Lost In America pt.3 - "Crossroads"

Bet y'all thought (hoped) I'd forgotten about my American bletherings. Well, no such luck. Blame the news - who could ignore such an impressive outbreak of credulousness (on both sides of the often-smoke-and-mirrors political 'divide') in New Hampshire? Especially since it followed the finest public show of artificial lachrymosity since bloated, hypocritical, bag o' piss and wind Jimmy Swaggart choked 'em back in order to "beg your forgiveness" in 1988. It almost makes our system look like perfectly representative democracy in action by comparison, even though, technically, both the UK & the US fail on the "representative" part. Still, you'll be relieved to hear that I'm not going to bore everyone senseless by banging-on about the inevitable failings of "first-past-the-post" electoral systems (I save that particular performance for parties, weddings, etc). Instead, I'll leave the last word on the American political process (for now) to the finest satirist ever to grace the world's second-largest 'democracy', Ambrose Bierce:

"Primary, n. A political pot, from which the fire of corruption has long since evaporated the good soup, leaving nothing but scum."

(from "The Enlarged Devil's Dictionary", edited by E.J.Hopkins, 1967)

Now, I'm aware that Bierce may be unknown to a few folk out there (the younger ones, perhaps?), and yes, Jon Stewart and his "Daily Show" cronies do have their moments of brilliance (but also an unfortunate tendency to fawn somewhat over certain guests), but no-one, (not even Lenny Bruce), has managed to match the sustained levels of pointed, skewering genius that is Ambrose Bierce in full flow. And when you take the volume and quality of his other writing into account, too…admittedly it has been a while since he died (well, disappeared, if we're being completely accurate, while heading to Mexico) in 1913, but he's still the greatest the USA has produced - in my (jaded? cynical? plain wrong?) opinion, anyway. To put it another way, Jaco Pastorius is still regarded by many musicians as the finest electric bass player of all time, 20 years after his death. Now, I'm willing to stake my entire collection of instruments on there having existed many more highly talented American electric bass players in the last two decades, than there have been even mediocre satirists during the 94 years since Bierce's demise. So if Jaco can still be king (and, let's face it, he really is), why not Ambrose Bierce, considering the relative lack of competition?

He also makes a pleasingly obscure link into my real topic (!), which is the wonderful little gem known as Madison, Indiana, (Bierce grew up in Indiana, and enlisted in the Ninth Indiana Infantry during the U.S. Civil War. Not that Indiana is a desperately exciting place, on the whole. When it came to designing their commemorative state quarter, for instance, they summed themselves up as the "Crossroads of America". Hmmm. So, when we think of Indiana, let's be confronted immediately by the mental image of a giant intersection, replete with an almost infinite number of flyovers, on/off-ramps, and drivers from Michigan sitting resolutely in the middle lane. Inspiring, no? Not that we're doing much better over here in Fife, where the council's logo is the Forth Bridge - in other words, the escape route to the joys of Edinburgh. Speaks volumes, doesn't it?).

This unassuming town (south on the I-71 from Cincinnati, take a right on 421, heads directly across to it - although taking the 42 through Warsaw, crossing at Markland, and following the 56 "Ohio River Scenic Byway" is definitely prettier. Slower, yes, but then it's not a race, now is it?), still retains the character and charm of that rare commodity, a traditional main street. In fact, the whole place has preserved its 19th-century origins very successfully - hell, it's easy to see why I like it - it's old, (by American standards), has enough museums for several rainy afternoons, and possesses that incredible rarity in the US - a cycling club!

It also happens to be located virtually next door to something far older and, if you're interested in the 'Great/Pretty Good/No' Tae Bad Outdoors', far prettier than a panoply of fine brickwork from 1844, Clifty Falls State Park. Here a pleasing blend of fine scenery and trail hiking awaits the intrepid visitor. After you've stopped-off to 'stuff your guts' at the Clifty Inn, (recommended!), you can take the opportunity to go fossil-spotting, assuming the river's low enough, of course - unless you're one of those bizarrely prepared-for-anything folk, and alongside the emergency rations, first aid kit (including inflatable splints and a portable, solar-charged defibrillator) and bivouac bag, you've brought full snorkelling gear, in which case, enjoy!

A small word of caution, however. Whatever you eventually decide to do with your now-bulging belly and elevated cholesterol, don't - and I can't stress this strongly enough, don't rely on the official map of the place to keep you on the right trail. Oh, it might look simple enough, and everything appears fine when you start out, but once you're down at the canyon bottom, it all changes...trail markers suddenly vanish, your sense of time starts to wander, you hear strange, keening noises that seem to emanate from deep fissures in the rock walls...until you realise it's just the 9-month-old in the baby carrier on your back, who's getting a little fed-up with the whole hiking-down-a-canyon, "oooh, look at the ammonites!" routine, and wants to be somewhere comfy, with an assortment of toys, and where he's the centre of as many adults' attention as possible.

Trying to get up and out of the canyon proved to be the tricky part - and it wasn't only us (he adds, quickly, in his defence). In our efforts to locate the official exit route, we came across three other groups of bewildered tourists, in various states of bedragglement, all of whom had been cruelly deceived by their trail maps. Eventually, I took a "Chief Navigator" (hey, I've done cloud-and-mist covered, zero-visibility hill-walks, using only a compass and the Ordnance Survey's finest as a guide, so there) executive decision, and we started to follow a dried-out streambed up the side of the canyon wall.

Now, I've long been of the opinion that a little bit of 'excitement' just adds to the 'fun' when you're on an 'adventure', but, judging by the looks my wife was giving me - the ones I caught, anyway, while I, lying as flat as I could against the rocks and bracing myself on a tree root, was supporting her foot with my free hand and trying to ignore the baby's repeated expressions of dissatisfaction with the whole situation - we'd overdone it a bit this time. Still, we all made it up to the road without any major mishaps, so no harm done, eh? We never did find out what happened to those other people, though there is a local rumour about some tourists who turned to cannibalism once their supply of "Mountain Dew" and "Peppermint Patties" ran out...

Anyway, getting back to Madison, and somewhere in the vicinity of the supposedly music-related theme of this blog, when we visited the town had a couple of excellent instrument shops, which were practically next door to each other, and well worth a good browse around. If it's 'vintage' kit you're after, then Crawdaddy Music is the place to head for. It had an impressive stock of pre-1950's guitars, alongside a host of other old gear. It was, to be honest, almost being run more like a museum than a shop, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. It may, of course, have changed a bit since late 2003, and the other shop certainly has.

