Feathering Death Through Astral Weeks

The beauty and the magic of Astral Weeks,
Like all things pertaining to love, will last forever.

The above was the two-line review I wrote in 1968 for City Week, a Belfast newspaper, of Van Morrison’s groundbreaking album, Astral Weeks. The Editor, Chris Moore - who was more used to wielding his red pen on my double page reviews (as with the triple-disc Woodstock Album) - said, politely, “And would you like to expand even just a little on that?”

“No, I think that covers it for me,” I replied, not even realising that it was then, and still is now, an impossible album to review. Astral Weeks was and is, so totally engaging, demanding even. It’s not even that it’s haunting album; it’s more it’s an album that haunts you. It is impossible to put on your record/CD/cassette player unless you’re prepared to forsake everything else, bar breathing, for the next 46 minutes.

I remember like it was yesterday how I was initiated into the world of Astral Weeks, the album I have most definitely listened to more than any other in the intervening 42 years. I’d moved to London from Magherafelt 18 months previously and I was making one of my regular excursions from Wimbledon up to The Marquee Club in the West End, in Wardour Street, this time to see and hear Terry Reid perform. I was greeted by a notice, posted on the securely locked door of the club, stating that the show had been cancelled due to Mr Reid’s illness. On my way back to the tube station I visit Musicland’s record store in Piccadilly Circus for a browse and on said browse I happened upon a shrink-wrapped, American import copy of Astral Weeks. In those days there could be as much as a six-month delay between the US and the UK release of certain albums. So people like the Musicland chain would import copies at the time of the US release and charge a premium to impatient fans for doing so. The price for the album was a lot more than the coins remaining in my pockets so, I paid a deposit to secure the album, returned to Wimbledon, scrounged the necessary funds from my mates and returned immediately to Piccadilly Circus to collect my prize. And the reason for my excitement? Well quite simply at that stage my top five favourite albums were:

1. The Beatles - Rubber Soul

2. Otis Redding - Otis Blue

3. The Freewheeling Bob Dylan

4. Them - Them Again

5. Van Morrison - Blowin’ Your Mind


By the end of that weekend I had a new Number 1 favourite album and I spent every waking minute listening to it. If I said I was totally addicted to it you might get the picture. It wasn’t just that it was way beyond its time in 1968, because it is still beyond its time. It wasn’t just that Astral Weeks might be the best album ever made – I mean to even consider this to be so, might just, in a way, serve to sully the work somewhat.

I remember the Astral Weeks trips (never assisted by chemicals) as being full weekend sessions. People who really love music spend so much time and energy pursuing their next fix. I have found to my delight that Astral Weeks has always repaid this commitment completely and perfectly. A few years later I even wired up two stereo systems and played two copies of the album a lyric line out-of-sync with each other for a basic, but truly mind-blowing, quadraphonic sound. Most people I knew who were into Astral Weeks had bought several copies because they’d played the vinyl so much, they’d actually played it out.

One of the major points I keep coming back to with this work was the total contrast between this album and the scene it had come out of. Three minute pop songs were not just the rule; they were the regulation of the music industry. Even by hinting it was an Opera and entitling side one, “In The Beginning” and side two, “Afterwards” shows someone was aware, at least to some degree, what it was they’d tapped into.

Even the way the album concludes, it leads you to believe that it’s not really ending, it’s continuing on out there somewhere, it’s just that you’re no longer involved on the musical journey; you need to return to earth to revive yourself mentally and physically before making a return trip.

Van Morrison was a member of Belfast’s finest ever band, THEM (Decca Records). They’d recorded a couple of albums: The Angry Young Them in 1965 (featuring garage band classic Gloria recorded by everyone from Jimi Hendrix to The Doors and a US top ten hit for Shadows Of The Knight) and Them Again, in 1966. They enjoyed a couple of hit singles, Baby Please Don’t Go (the UK Top 10, and the flip side of Gloria) and Here Comes The Night. The latter single was composed and produced by Bern Berns who flew a dejected Van to the US at the demise of Them.

Blowin’ Your Mind was Van’s first solo album and was produced by Bert Berns (for his own label Bang Records). The album featured Van’s first (of 2) US top ten hits, Brown Eyed Girl. The other being Domino from 1970’s His Band and the Street Choir, where Van used what became his signature, ultra-melodic Irish Showband brass-section, led sound for the first time. Van Morrison and Bert Bern’s battles are well documented. Suffice to say, that even just a few months after his top ten hit, Van, due to the ensuing dispute, penniless and unable to record, took to the road around the Boston area, basically to pay the bills. The economic line-up was Van on Guitar and vocals, Tom Kielbania, bass, and flautist, John Payne. Months passed, Bert Berns died, and Warner Bros Records stepped in and resolved the situation and signed Van.

