest to both the exit and the canteen, but it’s roomy, faces south, and has a French window leading out onto the lawn. Its number is 016, which is expressed in Danish as “nul-seksten”, i.e. “zero sixteen”. This quickly became the basis of my hook. To explain another feature of the song, the class list ran alphabetically from Amanda to Theis, and, funnily enough, these two were also sweethearts.
So I performed the song at the Leavers’ Dinner and had arranged with the class that they should sing the second “all stay forever” in the second and third verses as “I’ll stay forever”.
Forever in 016
Decorum insists that I shouldn’t
admit that I’ll miss a good student.
And it’s wise to reserve my approval
till after your final removal.
But in this case I’m sticking my neck out
before you get close to the checkout.
You’re the best English class that there ever has been.
Won’t you please stay forever in 016!
You 016 27
who started in 2011,
I wish you good luck in the future.
May you all find surroundings that suit you.
As the stars dance in stardust, I’m certain
you’ll be standing long after the curtain.
From Amanda to Theis let the good vibes between
you all stay, forever in 016!
So let me now add these reminders
to paste on the front of your binders:
“Be brave and be honest and truthful.”
(That way you’ll be vibrant and youthful.)
“Don’t think about what might come after.”
“The tears that we cry turn to laughter.”
You’re the best English class that there ever has been.
May you all stay forever in 016!
gg
I knew it would be chickening out to leave it at that. There has to be some kind of point in a speech. I wasn’t just doing a party piece. So I had determined to perform another new song and call it the B-side, which would give me a talking point seeing as A-sides and B-sides are not something young people today are familiar with.
I had with me a single on vinyl to wave at them, and the example I gave of an A-side and a B-side was gg
gg
and
gg
gg
seeing as how a) it was the first single I’d ever bought, and b) we were right in the middle of the World Cup Finals. I performed the chorus of both songs for them so they could get an idea. My point was that this weird and wonderful B-side had picked up a kind of cult following, and basically they were Missing Out in not having A-sides and B-sides.
And yes, I was speaking in Danish.
So now I’d prepared them for the fact that my second song was off-beat, and yet perhaps worthy of notice. And my, what a racket they made! Still, as they say here in Denmark, “jeg gennemførte.” Which means something like: “I made it through without making a total fool of myself.”
Way Up the Ladder of Love
I’m sick of the way
I’ve tried to be hip,
sick of the way
I’ve bitten my lip,
so sick of the way
I’m too slow to slip
my way up the ladder ggof love.
I’m sick of the way
I act like I’m blind,
sick of the way
I don’t seem to mind,
so sick of the way
I’ve struggled to find
my way up the ladder ggof love.
I’ve waited too long to express this in song, done everything wrong gglike a loser who’s still insecure, as the lads will, I’m sure, do a caricature ggdown the boozer.
I’m sick of the way
I’m always on call,
sick of the way
I’m sick of it all,
so sick of the way
I can’t even crawl
my way up the ladder ggof love.
I’ve waited too long to express this in song, done everything wrong gglike a loser who’s still insecure, as the lads will, I’m sure, do a caricature ggdown the boozer.
I’m sick of the way
I’m still such a square,
sick of the way
I no longer care,
so sick of the way
I just stand and stare
way up the ladder ggof love. gg
This song came out of the blue, but I did find Kevin Kline splendid as Nick Bottom in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, like an impersonation of Shakespeare himself. And, while I’m no expert in Shakespearean pronunciation, it did strike me as weird that Oberon pronounces the middle letter of ‘Titania’ as a long ‘a’.
Thanks are due to Josephine Holm Bjerg, a student of mine at Frederikshavn Gymnasium, for performing Titania.
Bottom Line
Bottom: When your crown weighs you down ggggggggggand each gown makes you frown, ggggggggggthen this clown from the town gggggggggggggwins your charms.
ggggggggggWhen the crowd gets too loud ggggggggggand you’re bowed under cloud, ggggggggggthen you’re proud you’re allowed gggggggggggggin my arms.
gggggggggggggQueen Titania, gggggggggggggthere’s a plan you gggggggggggggcan’t say yes to, gggggggggggggthat oppressed you gggggggggglest you guessed it’s best to ggggggggggtest your destiny.
gggggggggggggQueen Titania, gggggggggggggI’m the man you gggggggggggggcan’t say no to, gggggggggggggwho you go to –
Titania: Oh, my Romeo!
Bottom: – to ggggggggggshow your poetry.
Titania: I hate that bastard, ggggggggggOberon. ggggggggggHe’s always plastered. ggggggggggThat’s not on.
ggggggggggHe thinks it’s smart ggggggggggand super cool ggggggggggto break my heart, ggggggggggthe stupid fool.
Meet me where the fields of clover
line the ocean, there to stroll.
Take my hand and lead me over
the battered bridges of my soul. You have given me the courage to be free;
you have given my passion wings.
You’re my star; you’re all I live for;
you’re the song the gold moon sings.
On Hjerting Strand
So here I stand, on Hjerting Strand, listening to geese in flight.
The moon is full, and the breeze is cool; there’s some frost in the air tonight.