I have, uselessly, lost the guy's business card, but back then it was called "Scotty's" (? or "Scott's"? something like that), and we had a great time in there. While I was busily ogling a 5-string Parker Fly bass (nice!), the staff gave our tiny son a pair of sticks (the fools) with which to play around on the top-of-the-range, brand-new Roland digital drum kit at the back of the shop - now that's what I call customer service.(Not, I hasten to add, to be encouraged if you want your stock to retain its value, because whatever he may have lacked in drumming technique, accuracy and control, David certainly compensated for with abundant enthusiasm).

Alas, they now appear to have been taken over by a small regional chain (called Mom's Music), but it might well have the same/similar great people working there, and still be completely deserving of patronage. I just can't offer any guarantees that it hasn't turned into yet another run-of-the-mill, by-the-corporate-book, lowest-common-denominator establishment ("Guitar Center", perhaps?). If anyone out there can end my ignorance on this matter, please feel free to comment!

That's about it for Madison, Indiana, I'm afraid. The baby'll be awake far too soon, small bottom requiring cleansing, etc,etc. There are plenty of odds and ends left for another instalment of the "mid-West music shop travelogues" (sorry), but they'll have to wait for another time.

Happy Trails!

Southbound Again

A week ago a rare and momentous thing occurred - I escaped! I did indeed, as Mr. Knopfler's song says, "roll across the rolling River Tyne", (well, the train I was sitting in very comfortably, having a fair stab - i.e. I solved more than 3 clues - at the cryptic crossword in that morning's edition of the Scotsman, did all the work), completely devoid of child-care responsibilities, for a 2-day visit to see friends in the fair city of York, (in England, to avoid confusion for any 'international' folks reading this), something I hadn't done for the best part of 8 years.

The first brief glimpse of the wonderfully-named river Ouse, ("ooze" is exactly what it does when it floods, depositing highly-sticky - and quite smelly - mud on the riverbank towpaths, perfect for catching unsuspecting cyclists unawares. Been there, fallen over, done the washing...), brought back swathes of memories of many early-morning hours spent in great pain and general exhaustion (enormous fun at the time, I seem to recall), occupying the bow seat of a four-man (in this instance "man" is perhaps defined best as: "almost-human masochistic loony") rowing crew from UYBC. (I get the feeling this is going to be a "link-heavy" post, not to mention tangential in the extreme - enjoy).

What feels like a very, very long time ago, I lived in York for almost four years, the first three of which were a whirlwind of competitive sport, playing music, acting (biggest laugh was appearing as a suspiciously broad-shouldered and hairy transvestite in 'Cabaret'), comedy, and in my spare time obtaining a (now practically worthless) degree. It was great to see my old mate from the prog-rock-jazz-what exactly ARE we doing?-fusion band "Mind The Gap" (as featured in October 1st's "Instant Karma"), Big Rich, and on the way over to his house from the town centre, another momentous thing sprang out and mugged me! Two in 24 hours! And I'll bet you think I'm about to tell you what it was...

...but I'm not. Not yet, anyway. A small service, again, for 'international' readers - gives them a useful insight into the uniquely British sense of "series-of-minor-disappointments-as-a-way-of-life". Instead, I'm going into travelogue-mode for a moment or two. If you read the next bit to yourself in the voice of "The Book" in "The Hitch-Hiker's Guide To The Galaxy" (original radio series, naturally), it'll seem a lot funnier than it actually is.

York is a wholly remarkable town. Well, if you're at all interested in history, that is. Otherwise, it will seem over-crowded with gawking tourists, braying upper-middle-class "Yah" students from the south-east of England (these actually make up a small minority of the student body, but are by far the most audible, being incapable of speaking at less than 97.8db, regardless of the proximity of the person they are talking at. "Yah"s, it should be known, do not have 'conversations' with others per se. Instead, they communicate by imparting information as a series of disconnected statements, assuming the listener will realise just how dreadfully important everything the "Yah" says is, and will thus make the effort to understand them by hanging on their every word. This is not recommended practice for inexperienced non-"Yah"s, since the enormous duration required to make any sense of what is being said may cause the 'ordinary person' to be late for a pressing appointment, and instill a desire to inflict violence upon the orator, which could have unwanted legal consequences if acted upon.), and unbelievably large crowds of locals doing their shopping - no matter what time of day, or even day of the week, it happens to be. (This last phenomenon has been the subject of exhaustive study, over many years, by the university's highly-rated economics department. The only firm conclusion they could arrive at, however, is that you shouldn't go to "Betty's" for a cream tea, since it's a) permanently packed full of tourists who'll jostle your cake-rack and spill your tea, b) over-priced and not actually very good, and c) impossible, in fact, to study what the shoppers are up to while you're stuck in a tea-shop, slowly clotting your arteries and expanding your backside. If you've ever wondered what economists are actually for, well, now you know.)

If you are historically-minded, then York is fabulous. It's probably the finest weekend-break destination in Britain, to be honest. Loads of Roman, Saxon, Norse, Norman, and Mediaeval archaeology/buildings/stuff all piled-up inside 800-year-old city walls you can walk round easily in an afternoon (including stopping to see where they used to stick traitors' heads on spikes). Alternatively, if you're into steam trains, (or have small children, so can pretend you aren't while dragging them round the place), there's the National Railway Museum, although I'm reliably informed that it's low-budget-copy of the London Eye isn't worth the trouble.

And if it's musical instruments you're after, might I recommend MOR Music (although their website seems to be "down for maintenance") on Fossgate, for it is now time to reveal momentous thing no.2. On Rich's advice, I stepped inside for a brief perusal, and lo! (forget "Hitch-Hiker's", it's "bible epic" time now) Mine eyes did alight upon a guitar combo amplifier of exceeding fineness and rarity, which did bear the legendary name of "Marshall", designated "Artist", which is known unto the faithful by its number, and that number shall be spake unto thee, and it is 4203.

Now, I'd heard a lot about these beasts - made from 1986-1991, solid-state pre-amp, valve output-stage, Celestion G12 Vintage speaker, and that they were pretty much the dog's dangly-bits-which-are-often-snipped-off. So I asked if I could have a play, given that there was no customers in the shop to drive out with my racket. Foolishly, the most-obliging staff agreed to my request, leaving me to cast about for a likely guitar with which to damage their collective senses-of-musical-decorum-and-taste. Eschewing the obvious top-end beasts (which wouldn't properly test the amp), my eyes were drawn to a cheap-but-solid looking Hamer SATFP90 (yours for c.£200 cash). If the Artist could make that sound good, then it had to be a high-quality product.