Warner Bros in turn co-opted Lewis Merenstein from Inherit Productions to produce the first album under the deal. Merenstein visited Van in Boston to hear the material Van intended to use and was immediately floored by the song Astral Weeks.

One of Merenstein’s first revolutionary decisions was to take Van out of his comfort zone of R &B/Soul/Pop and guide him towards the jazz world by booking veteran jazz bassist Richard Davies; guitarist Jay Belinger (who worked with Charlie Mingus) and drummer Connie Kay, from the Modern Jazz quartet. This was the core band for the planned recording sessions.

These musicians met Van for the first time when they turned up for the first session on Sept 25th 1968, in Century Sound Studios in New York. Van was less than a month over 23 years old. There were no chord charts for the material. Van showed them his guitar parts and asked them to follow him, encouraging the musicians to play what they felt. That day they recorded Cyprus Avenue, Madame George and Beside You, all with a mysterious flautist, who was replaced for the final cut of the day, Astral Weeks, by Van’s regular gigging musician, John Payne. The second session, early morning on Oct 1st, was somewhat less successful. Barry Cornfield (guitar) stood in for the unavailable Jay Berliner and the only track they managed to catch from this session was As Young Lovers Do. The revised combo and resultant studio vibe obviously explained the different feel/sound of the track compared to the rest of the album. The final session (Oct 15th) engineered (as were all the sessions) by Brooks Arthur with Jay Berliner back on guitar and John Payne on flute, produced The Way Young Lovers Do, Sweet Thing and Ballerina. Then they spent a considerable period of time searching for a track to close the album. They attempted several songs from Van’s book of songs until they settled on Slim Slow Slider, which featured John Payne on flute and soprano saxophone.

Also involved in the Astral Weeks sessions were Warren Smith, percussion and vibes, and Larry Fallon, an arranger & conductor who also played harpsichord on Cyprus Avenue.

The Astral Weeks songs were written over a five-year period. One of the earliest would appear to be Ballerina because Jim Armstrong, the guitarist in one of the constantly changing versions of Them, remembers trying to put a shape on it in the earlier Them days. Beside You and Madame George were recorded for Bang Records in December 1967. With Bert at the helm and the obvious slapstick approach we can see exactly how much Lewis Merensten and his vision added to the artistic success of the work. Sweet Thing is the only song Van has so far permitted to appear on any of his approved complication albums. Slim Slow Slider is the only track on the album not to have strings.

The album itself – a song cycle, a concept album, an opera, call it what you will and it certainly has been labelled all of the above at various times – is (still) like nothing you’ve ever heard. The major problem, I find, with trying to describe something like this is the fear that someone will read your words and think, “So it’s not a verse/chorus/verse/ chorus /middle-eight/ verse/chorus/chorus type of song, Oh I wouldn’t like that.” And pass the album by. Or they might think, “It doesn’t have a hook, I love songs that have hooks, the hook helps me remember the song. So I wouldn’t like this.” Or even, “if I can’t whistle it, I won’t buy it.” And not listen to the album. That quite simply would be the crime of the century.

All I can tell you is that you will not be prepared for the shock of experiencing Astral Weeks for the first time, nor will you have any idea of the joy you will experience by going back to it again and again.

Like all great works of literature, Astral Weeks enjoys the classic beginning, middle and end, each with their respective dramatic pay-offs.

During the first two songs, Astral Weeks and Beside You the singer and musicians jostle you along. You’re tempted to be careful because you’re unsure of your surroundings, but they refuse to allow you to relax and be comforted. The result is you’re continuously on edge, exhausted even, but too excited by the soundscape to be scared. In Sweet Thing though the singer and musicians do allow you to loosen up (a little) but by now you’re ready for your journey and keen to get on with it. Then you realise the combo have just been setting you up, setting you up to destroy you, destroy you totally with Cyprus Avenue.

“Afterwards,” (or “side 2” in old money) opens with The Way Young Lovers Do, during which you’re tempted to come out of the dream, but you find yourself resisting this because it is, “between the viaducts of your dreams,” as the artist very visually puts it, that your need to be for the next two tracks; the monumental Madame George and the vibes led Ballerina with it’s perfectly drawn poetic imagery. The string arrangements are, purely and simply, perfect. Perfect but never, ever predicable and as vital as Robert Kirby’s were to Nick Drake’s classic Bryler Layer album. Slim Slow Slider is the album closer they searched so diligently for during the final recording session. With hindsight they really couldn’t have picked any other song in the world for this slot. The artist sets up the closing scene flawlessly and we see the girl, perhaps his girl, perhaps not, “with her brand new boy and his Cadillac.” As Slim Slow Slider, and the album, ends abruptly, you’re left wondering where she is going and why she won’t be coming back.