And I can see in the distance Venus glowing very bright.
Red lanterns spark from the windmill park stationed far out at sea.
The lighthouse flare repeats “Beware!” in regular sets of three.
I cannot claim to have an aim apart from being free,
so I can find the peace of mind that’s waiting here for me.
ooA fool spends his leisure ooon clothes made to measure how cool he can act in the sun. ooThe root of my pleasure, oomy only true treasure, is you and me having some fun.
I climb the hill to my windowsill with its fairly generous view.
From here it seems the moon’s soft beams are bathed in a blend of blue.
And that’s okay, as I have to say I’m feeling lonely too.
So while I sit and write a bit, I’m looking out for you.
ooA fool spends his leisure ooon clothes made to measure
how cool he can act in the sun. ooThe root of my pleasure, oomy only true treasure,
is you and me having some fun.
The second song I’ll be singing in Edinburgh is a tribute to my wife of 25 years and the island we lived on for 17 of those:
Grønne lanterner lyser i natten;
grønne lanterner viser mig vej;
grønne lanterner, så nu kan jeg finde Fanø, min havn og dig.
Green are the lanterns that shine in the night;
green are the lanterns that show me the light;
green are the lanterns that usher me through to Fanö, my home, and you.
– Ann Bilde
I’ve climbed upon the mountains of Snowdonia, made my way down by stick and ski. I’ve wandered through the hills of Catalonia, where feeling’s strong and thoughts are free. I spent my youth in Scotland, and when I flew the nest
I went with you to Jutland,
and then we moved out west. I’ve walked across Skye in Caledonia; thought that was where my heart would be.
But I woke one day and broke away from every point of view. I was bound for Rome, but I found a home, on Fanö, thanks to you.
I’ve camped out in the open on Orcadia; the roar of silence thrilled my ear. I’ve stood out on a cliff top in Arcadia; the misty light was crystal clear. I spent my youth in Scotland, and when I flew the nest
I went with you to Jutland,
and then we moved out west, where light’s more bright and shade is even shadier, and there’s a silence the mind can’t hear.
I woke one day and broke away from every point of view. I was bound for Rome, but I found a home, on Fanö, thanks to you.
I’ve clowned around the gardens of Elysia; I’ve sung and danced on Oxford’s lawn. I’ve ridden in the desert in Tunisia on Christmas Morning to see the dawn. I spent my youth in Scotland, and when I flew the nest
I went with you to Jutland,
and then we moved out west. I’ve travelled to the rest of what was Frisia, but that’s not where my feet are drawn.
’Cause I woke one day and broke away from every point of view. I was bound for Rome, but I found a home, on Fanö, thanks to you.
The song I’ll start with is called “On Sören Jessen’s Sand”.
Sören Jessen’s Sand is a desert that has surfaced on the north-western tip of Fanö, which lies just off Esbjerg on the west coast of Jutland.
I moved to Fanö from Aarhus on 30th March 1991. My wife, Ann, had been chosen to run a media school in Esbjerg. Although I’d only just started at Aarhus University, I was happy to continue my studies long distance.
Never have we slept as well as we did that first night on Fanö. The sea air, you know. We spent our first two weeks outdoors, mostly on the fantastic, wide sandy beach on the west coast collecting amber, thanks to a constant fresh south-westerly breeze.
The day before Ann started work the wind suddenly dropped, and we witnessed a magical sunset on Sören Jessen’s Sand, which I described in prose and then turned into verse.
Soon after moving to Fanö I began trying to get my poetry published in small magazines in the UK, but my only success was one small piece in Candelabrum in 1991. It seemed either poetry in rhyme and metre was out of fashion, or my poetry wasn’t very good, or perhaps a combination of the two. In 1992 I sent “Sören Jessen’s Sand” to Quartos for feedback. It was a couple of years before Quartos merged with Acclaim and became The New Writer. I received this critique:
If English isn’t your first language I can understand the use of such dreadful end rhymes. However, the humorous last verse saves the poem from going up its own arse.
Ten years passed before I took a fresh look at “Sören Jessen’s Sand”. A critique can be so misguided that it can help you go in the opposite direction, and in that sense the comment from Quartos was constructive. I reworked the piece in exactly the opposite direction of what had been suggested, changing the last verse so that it was no longer humorous. And in November 2002 the poem won the 1st Prize of £50 in an open competition at the Scottish poetry magazine, Quantum Leap.
a phantom boat appears, afloat behind the stricken star. The waves begin to tiptoe in and touch the amber jar. We realise where we are: we’ve ventured out too far. We’re cut off from the car.
The first issue of Angle has just been published. I’ve got two pieces in it, “The Real Pity”, a tribute, albeit somewhat critical, to Wilfred Owen, and “A Giraffe Among Jackals”, a tribute to Mark Allinson. There are also sung versions of both pieces.
I sang both songs today for my first-year class, as well as the rest of the set of 12 songs I intend to perform later this year during the Edinburgh Festival – see my latest post. I didn’t make too many mistakes, but 0 mistakes is the aim. It’ll help when I’ve learnt them all by heart. My performance was recorded on video. So I may be posting some of that later on.