Twenty minutes later, I was completely stunned, but not just by the Marshall. I couldn't believe how incredibly playable the Hamer was, and how good a job it's "P90"s did of sounding exactly like the four-times-the-price Gibson equivalent. I'd been footling around with some bluesy-jazzy (and quite cheesy) licks to warm up, but when I opened-up the Artist's "dirty" channel, I couldn't resist the urge to indulge in late-60's sub-King Crimson widdling. Twenty minutes later, I'd terrified a trio of young "indie" teenagers, (who had, to be fair to them, unfortunately walked in on a nondescript, fairly scruffy, decidedly-not-"rock"-looking, could-have-been-their-dad guy playing weird, angular rock-jazz mayhem that they were extremely unlikely to have been exposed to before, the poor dears), and was in a state of self-indulgent-muso ecstasy. Eighteen years ago, this town was where I'd played the finest guitar I have ever touched (an orginal '56 Les Paul), and now York had triumphed again. Without a shadow of a doubt, that 30w Marshall Artist was the greatest amp I'd ever plugged into.

Now I know that'll bring howls of protest from the all-valve "purists" out there, but consider, for a moment, a couple of points. Back in the 80's, Marshall were making absolutely brilliant solid state amps (eg. 5005 Marshall Lead 12, etc), so the Artist pre-amp sounds great, and the valves are where they're needed most, providing lots of lovely output "warmth". This makes it ideal, might I suggest, for improving the horrible sounds made by all those fizzy, identikit Line6/Pod addicts, or indeed, any digital multi-effects you might choose to shove in front of it. It's aesthetically-pleasingly, unassuming-yet-characterful, doesn't weigh a ton or take up much space, but has sufficient power and flexibility (unlike some 'boutique', c.5w, 'hand-wired' - they'll be calling them 'organic' next - over-priced, single-channel studio-wonder-amps I could mention) for a decent-sized pub gig, (I wouldn't have wanted to sit next to it with the master volume at '4' ), while still being able to give you creamy distorted tones at 'bedroom' levels. Try doing that with a 4x12 half-stack...

And the best thing of all - this particular example could be yours for only £360 (in their current sale). Which is less than they usually go for on Ebay (or even the Yorkshire version, "Ee-bay-gum"...sorry). Oh, price and availability accurate at time of writing, I hasten to add - and since their website isn't functional, MOR's phone number is: (UK) 01904 646 901, in case anyone was interested in buying the thing. If I'd had the money - or even thought I could have scraped together something approaching the money - then it definitely wouldn't still be for sale.

Which leaves us with an obvious question. Why, when their 1980's solid state combos were excellent, and the "Artist" was a thing of joy and wonder, are their current "MG" and 'Valvestate' (be they 'advanced' or not) offerings so bloody awful in comparison? Where did it all go wrong? Is it simply costs vs. build quality, or have they actually lost their original circuit diagrams down the back of the sofa? Are they cynically cashing-in on their brand name by banging-out cheap, low-grade boxes, knowing that kids who know no better will buy any old pish with a Marshall logo on it? Or have they been enslaved by an evil wizard who is determined that there shall be no re-issues of any amplifier that may be deemed in any way valve-less?

I looked in their website FAQ, but it wasn't terribly forthcoming, so one day, when I'm feeling brave (they might not appreciate the question, and send some of their larger stack-moving guys round to 'educate' me), and I've done all the child-rearing-related duties, I might just ask them.

p.s. Over the years we've all, I expect, seen news reports about some daft prisoners absconding during weekend home visits, despite their only having a short time left to serve on their sentences? "Eejits", I used to think. "How bloody stupid can you get, to jeopardise your release by running off with only a couple of months' jail time to go?". Tell you what though, after those two days away, I feel a lot more understanding towards them. I'd gone for a wee walk in Edinburgh before the train home to Dunfermline was due, and I'll admit I half-begrudged every step that lead me back to Waverley station, in spite of the comfortable, internet-access and chocolate-containing flat I was ultimately bound for. "Personal Freedom", eh? As apparently simple concepts go, it's a bit of a tricky bugger, that one...

Shut Up 'N' Play Yer Guitar

Well, here we are then. The kids are in bed, and I'm sitting here on my ownsome attached to the good old internet, just waiting for the worldwide outbreak of New Year festivities to reach this particular locale. This (here come the excuses, yet again. I'm so cursedly predictable), was supposed to see the long-overdue death-rattle of "Andy's inaccurate guide to a microscopic slice of the America that the rest of America studiously avoids" (think sub-sub-sub-Bill Bryson, but with added guitars), but isn't. If, and it's one hell of a big "if", that's disappointed anyone, then all I can do is once again say "sorry". (My "Word Of The Year", I reckon). Two main reasons for this failure to make good on earlier promises:

1. (The crap excuse) I've managed to acquire a bizarre 4mm cut across the tip of one of my fingers, which is making typing marginally painful and slow (because of sore finger-substitution...man, I'm so soft these days. Can you believe I ever played contact sports in horrendous weather? Or did competitive Olympic-style weightlifting? Sheeshhhh!! )
2. (The almost reasonable excuse) The piece I was intending to write would probably have stretched to nearly 2,000 words, (partially because I over-qualify, digress, deviate, and over-use adjectives in a ludicrous manner, I confess), involving far more typing than I felt like doing (see "crap excuse" above), and requiring a plethora of carefully-researched (hey, stop laughing! I know it sounds funnier than the planned "gags", but I'm renowned/derided/avoided in social situations for my "anality" when it comes to fact-checking) links, so would have taken about 3 hours to churn out. And since I'm feeling relatively old, tired, and spectacularly useless tonight, that could only ever have ended in a mess of tangled verbiage and harsh recriminations.

You'll be relieved to hear I'm not going to replace the scheduled content with the hoary old staple "A Personal Review of 2007", because such a piece would probably constitute several severe breaches of the European Convention on Human Rights, and lead to an arrest warrant for contravening little-known local by-laws against inflicting turgidity on minors without sufficient proir display of prominent warnings and disclaimers (Local Government in Scotland Act 2003, part 3, "Power To Advance Well-Being").

All I'll say is this - to anyone who, like me, has had a pretty crap 2007, here's hoping that 2008 sees an improvement in all our fortunes. And, as our parents used to remind us with annoying regularity, there are plenty of folk out there worse off than ourselves.

As for the other obvious "hoary old staple", the list of "New Year's Resolutions", well, I've got two. Firstly, I'll try to remember the person I used to be, but have slowly been burying over the last few years, (and maybe exhume the body if it turns out not to be completely dead and gone. Or transplant some of the bits in a psychological-Frankenstein manner. Could be fun! ). Apart from that, I'll follow the advice of the title of this post more often.

Might try to be more pleasant, too.

Oh, now that makes three. Might be pushing it a bit.

Well, we'll see, eh?

Happy New Year from this wee corner of Fife.

Rockin' Around The Christmas Tree...

...but not the "Hannah Montana" version. Oh no. If christmas wishes came true, then this pop-pap fount of perfectly-betoothed, saccharine-and-aspartame-laden wholesomeness will suddenly be found to have disappeared into a hitherto-unknown crevasse directly under the main studio set. Along with the entire cast, (and all known DVD copies), of "High School Musical", naturally. Otherwise it would be a bit of a waste of a perfectly good christmas wish crevasse. And that would be a terrible thing. I mean, just think of the carbon footprint that generating the energy required for the sudden, violent upheaval and fissure in the surface of the earth's crust would involve...