There are many myths and legends about Astral Weeks; some factual some clearly fictional. Some say there is a 40-minute piece of this opera that was recorded at the same time but never released. Van denies this and perhaps the legend grew from the several unused tracks they attempted on the final session (Oct 15th) when they were searching for their final track. The album has always sounded like a completed piece of work to me, although Into The Mystic (from the Moondance album) and Hey Girl (from Them Again album) sound as though they could have been from the same writing vein. Interestingly enough, when Van recently attempted a live version of the album he included Listen To The Lion (from St Dominic’s Preview) in the concert. Martin Scorsese claimed that the first half of his film Taxi Driver was based on Astral Weeks. Astral Weeks was one of the biggest, reportedly THE biggest, ever selling Import album in the UK. The album continues to do well in best album polls; significantly Astral Weeks was voted the Best Ever Irish Album in Hot Press Magazine, Dublin, in 2009. Van has suggested that Astral Weeks is a total work of fiction, just stories. I don’t believe this to be true. If it is, then it just might be one if the best collection of short stories ever written.

Could he have been writing about, or even to, the same person he addressed in the devastating powerful and equally unnerving, TB Sheets, from the Blowin’ Your Mind album? Is there a code to his writing? . In American Pie Don McLean knew in detail the complicated solution to the sublimely crafted, cryptic lyric of his classic song. But what are the lyrics to Astral Weeks about? Do they all have a spiritual backdrop or is there a more sensual sub-plot? Did Van create his own code to deal with subtle sexual overtones perhaps? Around the same time Jim Morrison was publicity breaking down the sexual barriers of the late sixties. It could be argued, that, while doing so, he found it impossible to retreat from his stance and regain the treasured, hallowed, solid-ground again. Maybe the process even helped to ruin his already troubled life. Did Van find a more discreet way? You know some times, in this work, you have a hint of someone, maybe the writer, trying desperately to reclaim something or other; or perhaps longing to return to a another, perhaps, happier time. Maybe we’re talking about something as difficult to achieve as unscrambling an egg, or, put another way, reclaiming their innocence or the innocence of a third party? But, you know what? A big part of the success of writing is creating a space, a void if you will, that others can inhabit and relate to. We can’t expect sign-posts and clues at every turn and if we do we’re certainly not going to find them in Astral Weeks.

In 1979 I was in a very privileged position of working with Van as his agent and promoter. I always found him a) to have an incredible sense of humour and b) to be an extremely professional individual. I eventually became his quasi manager; the legendary Pee Wee Ellis was credited with Van’s, ‘brass arrangements’ and I was credited with, ‘business arrangements.’ When I eventually worked up the courage to discuss Astral Weeks with him, Van agreed that when first released, the album had enjoyed great acclaim and reviews, but reviews weren’t paying the bills; he had a wife and a young baby daughter and was quite literally struggling to earn enough money to survive. So, basking in the glory of Astral Weeks was not his priority. Elsewhere he seemed, on the one hand, to downplay the album, yet still occasionally confessed his pride in it. The obvious difficultly must have been: when you create such an incredible work of true genius so early on in your life, artistically speaking, where is there left to go?

In the six years I worked with Van, I attended most of his concerts and, on very rare occasions he included selections from Astral Weeks on the song list. As the intros for these masterpieces started you could actually sense the audience collectively hush and slip back into their seats in disbelief and anticipation as they embarked on a journey, a journey that left both the artist and the audience gasping for air.

Perhaps, in a way, Astral Weeks over the years has outgrown the artist. For the original album Van was part of the deal, he wasn’t the entire deal; he was the singer and the writer. He allowed himself to be totally arranged and produced. Interesting to note that, artistically speaking, he never ever gave anyone that amount of control over him again. It’s not even that the original is a warm acoustic, seductive sound that caresses and soothes you. No, it’s a hard and edgy sound and because of that it keeps you attentive to the degree that you’re never disappointed with whatever it is. In a way it’s a bit like experiencing a brush with death; well on consideration maybe it’s more like feathering death. Sometimes, and I know this might sound a bit hippyville, but it actually sounds as if Van’s the instrument and the piece is playing him.

To be fully aware of how vital the production was to the success of the piece, you have to listen no further than earlier attempts Van had made on some of the pieces at previous Bang Records recording sessions. When you listen to the (December 1967) attempts of a few of the Astral Weeks tunes, on various Bang outtake sessions, the scary thing you start to think is: if Van hadn’t joined Them… if he hadn’t left Them… if Bert Berns hadn’t signed him to Bang Records and flown him to America… if Van hadn’t gotten away from Bang Records… if Van hadn’t needed to tour with a scaled down acoustic biased set-up for financial reasons … if he hadn’t signed with Warner Bros… if Warner Bros hadn’t enlisted Lewis Merensten… if Merensten hadn’t been so moved by the material… if Merensten hadn’t made the inspired choice of musicians…if… well on and on, really. The point I’m trying to make I suppose is, luckily all of those things did happen and this breath-taking thing of beauty was realised because, like all works of true genius, it came so scarily close to not happening.


And now for the bit before I go.


This time I saw:

Seamus Heaney, another one of the great voices of our time, at The Queen Elizabeth Hall, London.

Stephen Fry with his entertaining and engrossing one-man show at The Royal Albert Hall, London.

Sir Stephen Hawking at The Royal Albert Hall, London – just totally amazing and perhaps the quickest two hours of my life.

Van Morrison at the Royal Albert Hall, London – a workingman in his prime, the best concert I’ve seen him do in over 20 years!

Ray Davies at The Olympia Paris – the prefect venue with the artist and audience both in perfect form.

Sir Michael Parkinson – One Man Show at the Cadogan Hall, London - now that’s entertainment!

Christy Moore and Declan Sinnott, flawless at The Royal Festival Hall, London.

The Waterboys with their triumphant An Appointment With Mr Yeats at The Grand Canal Theatre, Dublin


And read:


Howard Sounes - The Intimate Life of Paul McCartney. Even thought we all know the ending it’s still sad.

Nicholas Evans - The Brave.

Michael Connelly – The Reversal. A 10 outta 10.

Dave Fanning – the thing is this was a very quick and enjoyable read.

Deborah Cadbury – Chocolate Wars –  I felt like a silent investor so I just had to read it. A surprisingly great and informing read.


And watched:

Friday Nights Lights, DVD Season One – and it might just be the best American TV series this side of West Wing.

House – series 6. It’s getting better all the time.


And (surprise, surprise) listened to:


Van Morrison - Astral Weeks



Cheers until next time.



pc

The Men Who Would be King

Did you ever notice that the more they trailer a movie in the cinema the worse it in invariably turns out to be when, and if, you eventually get to see it?  The other thing I’ve found, and this is also quite consistent as well, is that the more The Sunday Times slags off a movie the more I seem to enjoy it. And why do you think this is Paul? I hear you say. Well gather around and I’ll try and explain.

My wife and I and a couple of our friends went out to the cinema a few weeks ago to see the highly rated Dogtooth and the weird thing was that all the reviewers seemed to get right was the fact that the movie was weird.  Dazed and Confused, the poster proclaimed, thought it just might be the best movie that the reviewer in question had ever seen, which led us all to believe that the said reviewer might just be... yes, you’ve guessed it… dazed and confused.

But the point I’m trying to make is not that The Sunday Times reviewers seem to continually get it wrong and that the Dazed and Confused reviewer might have got it wrong on this particular occasion. No, I think what I’m trying to say is that we’re all different and, yes it is a clique, but we all do have different opinions. And then the bit I’d add to that is that even with reviews, we’re all still subjected to and influenced by, the marketing machines of the big movie companies. Like, for instance, the editor or the reviewer from whichever newspaper or magazine you care to think of, realise that if they slag off a movie then there is no way they are going to get their name mentioned on the poster and adverts advertising the said movie and so they are going to miss out on a major marketing opportunity of their own.

Then from out of nowhere you’ll get a feel-good word-of-mouth movie, and it doesn’t matter how much money the movie company does or does not spend marketing the said movie it will do amazing box office.  I’m talking here about sleeper movies like Sideways, Juno, 500 Days of Summer, Lost in Translation, Dog Day Afternoon and, more recently, the totally amazing, The Secret in Their Eyes.

It’s a bit like starting a fire, how these movies get started.  My dad is brilliant at lighting a fire; he’ll get a few bits of rolled up newspaper, yes maybe even the aforementioned The Sunday Times, a few sticks of wood, two or three lumps of coal and a match and he’s away first time, every time. Whereas I’ll have all of the above, plus a pack of firelighters as well and no matter how much huffing and puffing I do my efforts will mostly fade to darkness. Again no matter how much expensive huffing and puffing the relevant record company, book publisher, or movie company do, if it’s not in the grooves, figuratively speaking, it’s never going to lift off.    

I’ve found it’s the exact same thing with bands, television shows, books, records, comedians, plays, the single most effective way to success is pure and simply word-of-mouth. Perhaps it could be argued that the various companies either think that the latest Johnny Depp - probably currently the biggest marquee name in terms of opening a movie - is going to do very well on their own thank you very much (ditto for the all mega projects in the different fields) and so the money people channel all their funds and energy into the poor cousins; the projects they have spent a lot of money on which haven’t tested well or received favourable reviews.  When the reality is it really doesn’t matter what they do or don’t do for those particular projects. If it’s a turkey it’s never going to fly and if it’s a work of considerable beauty it might be shaky at first but mostly (if enough people are exposed to the project in question) it’ll take flight.    