But leaving pleasing fantasies aside for a while, I know that I promised the third, and final - for the moment, anyway - instalment of my highly-biased and horrendously-jaded American music-shop-travelogues. That should, all things being equally unequal as they are at this moment, appear next week. Today, however, I've succumbed to the cliched lure of the (almost inevitable) christmas song list. Well, it'll take less time both for me to type, and you to scan through in a futile search for a decent gag, so it's a win-win situation, right?

So, for the sake of posteriority, (yes, that was deliberate - a heavy-handed linguistic conglomeration of 'posterity' and 'buttocks'. I did say the gag search would be futile, now didn't I? ), here's my personal, all-time "Christmas Rock"* Top 5:

5. Greg Lake - "I Believe In Father Christmas"
Forget all the standing-on-a-posh-rug silliness with ELP, forget the fact that the song only ever, as the Val Doonican album put it, "Rocks - but gently", this is the guy who came up with the main "Daa-da-da-da-da-DAAAH" riff for King Crimson's "21st Century Schizoid Man", and taught Robert Fripp (according to that unique guitar genius himself) the ancient (and desperately elusive - for me, anyway, over the years! ) art of chatting-up women. Plus it's got a dash of Prokofiev in it - oh, and certain, irony-free, dogmatic types have issues with the lyrics. Brilliant.

4. Jethro Tull - "Another Christmas Song"
Sentimental nostalgia would have had me picking the more obvious "Ring Out, Solstice Bells" from the "Songs From The Wood" album, (which is still an all-too-brief interlude of joy to hear when it crops up on shopping centres' christmas compilation 'muzak'), but I prefer this ("handclap"-free, thankfully, unlike "ROSB") bit of seasonal philosophising from the oft-maligned-by-'purists' (always be wary of the 'purists'! ) "Rock Island", instead. Still, if you don't agree, they've done a whole bleedin' album of christmas songs, so there's bound to be something there to please everyone (well, almost - some folk are just impossible when it comes to christmas ).

3. Slade - "Merry Xmas Everybody!!"
Slade rocked. In spite of the public image generated by multiple "Top Of The Pops" appearances, and much "hit parade" success, when Slade played live they were a damn fine rock band (or so I reckon thanks to the wonders of modern technology - I'm not quite old enough to have witnessed their 1970s rock awesomeness first-hand ). And as for anyone who doesn't get a small physical thrill when Noddy Holder screams (melodically) "It's Chriiiiiiiist-muss!!", well, you're dead inside, that's all I can say...

2. The Darkness - "Christmas Time (Don't Let The Bells End)"
Fashion, trendiness and "cool" be damned! This shameless slice of christmas-themed rock has great twin-lead-guitar harmony twiddly bits, autobiographically poignant (and really quite clever) lyrics - with splendidly juvenile double entendres, a children's choir - and that's before we even begin to consider the excellent accompanying video - what more could anyone possibly want from a christmas rock song?? Perhaps only...

1. Spinal Tap - "Christmas With The Devil"
From the "Break Like The Wind" album, this is the perfect marriage of a portentous neo-classical keyboard intro, hilariously over-the-top cod-satanic lyrics, ("The elves are dressed in leather, and the angels are in chains"), and a seriously big ol' heavy rock guitar riff. Inevitably, there have been some poor, sadly afflicted, groups and individuals (such as NBC, would you believe? ) who have failed utterly to perceive that the Tap are, ummm, a 'spoof' metal band, and that their songs happen to be hilariously-accurate parodies of existing tracks and styles, but for a naughty heretical skeptic like meself, that's pretty much just the icing on the cake. Knowing that someone is proclaiming their "outrage" and demanding their right to be "offended" by something they've entirely missed the point of is always good for a giggle.

And there you have it. That's my list - what's yours?

Merry Solstice / Saturnalia / Yule / Noel / Christmas / Hanukkah / Extremely Belated Eid / indeterminate festival of freezing-yer-arse-off-&-having-the-sniffles of your own choosing!


*using this tendentious categorisation has the wonderful benefit of allowing me to clear my mind utterly of all bland festively-themed pop drivel (e.g. George Michael's "Last Christmas", whichever one of Simon Cowell's air-brushed gimps won "X-factor-Idol" almost-singing something or other, the annual musical nightmare release by Cliff Richard, etc,etc) at a single stroke.

Lost In America pt.2 - "Achy Breaky Heart"

Last week I spent a disproportionate volume of verbiage trashing the relative cultural desert that is Florence, Northern Kentucky (apart from the wonderful oasis that is Willis Music, of course!). Today I propose we embark on a little road trip - heading about 140 miles eastwards on the old "AA" highway. A brief stop-off at Maysville for a bite to eat, (just across the Ohio river from "Aberdeen", itself only a wee bit along Ohio Route 52 from "Manchester" - so no prizes for guessing who settled those areas), then the road gets more interesting, rising up into the foothills of the 'Kentucky Highlands', providing entirely juvenile, map-based entertainment possibilities, since most of the local hill names end in the word "knob" - "Potato Knob" being my personal favourite. (This, however, pales in comparison with what is surely Kentucky's finest puerile place name, "Knob Lick", situated on the fantastically-titled "Knob Lick Wisdom Road" - look it up if you don't believe me! - over in Metcalfe County, but I do digress a little..) I swear at one point we drove past a "Beaver Lick Creek" sign, but without a map reference to confirm the siting, my filthy mind could simply have its double-entendre locations badly muddled-up.

Anyway, eventually you'll arrive at Ashland, a town of some 22,000 people nestling against the river, and a place I've liked from the moment I first got there. You see, in many ways, Ashland is the "Anti-Florence", which is definitely a cause for celebration. For a start, it's built around the (imaginatively-named) Central Park, which has many fine trees & open grassy areas in its 47-acres, as well as lots of great kids' play equipment - I know, not such a compelling feature if you don't happen to possess any offspring, but for those of us that do, it's a huge plus, so who cares about what you non-breeders think, huh? . Then there's the fact that people in Ashland have been known actually to walk to work - an activity that's almost considered "un-American" in some States, and came as a pleasant surprise after my earlier, muscle-atrophying, vehicle-bound experience of suburban life further west.