In my own chosen business I find that usually a project will stand a reasonable chance if the record companies only have the sense to leave it (all) to the artists.  It’s when they start to meddle and “create”, that things can, and do, go drastically wrong.  When it does work thought they’re not beyond basking in a reflected glory.  For instance the chap who just happened to be the boss of the record company involved with the current pop factory (where all music is deemed, 'product') now acts like he’s personally invented the wheel. But here’s the thing: who remembers the name of the boss of the record company at the time of the Beatles success.   Actually I do, it was Sir Joseph Lockwood, but I know his name just because when it comes to Beatle facts I’m just S-A-D and I remember reading that John Lennon invited him to manage the Beatles. But here’s another a test for you, pick your favourite movies and you’ll most probably remember the main actors, maybe even the director, and, if you’re a real anorak, maybe even the writer and if you’re an Oscar awards ceremony nut you might, just might guess the name of the producer, but you’re never ever going to guess the name of the boss of the studio at the time the movie was made. But these people, yes the very same men who would be Kings, are powerful and they do have their vanity projects, where they “create.” I suppose we’re maybe wandering off the beaten path a wee bit now, and then again, maybe not.  Such a person is quite likely to insist that we all should have an opportunity to enjoy (or be subjected to) the latest in the long line of Dogtooth type projects, which is exactly where we came in.

And now, the bit before I go.

This time I’ve seen:

Martian Child – a truly beautiful film featuring John Cusack and Bobby Coleman.

The Mystery in Their Eyes – a definite must-see film.

Solitary Man.  

And heard:

Don McLean @ The Royal Albert Hall, London – a majestic concert.

Ray Davies @ The Canal Street Theatre, Dublin – Artist, band and audience all in perfect form for a perfect concert.

Eric Bibb @ The Bloomsbury, London – a true blues legend in the making.

John Connolly & Mark Billingham @ Waterstones Bookshop, Piccadilly, London – they’re both so sharp and so genuinely entertaining they should take their (duo) show on the road.

Jackson Browne & David Lindley @ The Hampton Court Palace - a beautiful performance with perfect sound.

And read:

Popism by Andy Warhol and Pat Hackett – a revealing period Polaroid.

The Men Would Would be King by Nicole Laporte - a must read for film fans and fans of the foibles of human nature.

You Never Give Me Your Money by Peter Doggett who very subtly reveals to us how and why the Beatles were split up, when they all individually admitted they’d have been just as happy to continue making music together albeit in a less permanent format.

Until the next time,

Cheers

pc

  

All The Great Songs Are Sad Songs

Over the Easter weekend I watched The Yellow Bittern, a film about the life and times of The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem through the eyes and words of Liam Clancy and it moved me, disturbed me, upset me like nothing has since the death of George Best.

With George Best I knew, I felt, exactly why I reacted so emotionally to the news of his passing away. I never met the man (saw him on the pitch a few times though) but at the time I moved from Ireland to London he was, perhaps, the sole, role model for Ulster folk in London. A figurehead, if you will, someone to look up to who also came from Northern Ireland, a small country continuously battered with a bad negative press in the late 1960s.  George Best was an undisputed true artist, a genius who majestically carried on his frail, but agile shoulders, the hopes and dreams of each and every exiled Ulsterman and woman.

The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem were different though.

The eldest two of a Carrick-on Suir family - Paddy (born 7^th March 1922) and Tom (born 29^th October 1924) – immigrated to the USA in the 1950s. They were followed a few years later by younger brother Liam (born 2^nd September 1935) and, from Armagh, Tommy Makem (born 4^th November 1932). The four aspired to become actors but accepted whatever manual work was available to finance their meagre lifestyle while, at the same time sending whatever they could back home to help keep the home fires burning. They were part of the infamous New York/Boston Irish scene.

Initially all four future members of this group concentrated on what was undoubtedly their first love: acting, choosing only occasionally to sing for their supper, or their drink, at New York’s famous Irish infested White Horse or folkie haven, Kenny’s Castaways. Although they released two albums in the 1950s – Rising of The Moon (1956) and Come Fill Your Glass (1959) – the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem didn’t really burst onto the scene until 1961. By then, after considering names as diverse as The Blacksmiths and the Druids – and, even at one point very nearly opting for, The Chieftains – they had finally, under the deadline of a fast approaching Boston concert appearance, settled on the professional name of The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem.  By this time they had a tried and tested concert song list and had adopted the look/image of the Betty Duggan-knit Aran sweaters.

Their theatrical training hadn't all gone to waste because their invaluable experience on the boards, in no small way, helped to mould their dramatic stage performance and they set up the pace of their shows by quite literally running on to the stage at a gallop. And boy did they make an almighty racket, albeit an immensely pleasing one, with their four distinctive voices, Liam’s guitar and Tommy’s banjo all played and delivered with such gusto and enthusiasm.  Initially this would have been an attempt (with very unsophisticated PA equipment) for them to hear what they were playing and singing and, equally, to be heard by their quickly growing audience. At the same time though they could drop to a ‘hearing-a-pin-drop’ near-silence for a dramatic, perfectly positioned ballad, or three, which could, and did, destroy many an audience in a heartbeat.

On the 12^th March 1961 they won a coveted spot on the famous and influential Ed Sullivan Show. Their fourteen minute infectious performance, natural charm and wit not only won over the massive TV audience – like they’d been doing in concerts for several months in fact – but it also resulted, first thing the following morning, in them being awarded a recording contract by Columbia Records, complete with a record breaking advance of $100,000 (around $750,000 today).

The timing of The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem was perfect. They arrived on the blossoming folk music scene with the Spinners; Peter, Paul & Mary; Joan Baez, Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger and the fledging Robert Zimmerman. You’d have to say that the advantage The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem enjoyed was, thanks to Sarah Makem (Tommy’s mother and renowned song collector) and the wealth of the Irish traditional song-writing cannon, they had an in-built individuality in their repertoire.

For the next eight years The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem toured the world setting box office records everywhere they played, particularly America (where they performed for JFK in 1963), Australia, the UK and Ireland where they returned to a hero’s welcome in 1962. By 1964 one third of all the albums sold in Ireland bore the proud name of The Clancy Brother and Tommy Makem.

The group were authentic, honest and incredibly popular with the general public. They loved what they did and this was blatantly transparent in every note they sang. Their sound was based more on a tribal combination of their powerful voices than on cleverly arranged harmonies. Thanks to some of the children’s street songs the boisterous group were happy to include, audiences instinctively already knew some of their programme. The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem also sang songs of exile; patriots; regret; lost love; lack of love. They shone the bright light of song-writing into Ireland’s many darkened alleyways. When a song wouldn’t do the trick Liam would step up to the mike and deliver a WB Yeats poem with such power and passion there’d be a run on all the great man’s work in the local bookstores the following morning. Their songs were easy to remember because they (mostly) followed a clear developing story line and no more so than with Tommy Makem’s show-stopping The Cobbler. 

Their concerts were carefully constructed with a thread running throughout; a dramatic trick they’d clearly learned from their acting days. They had an overall picture they were building to reveal and when the said picture eventually emerged you could see and enjoy exactly how the concert had worked as an overall piece. Their classic 1963 live album, The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem - In Person At the Carnegie Hall, catches the group at their peak.  

The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem never took themselves too seriously. They all had to agree on a project before they’d commit to it as a group, meaning they all wholeheartedly supported everything they did together professionally. They wore their heartaches and heartbreaks on the sleeves of their snowy Aran sweaters. They showed one of the great endearing qualities of the nation of their birth; to care about those less well off than themselves. They were a band with a social conscious; a social consciousness that cost them dearly in concert tickets sales and album sales on several occasions. No matter how hip or unhip the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem were, they always, but always, enjoyed the genuine love of their audience.

They were relentlessly and powerfully driven by the possibility of making their dreams come true.  

And then as the 1960s came to an end they ran off stage for the final time. Yes there were to be years of replacement musicians and reunions, including a high profile gaining effort in 1985, but it has to be said that the band had run the end of its natural course by the close of the decade.

And then just over forty years later I happened upon the Liam Clancy film.

Why did it have such a powerful effect on me?

Was I upset because in the course of the film Liam took a few verbal pops at his brothers?

No, I figured he was still having a hard time forgiving them for passing on (Tom in May 1990 and Paddy on 11^th November 1998) and leaving him, even at 74 years of age still always the baby brother, alone without his mentoring siblings.

Was it because my father is also a Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem fan?

No, not really that either, although that fact did make me stop and listen to them more closely in the beginning.

But my hurt might have come from, you know, with the passing of Tommy Makem in August 2007 and Liam himself on 4^th December last year, a line had finally been drawn under their fabulous career.  I suppose the thing that hit me hardest of all was the fact that all families like to, and should, take pride in their sons’ and daughters’ successes and I figured that particularly in today’s selfish climate, what with all these weekly revelations and disclosures, I couldn’t help but feel that as a nation maybe we should have taken some time to stop and acknowledge the genuine success and real talent of our most exciting group.

Maybe on the other hand though, it’s just like they say: all the great songs are sad songs and when I saw and heard the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem singing once again The Parting Glass, that the well aimed arrow hit its mark and proved it was still as lethal as ever.

And now the bit before I go.

This time

I’ve seen

The Waterboys:  a totally inspiring and soulful performance of An Appointment with Mr Yeats at the Abbey Theater, Dublin.

Jean Michel Jarre with his absolutely perfect combination of music and visuals at Bercy, Paris

Lisa Edkahl just keeps getting better and better all the time and this time, at the QEH, London, was just the best!