The town also has age on its side. Many of the buildings are of "classic" American brick design, and a few of the side roads have retained their original brick paving, too, which adds a certain character. Contrary to some of the (modern) myths of Kentucky being a "Southern" State, Ashland was the regional centre for pro-Union sentiment/recruitment during the Civil War, (which might not commend it to some folk, I suppose - no accounting for taste! ), and voters there are currently a pretty fair reflection of the country, splitting roughly equally in the last two presidential elections.What else can I use to promote it? Well, great food at C.J. Maggie's, (my no.1 choice), local regional history at the Kentucky Highlands Museum, and a 1400-seater gig venue, the Paramount Arts Center slap in the middle of the place. You've also got the biggest and shiniest medical facilities for..um...a very long way in any direction courtesy of King's Daughters Medical Center which has slowly spread out to occupy what seems to be most of the aforementioned "downtown" Ashland. Every time we've gone back there, more and more hospital-related buildings have been either taken-over, or built afresh on brownfield sites.

When you throw into the mix the nearby outdoor joys of Carter Caves and Greenbo Lake, and realise that you're only a scant two-and-a-half hours' drive away from the incredible white water rafting experience (and much more) that awaits in West Virginia's beautiful, (and very exciting!), New River Gorge, hey, what more could you possibly want?

Well, to be brutally honest, Ashland is the "Anti-Florence" in negative ways, too. Florence is a boomtown, its population growing fast, but unemployment remaining very low...whereas Ashland is, at best, stagnant. Historically economically-underpinned by petrochemicals (Ashland Oil), mining and steel milling (Armco) - and we all know what condition those industries are in - the only thing that has saved it from the kind of neglect and deterioration sadly visible in nearby Ohio towns like Ironton, Coal Grove (names being a bit of a giveaway), and South Point has been the expansion of the King's Daughters hospital- which has, in its turn, made its money primarily from conditions linked to the well-above-USA-average, higher-than 1 in 4 regional obesity rate. So, tri-county residents, show your patriotism, and stuff your faces to save your city! You know it makes sense!

The Paramount also has the dubious honour of having been the venue for the video shoot for Billy Ray Cyrus's (no link to this artist provided because of the threat to musical health and taste ) song, "Achy Breaky Heart". Which isn't good, but it was all a long time ago now, so maybe we should just try to move on, and forget about such past unpleasantnesses. And mullets. Oooooh, that was a baaad mullet...(shudder).

Right, fine, enough of that particular source of shame, on to a more positive musical theme - Chris's Guitar Shop (cue trumpet fanfare, timpani, etc,etc, massive crescendo then abrupt discordant ending as I realise I haven't said anything about them to merit the fanfare. Yet.).

This has been another of my personal havens from the delights of "going to the Mall" - "Just drop me off at the guitar shop, honey, and I'll catch up with you later, when you're finished doing...whatever it is you women do when confronted with a cornucopia of shoes, clothes & 'accessories' [not that I have a clue what the latter entails, truth be told]." must be one of the finest sentences a bloke can utter...

Chris's guitars has moved around a bit, and had its share of ups and downs (at one point it was being managed by a guy who wasn't competent to sign his own name on a document attesting to his own competence, but, well...let's not get into details), but it's always been a true pleasure to step through the door, and have a browse through the stock in search of something interesting with which to annoy anyone within earshot. The staff have been supremely tolerant of my tedious, medium-paced, (you didn't seriously expect me to be fast, did you ?! ), prog-jazz-rock noodlings over the years, especially when you consider that I've never purchased anything more substantial than a plectrum or two. Oh, I've wanted to buy all kinds of gear - last time we were over they had some highly lust-worthy mandolins, for instance, and a couple of really nice valve amps at cool prices, but alas, the budget has always been constrained by the fact that the plane tickets and car hire were already making the visa card creak, and going any more over the UK national average for personal debt wouldn't merely have been foolish, but akin to hurling myself off the (267 metre/876 feet-high) New River Gorge Bridge, with only a gentleman's fine cotton handkerchief for a parachute.

There are a couple of other guitar shops in the town, and a pawn shop for odd second-hand stuff (where, for the first time in my life, I saw a triple-neck guitar...it's a bit sad to confess that to be my most exciting and memorable moment from a major family holiday, but I'm nothing if not honest...! ), but Chris's has always been the first port of call for me.

So, if you ever travel through south-eastern Ohio, north-western West Virginia, or perhaps north-eastern Kentucky, take the time to visit Ashland - and if you pop into Chris's Guitar Shop, you might even be lucky enough to catch head honcho & impressive jazz dude Chris Kitchen putting an instrument through its paces. At least you'll know that I won't be there - be grateful for small mercies!

Next Week on "Lost In America" - our miniseries concludes with a time-warp town in Indiana, and the "twisted" guitars of Leo Burrell...

p.s. One slightly useful thing I learned in Chris's Guitar Shop earlier this year, was that the current range of Roland 'Cube' bass amps aren't up to much. 45 minutes of button-pushing/parameter changing and bass-abuse revealed that the "Ampeg" setting was ok, but the rest were pretty dreadful, some to the point of being offensively unpleasant to listen to. Which is a shame, given that they're usefully portable little amps, and a lot of work has clearly gone into the digital technology...but to steal shamelessly from the peerlessWallace & Gromit - "It's the wrong amp simulations - and they've gone wrong!"

Lost In America

Over the last 8 years I've been fortunate enough to have visited the USA five times, (most recently experiencing the delights of transatlantic air travel with two kids, one of them a 6-month old bundle of irregularly-sleeping, painfully-teething, "why can't I crawl over there and grab that???" energy. Still, as long as you try to be seen to be doing something about your children's obvious [ie. highly vocal] dislike of being cooped-up in a somewhat cramped, occasionally too bouncy, recycled-atmosphered flying metallic tube, then no-one'll hate you too much. And anyway, you're almost certain never to see any of your fellow passengers again, so who cares? ), spending a total of about 4 months in parts of the country that most Americans would never consider visiting, let alone your genuine international tourists (we were always doing the "go see the extended family" thing, so don't count).

Anyway, what with my current domestic situation meaning I'll quite probably not be making that particular trip again, I thought I'd do a bit of free advertising for some of the great music shops that gave me some brief respite and refuge from the worst tedious banalities of the middle-American suburban lifestyle - not to mention the incredible personal stress suffered when staying with my Mother-in-Law (oops, looks like I did just mention it after all...nae mind, eh? ).

This week, I have to offer up many heartfelt thanks to the kind people at Willis Music in Florence, Northern Kentucky. So let's begin with a quick public information broadcast for anyone who might not be entirely sure of where, what, or indeed, why, Florence, KY is...