In Treatment (the HBO Series) with a career-best performance from Gabriel Byrne

And heard 

Love Is Strange the incredible new (live) double CD from Jackson Browne and David Lindley.

And read 

the enlightening The Importance of Being Kennedy by Laurie Graham

Until the next time,

Cheers

pc

Getting Started

For the past few months I’ve been out there doing readings in stores and (mostly) libraries to celebrate and promote my recent book, FAMILY LIFE. You know, really enjoying myself and pretending it’s work.

A lot of people at these events seem to have a hunger for the knowledge as to how one gets started. Not so much how does one get published but more how do you start to write a book?

I’m a book collector and particularly volumes of British Detective fiction and over the years I’d been collecting, reading, and enjoying the work of Colin Dexter, Ruth Rendell, Josephine Tey, PD James, RD Wingfield not to mention Arthur Conan Doyle and a good few Agatha Christies. I can’t remember a time when I consciously sat down and thought, I’d like to do that, I’d like to write a murder mystery. However I do remember thinking, if I ever did do that, sit down and try to write a such a story, what would my main character be like?

I definitely remember thinking I’d want my detective to be different (surprise, surprise) in that I’d want my detective to be believable and likeable. I thought if you’re going to expect your reader to be in the company of your detective for say 300 odd pages, well then he’s going to have to be a nice chap, don’t you think?

Most detectives, it seems to me, are blood-shot-eyed, white nostriled, walking disaster areas whose domestic lives are a complete and utter mess. And I suppose there is maybe some form of attraction in that, but in my stories the solving of the puzzles is a big thing and my point would be how could you expect a detective to solve anything, including the mystery of getting out of bed, if his life is such a catastrophe to start.

So, I wanted my detective to be likeable; I wanted him to enjoy the puzzle of the crime and finally I wanted him to be seen to be dealing with something that preoccupies 99% of us each and every day of our lives; trying to succeed in our romantic relationships. I could never really figure out why the majority of crime writers didn’t want to deal with this area. I mean, I am continually intrigued by this side of our lives, added to which it seems to be an endless seam to explore.

Next I found myself thinking about names. If I were to write a story what would my detective be called? I wanted a name what would be warm, friendly, strong and safe. I simply took the name from two of my biggest Irish Heroes – Christy (Moore) – a legendary singer, writer and an institution – and (John F.) Kennedy – a bit of an American institution the Irish seemed to have borrowed down the years. I remember JFK’s death having a big impact on me. I was barely a teenager in a wee village (Magherafelt) thousands of miles away from Dallas yet for some reason I felt the loss, a big loss. I spent the following ten years of my life reading every book I could find on the man. It appeared to me that one of the President’s main qualities was that he was prepared to listen to the team he’d formed around himself before making his decisions. I felt this was also a good quality for a detective to have.

So I had my detective, and I’d named him, Christy Kennedy, I was totally happy with what I had so far and so I started to flesh him out a bit. He wasn’t to be a drinker but he does like his tea. I wanted him to be a man who didn’t want to make a statement out of his dress sense. That is to say he’d wear cool, classy but never loud clothes. He’d be in a good shape, not a fighter as such, but someone who could get themselves out of (physical) trouble by some lateral thinking. I always thought Sir George Martin’s hairstyle was cool, longish but tidy and stylish. So Christy Kennedy adopted a similar style. The rest of Kennedy is pretty much based on my father, Andy. He’s a great man, he loves a puzzle and he’d sit for hours in silence working things out. He’s caring, considerate and if he doesn’t know something he’s not scared of asking. On top of which, he’s very likeable. He has, in fact, all the qualities I wanted Christy Kennedy to have.

I worked my way through the cast of characters. First there is ann rea (always lower case like kd lang and ee cummins – she’s a journalist and so she used the lower case hook to ensure people remembered her name) stunningly beautiful from Kennedy’s point of view; so beautiful in fact that every time he sees her she takes his breath away. Don’t you see that’s what I absolutely love about writing books? We have ann rea and, as I say, she’s stunning drop dead gorgeous and you describe her a bit and then the reader’s imagination fills in the gaps to make her their ideal woman. But, in the movies if the casting director doesn’t get it right – like with Bridges of Madison County for instance – the whole story can be ruined! Whereas Kennedy has spent the last fifteen years of his life so lost in his work that he neither notices it passing nor the fact that it passed without a lot of female company. When they meet ann rea has just come out of a disastrous relationship. She was in love, her ex wasn’t, and so wasn’t in fact that he married someone else near enough immediately. So when she and Kennedy meet he thinks “This is it!” with a subtext of, ‘I’ve so little experience in the affairs of the heart I better be very careful not to mess it up,’ while ann rea thinks, “well I thought it was it last time and it wasn’t, so why should I trust my feelings this time?”