Sitting south of the Ohio river, about 15 miles from downtown Cincinnati, Florence is a magnificent example of modern America's commonly-appalling town planning (or lack thereof?). A low-rise, sprawling, concrete nightmare that could, in places, double as a film set for that original "how to mess up a nice location" city, Los Angeles. The far nicer, older, centre has become completely swamped by seemingly-random large-scale developments, at least half of which are the worryingly-low-price, get-what-you-pay-for, homogenised franchise-chain diners that Americans seem inordinately fond of, and whose graceless plastic signs-on-stilts jockey for position along the sides of every road in the place. And there are lots of roads, all of them seeming to bear hordes of SUV's, desperately heading somewhere else - anywhere else - rather than Florence...unless you're on Mall Road, that is, but that's pretty much self explanatory. Every time we've gone back, Florence has pushed further and further out into the surrounding area, erecting subdivisions ("housing estates" in the UK) with names like "Oakbrook", and "The Glens", suggesting a pleasing local natural environment - lots of fresh air and space for the kids, but tearing-down acres of woodland and replacing them with (for the most part), expensive, large, "family" (i.e. big double-garage and plenty of driveway to park on besides) houses in the process. Then people complain when they find snakes and raccoons in their back yards...

The only buildings that appear to be able to compete with the diners are the plethora of churches of every conceivable denomination (and a few more who are opposed to any "conceiving", whatever form it might take ). There is, I have been reliably informed, no shortage of money available for religious institutions in the area when it comes to purchasing sites, and erecting their almost entirely architecturally-uninspired "houses of the holy" - alongside, naturally, the inevitable car parks required to service the automotive needs of the righteous. Indeed, the Sunday rituals of worship in Florence occur in two distinct phases - firstly, the good folk drive forth to the chapel / temple / "Church of God" / "First Church of God" (they're just along the street from each other, which might be a touch confusing) / "Church of Christ" (slightly younger and 'hipper' than "God" ?) / "Christian Church" (as opposed to the, er, other sort) / etc,etc, then, after completing their devotions, return to their cars, and travel on to the aforementioned diners, where they proceed to revere their bellies.

Some have even been known, when esconsed in the inner sanctum of a "Red Lobster", to forget the lessons of their absolutistic (it's a real word, honest) Pastors, and stuff their faces with the abomination otherwise known as crabcakes. (I find "cherry-picking" creationists - "we only apply the rules we want to, and only when it suits us" - are tremendous fun - can you tell? )

Of course, I am being a tiny bit unfair to the area - I don't drive, which makes me a 'deviant freak weirdo' in the Mid-West (sorry guys, but yes, you are in the Mid-West. Eastern fringe, I'll grant you, but still...), and I have no truck with the kind of people who loudly proclaim their "moral authority" to tell other people how to live, while resolutely ignoring any/all evidence that might undermine that claim to some degree. (As I said, 'deviant freak weirdo' ). Quick last point - in terms of population, the city is officially 92.4% "white" (similar to where I grew up in Edinburgh, Scotland, interestingly), which is 17% above the US national average - but much of suburban Florence would be practically 100%, which I must confess I find a little too "Stepford" for my liking. Not that I'm implying anything, but who'd a thunk the county would have voted 3 to 1 in favour of Bush/Cheney in '04, huh ?

Right, enough of that. There are many wonderful things in Northern Kentucky, and one of them is most definitely Willis Music. Located in a medium-sized building at the end of a "strip mall" (sadly not as exciting as it sounds), the shop (part of a local 'mini-chain'), may appear distinctly unprepossessing at first glance for the serious "gear-head". For a start, they stock a wide range of orchestral instruments, and pianos, which is usually a bad sign - less room for the Marshall stacks, man! - but fear not! Walk past these to the rear of the shop and a wealth of delights will reveal themselves! Seriously, they have an excellent range, from beginners' guitars up to custom-shop $7,000 Les Pauls - which tend to be bought by lawyers and dentists, apparently. Not that there's anything wrong with that, since every time a musically-inept-but-considerably-wealthy customer snaps up one of those babies at full price, the shop gets a little more profit-margin-leeway with which they can offer the average punter a cool deal on their more modest, but practical, instrument. And I can personally attest to this, having bought a truly fine, plain mahogany Les Paul Junior Special (before they suspended production for a while, so, in other words, a really good one!) at half the US retail price. Well, they are stuck in an area where the vast majority of their customers are either nu-metal-angsty teenagers, or country-and-western twang merchants, so no-one wanted the perfect "heavy blues" guitar, until I came along, and took advantage of our (inflated) exchange rate.

Thanks to the excellent staff (who have a surprising number of prog rock fans in their midst), I've accumulated several hours' worth of vital relaxation in the company of assorted guitars (especially one Godin that had been there for 4 years last time I checked - same story as the Les Paul Junior. If I'd had the cash spare, it could have been mine for $300 [£147] !), basses, and amps - including some of the more recent Kustom models, which were a revelation - they sounded much better than a twice-the-price, all-valve, Fender equivalent, which I found a bit surprising. Of course, if I'd had my brain engaged, I could have taken a short trip up the road to Kustom's HQ at Hebron, KY, but that would have required actual conscious thought, which I'm finding myself less and less capable of as the years of childcare accumulate.

So, if you ever find yourself stuck in Florence, Northern Kentucky, do yourself a favour - head over to Willis Music, check out the gear, and indulge in a convivial chat about "Discipline"-era King Crimson, then stop off for a bite to eat at Bob Evans (or try the local Cincinnati speciality Skyline Chili - chili that doesn't have any, er, chilis in it. Tastes great, though!), before getting the hell out of the place.

There are enough roads to choose from, almost any one of 'em will do! Personally, I'd suggest the "Double-A" highway heading east towards Ashland...but I'll leave that for the next instalment.

Love On The Rocks (With No Ice)

No "funny" low-rent-music nostalgia this week, I'm afraid. I've been waiting for my domestic world to resolve itself one way or another, and now it has, although I still fail to properly understand the reasons why - which may, in fact, be one of them. So not exactly in a "ho-ho-ho" sort of mood right now. Staying positive, however, at least I feel that I'm under no obligation to communicate with my passive-aggressive-nightmare Mother-in-Law ever again. (Not that she was talking to me after our last visit to the USA, but still....it's the principle of the thing.)

Anyway, there's a bit of an inevitable personal retreat inwards going-on, so apologies to anyone I haven't been in touch with as I should.

Once upon a time (ok, 8 years ago), I was a guy with a flat in Edinburgh (recently voted best place to live in the UK in a tremendously scientific study...er...) , who had a permanent contract day job, played in two 'official' bands (plus numerous dep gigs), and was a splendidly mediocre competitive weightlifter (olympic style).

Now....not so much.

Nobody's fault but mine...

Ten Years Gone

On Thursday afternoon I sadly bid farewell to an old friend of mine, and wished them luck on their journey to pastures new. After much prevarication, I'd finally sold my faithful little Gallien-Krueger 200MB bass combo on Ebay. Which was quite a wrench, I must say, given that it had performed admirably for me at hundreds of gigs, coped with falling pints (& punters, on a few occasions) in smoke-choked pubs, and survived the shoddy shock absorbers and shifting p.a. cabinets in the murky depths of many a hired van in the course of our decade-long relationship. All with hardly a murmur of protest, and only cosmetic scrapes and scratches to show for the indignities I put it through. Unfortunately, a condensation-related problem incurred when it was sitting in storage for a year had done for the speaker, and buying an entirely new amp with the insurance payout had proved cheaper than ordering the correct replacement from G-K, so with money relatively scarce, I could hardly justify owning two small bass combos.

Still, at least it went to a good home, with a great new owner who's going to give it a whole fresh lease of life making 6-string fretless noises through his array of home-made cabinets. (Plus he only lives 5 miles away, saving me all the hassle of packaging - what a nice man! ).

Seeing the wee beastie go did set me off on yet another nostalgia trip, though...considering all the guitars, basses, amps, and other multifarious musical gewgaws that have passed-through my hands, and wondering if there was anything I still genuinely regretted having divested myself of in my quest for personal instrumental perfection.

In the end, the list was very short. No basses - I've always been pretty good at "recycling" these. My first ever bass was a red Aria ProII SLB, bought in 1990 when I was at university, and still pretending to be a guitarist of some description. Lovely neck, perfectly sound instrument, it was eventually de-fretted when my Hohner JackV came along 3 years later - which was itself subject to a de-fret job when I bought a TobyPro 6 last year. Wonder what might just happen to that if I ever get offered a 6-string, headless version of one of these for free?? There's something I particularly like about de-fretted basses. Most likely the resultant position markers, which I find enormously helpful, being both far too lazy to bother to learn fretless properly, and extremely short of time to practice (thanks to the kids, naturally. Nothing to do with writing this nonsense. This hardly takes any time at all...errrr... ).

I was tempted to include my last guitar multi-fx unit, a Boss ME-8, whose qualities I only truly appreciated after I'd parted with it - but since it went to another excellent home, (my very good mate Martin), and I haven't played a gig on electric guitar since 1995 (or thereabouts), then I'm not going to complain about that one having got away.

In the end, the only 2 items of musical gear I wish I'd never part-exchanged, or sold in the desperate bid to finance the purchase of something more shiny, were my first decent guitar - a British-made Shergold "Custom Masquerader" , and the wonderful little Marshall "Lead 12" amp I bought with it. The Shergold was actually my 2nd electric, but the first one (a nameless East German Strat copy) was so bad, (and utterly resistant to being set-up properly - a lesson in applied Communism! ), that all I can recall of it was that it was black, in homage to Ritchie Blackmore, and that it was far more of a cheese-slicer than a guitar, to which the ends of my fingers constantly bore witness.

I spent £125 on the Shergold way back in 1986, and I loved it to bits. The neck and balance just felt "right", and with a bewildering array of switching possibilities on board, it was capable of producing at least 4 usable sounds - which is 1 more than a PRS! The pick-ups weren't what you'd call powerful, so it was never going to be first choice for your average shred-monster, but it could certainly hold its own in any heavy blues / jazz-rock / disappear-into-your-own-bellybutton-prog setting, which was perfect for me. I even, briefly, owned a matching 12-string model, but couldn't handle the tediousness involved in tuning the damned thing - remember, this was in the "olden days", the late Medieval/early Rennaissance era, when digital tuners couldn't be found easily for under £10. (I believe I also mentioned earlier my inherent laziness, too? I did? Just checking).

Relative poverty, however, meant that when I surrendered to the overwhelming seductive charms of a Patrick Eggle New York six years later, selling the Shergold was the hard, but necessary, part of the bargain. I've looked for another one in the last couple of years, but they appear to be "highly collectable" now, so I reckon I've got about as much chance of replacing my ugly-yet-beautiful "cherry" (although it always looked more "burgundy" to me) Shergold, complete with an old London bus ticket acting as a shim under the neck joint, as I have of finding a vellum manuscript of the Vinland Sagas in a local charity shop.

Marshall 12's, on the other hand, do still turn up in fair numbers, although the asking price for reasonable-condition examples has finally started to reflect their true quality. I had the basic, no-reverb version, and knew virtually nothing about amps, so when the opportunity arose to trade it in for something slightly more powerful that had a reverb unit in it, I stupidly, stupidly, STUPIDLY took it.

Seriously, a Lead 12 is one of the finest pieces of equipment Marshall ever built! Don't take my word for it -

"Lead 12: The Little Screamer
Greater distortion at low volumes was also the goal of one of the most interesting amps Marshall released in the early '80s – the model 5005 Lead 12.
A 12-watt transistor practice amp with a 10" Celestion, it retailed for under $200 and for many came surprisingly close to capturing the great, warm sound of the distorted Marshall amps of years gone by. It was a favorite of many working musicians, including luminaries like Billy Gibbons of ZZ Top."

(from "Marshall Amplifiers: A History", by Edward B Discroll, Jr. - well worth a quick Google! )

It was the baby of a whole range of solid state Marshalls, which are all well worth a look if you're after that tone, just without the corresponding hernia. And again, if I could spare the money for another one, I'd snap it up in an instant. They've got everything you could want for the price - a Lead 12 sounds great, looks cool, and it's so small you might lose it down the back of the sofa. Assuming your sofa is quite big, of course. And that you're somewhat careless with your musical equipment.

Anyway, to return to the original subject, selling my Gallien-Krueger has presented a common ethical problem balancing the wants and needs of the individual with those of the family/social group. I was intending to "ring-fence" the proceeds, (which were more than I was expecting ), with a view to buying a small digital recorder, so that, in addition to my semi-literate and almost-amusing blog postings, I could infect the internet with my musical ramblings, too. There is, however, the small matter of two ever-growing mini-blokes to be clothed, fed & housed in relative non-squalor, and limited funds currently available with which to do so. As any parent reading this will know, in the real-life game of "Tolerably-Coping Families" ("Happy" is a deeply contentious concept ), "kids" are always trumps, so I'll most likely content myself with the familiar, comforting lie that goes: "Well, I'll not spend that money now, but in a few weeks/months/years/lifetimes [if you believe in all that 'reincarnation' business - what an opportunity for long-term stock investment! ], when we can properly afford it, then I'll buy that [insert personal object of desire here] I've always wanted."

Except, of course, that's never quite how it works out. When we finally arrive at the designated future purchasing point, there's always been a fresh need/domestic maintenance issue/minor crisis that has cropped-up in the meantime, ensuring that our expenditures continually rise to meet our available budgets. A while back I sold an electric mandolin, supposedly for exactly the same purpose as the Gallien, and it ended-up paying the Council Tax bill for September...

Ah, well.

Never mind.

Anyone know the going rate for a kidney, hmmm?

Dazed And Confused

All I seem to do these days is apologise for not keeping up with my good intentions with this blogging concept, and today is no exception. To be brief, there's stuff going on domestically which I'm not going to elaborate on, (since I never intended this to be the readily-available-almost-everywhere-online, tedious solipsistic wafflings about my innermost feelings regarding my daily family life, etc), but isn't exactly conducive to flexing the old 'comedy muscle'. I thought that trying to write some vaguely music-related nonsense would be a useful therapeutic contrast, but it looks like I was wrong - which is becoming something of a recurring theme these days.

Everything's in a state of flux. And I'm too close to the tip of the soldering iron for comfort.

'Normal' service may be resumed quite soon. Maybe.

Breathe...

...is something I haven't been able to do for the last fortnight - through my nose, that is. Turns out my "bit-of-a-cold" that I'd had while up in Inversness has mutated gloriously into full-blown sinusitis, which is the main reason it's been two weeks since I last inflicted my ramblings on the world. Having finally got the kids in bed, I sat down at the computer last Sunday evening, fully intending to regurgitate further choice anecdotal witticisms regarding music shops I have known and loved (i.e. where the long-suffering staff tolerated me on a regular basis), but after several abortive attempts at an opening sentence, I succumbed pathetically to the lure of a comfy Ikea chair (one of those slightly odd, 'bouncy' ones) and thought-process-free television. (Oh, the privations I suffer for my art! ).

Trying to understand this interruption of my usual logorrheic flow, I originally came up with a (deeply uninformed) theory that the incredible pressure in my sinus cavities was somehow pressing on the brain itself, causing an impingement in the areas most closely associated with creativity, language, and drivel-related hormone levels. A whole five minutes' worth of careful research, however, demonstrated that this hypothesis was, in technical terms, "total bollocks". More likely it was just the amygdala, (due to intense irritability), lashing out and giving Broca's & Wernicke's areas (speech/language) a bit of abuse, resulting in it being served with an ASBO (for the non-British out there, that's the generally-ineffectual "Anti-social Behaviour Order", widely regarded as a 'badge of honour' amongst the Neds they're mostly handed out to. For those unfamiliar with the term "Neds", it is acceptable to substitute "Shuggies", or "Jaikies", instead, as in the common expression, "They Weegie Jaikies is aw monged oan ra Buckie, man!". Not, it must be stressed, to be confused with, "Gadgie", as in "Yon gadgie's a barrie radge, man!". That would just be silly), by my orbito-frontal cortex (inhibiting socially-unacceptable behaviour) acting as a cranial police officer. Or possibly not.

Anyway, as any singer will tell you - well, any singer who has half a notion of what they're doing, and roughly how to control the process (which is a frighteningly small proportion of all the "vocalists" out there)- sinusitis is a right bugger, since it completely screws up your resonance and pitching (quite apart from your face hurting - a bit like trying to play a 38+1/2"-scale, no-dot-markers-fretless, plastic bass that gave your fingers a small electric shock every time they touched the strings). Not that I'm doing any proper singing these days, I just felt like whinging a bit more . If I were still involved in recital stuff, by now I'd almost certainly have fallen-back on the old favourite cure-all, gin-and-lemsip...which works, but you really do have to concentrate a little harder....

Aside from the obvious (sore, tired, irritable, nose doing Niagara impressions - and thanks to the joys of hayfever, I've done gigs where I knew my nasal excretions were streaming steadily down onto my instrument, but couldn't stop playing to do anything about it - always nice at a wedding ), the biggest problems I've had are losing the senses of smell & taste (which makes cooking for the kids slightly tricky - just how many chilis did I put in this stuff, hmmm? Reckon it could do with some more...). On the other hand, no.2 son's nappies have been far more pleasant to deal with (how come we never seem to fully acclimatise to that particular odour?), and I can afford to indulge the "I-feel-ill-so I want-ice-cream" cravings with the really cheap stuff that would otherwise taste like petrochemical run-off. See? There's always a bright side!

Mind you, the more I researched sinusitis and its possible causes, the more I wished I'd left well alone - reading about all the tiny things that can go wrong with your mucociliary system, (the mucus that lines/humidifies/protects your respiratory bits, and the movement & drainage thereof - do blogs get more exciting than this? I mean, do they? ), is enough to turn anyone into a raging hypochondriac - I'm currently convinced I've got nasal polyps. Or non-functioning sinus cilia. Or both!

Seriously, though, the weirdest thing I found out was the huge economic impact of nasal/sinus conditions - I could only get stats for the USA (i.e. I had a brief look elsewhere, but rapidly lost interest when it became obvious that effort might be required), but I think (hope) you might find them as interesting as I do (N.B. I have no life/friends):

* Sinusitis affects c. 14% of the US population annually.
* It accounts for c. 28.2 million visits to the doctor per year.
* Almost $6 billion (!) p.a. is spent on sinusitis, of which c. $2.2 billion goes on medication.

Which just goes to prove the old saying - "Where there's mucus, there's brass!"

Finally, before anyone starts thinking I'm as obsessed with my nasal passages, (and what comes out of them in a multi-coloured form first thing in the morning - aren't you glad I shared?), as that old quackmeister Sigmund Fraud - definitely not about to try his cure-of-choice, cocaine - I'm going to lurch unpredictably off in a completely different direction. Now, anyone who knows me at all is aware that I don't dance. It may be slightly ironic that I spent 8 years in ceilidh bands persuading semi-drunk strangers to cast off their inhibitions and fling each other around by whatever came to hand, but I was never one of those callers who jumps onto the dance floor at the merest sniff of an opportunity to show off their twinkling footwork - giving instructions (and talking a load of old shite into the bargain ) was the full extent of my involvement in the enterprise. Nor, it must be said, have I ever had any great interest in, or experience of, "Latin American" music, except for what cropped-up in the odd bit of Jaco Pastorius / Weather Report.

Which is why discovering the incredible gorgeousness of Lidia Borda's voice and music took me completely by surprise. No disrespect to all the other vastly talented, original, brilliant, amazing, etc,etc (will that sycophancy suffice?) artists on my "friends" list - you're all fabulous, too, but you work within genres that I'm at least reasonably familiar with, styles that feel pleasantly comfortable, like a good pair of well-worn-in Marks & Spencer boxer shorts. Ms. Borda and her sultry tango songs (drown your ears in the vocal equivalent of molten 72%-cocoa-solids chocolate!) are an utterly new experience to me, and one which I cannot recomend highly enough to anyone reading this. Not that I understand a word of what she's singing, of course, but when it's so beautifully expressed, who cares? And the four tracks on her site are all available to download - for free! This could, might I suggest, even be the ultimate music for, er, "impressing the ladies", shall we say, chaps? Try slipping one of her cd's on in between the (more traditionally blokey) speed metal, obscure prog, and free jazz, and see what happens...

Not that I'd know anything about the noble arts of romance & seduction - just ask my wife!