Then there’s DS James Irvine who’s voice is so identical to Sean Connery it’s uncanny, he’s a snazzy dresser always in tweeds and brogues, WPC Anne Coles new on the force with ambitions and not all of them professional and the extremely theatrical and rotund Dr Leonard Taylor, the pathologist, and one who is always happy to hazard a guess at the time of death. With the above regulars, the criminals and the victims, I try to make sure I give them a history, a bit of a past in the hope that by doing so I make them real. On top of which, with little things like Kennedy always flexing the fingers of his right hand when he wants to distract himself; Irvine’s accent and dress; Taylor’s theatrical approach and ann area’s lower case name and Beatle Bob hairstyle, I’m hoping they all will last beyond the page. To me I always enjoy a book so much more when I can actually see the characters in my mind’s eye. For me the great books are the ones where everything is believable. John Dunning, Colin Dexter, Charles Dickens, Alan Bennett, Anthony Trollope and Josephine Tey are the masters at this art; they make you believe their characters and their stories.

The location was the final part of the picture for me. And I had to look no further than my own doorstep. Camden Town has some amazing locations and buildings. You go from the buzzy vibrant multi cultured Camden Lock to the picturesque and leafy Primrose Hill in a matter of a five-minute walk. You have the mix of the youth of the music business types of Camden Town to the old characters of Arlington Road. As I say, everything was right there waiting to be observed, no inventing was necessary.

So from there to actually sitting down and writing was a short and unconscious step. As I mentioned, to me it is important that each story has a unique method of murder and so obviously that takes a certain bit of working out but apart from that, like in true crimes, there is a victim and there is a detective and he and his team work their way through the life story of the victim and the facts of the crime and they follow the leads as they turn up.

I absolutely love starting a new mystery to see what’s been happening with all the characters since the last time and to see what else I can learn about their lives. I write as a reader, to find out what happens next. It’s vitally important to me that the detective, the reader and myself all discover things simultaneously. But now I need to get off and join Kennedy and the gang and see what they're up to in the new mystery, A PLEASURE TO DO DEATH WITH YOU.

So now the bit before I go:

This time I’ve seen and heard:

Christy Moore and Declan Sinnott @ RCH Glasgow

Gilbert O’Sullivan @ Royal Albert Hall, London

Lisa Edkahl @ Espace Lino Ventura, Nice

Mario Rosemstock @ Vicar Street, Dublin

The Alan Price Set @ The Cadogan Hall, London

And read:

The brutal, frank but totally realistic (well, very nearly realistic) Kill Your Friends by John Niven

True Blue by David Baldacci

The revealing Gods, Gangsters and Honour by Steven Machat

The Hacienda: How Not To Run A Club by Peter Hook. If this book was a novel you’d throw it down as just too far fetched.

And listened to:

The amazing new Tom Waits CD, Glitter and Doom Live

Picture Postcards by Tracey Curtis

Happy Holidays,

Cheers

pc

Building My Religion - October 2009

My latest book is the Inspector Starrett Mystery, Family Life. That’s the second of the Donegal Mysteries. The first of The Starrett trilogy, The Dust of Death, starts of with a crucifixion in a Donegal church. So that I wouldn’t upset any of the other many churches in Ramelton I invented the Second Federation Church as being the church where the remains of local master carpenter, James Moore, were discovered.

Once I’d made that decision I started to consider my fictitious church and what faith it would celebrate. Again, so that I wouldn’t offend anyone I needed the congregation of The Second Federation Church to practice a faith that had no similarities to any of the other churches, particularly in a town whose nickname was the Holy See, and, at one point boasted fourteen churches. So I considered what would be a good religion to be part of? I wondered what religion you could be involved in that you’d be proud of.

I’ve always been impressed by congregations who go out of their way to help each other. You know on one hand you can pray to a long-haired, white-bearded man, dressed in white sheets who wanders around above the clouds to, say, come and plough your land, or, even, to help you build a barn, or, on the other hand, you can invite a few members of your congregation around, supply them with food and drink, and invite them to help you with your chosen task. Now because the man in white has been very elusive for the past couple of centuries and because on previous occasions you will most likely have gone to the aid of your fellow congregation members, seeking nothing more than food and drink in return, there is a very good chance that they will heed your request and turn up en mass to help you with your chore.

I know, I know, this is all drastically simplistic but, since an incident in my youth, I’ve always been fine with a simplistic approach to things. When I was young (pre-teens) my mother and father bought me a junior carpentry set. My father was a carpenter and I aspired to be the same. Anyway I got my new carpentry set with all it’s shiny new tools and I futtered around for absolutely ages (weeks possibly months) trying to figure out how to build a wooden chair just like the ones at our dinner table. I was going for the full Monty: legs, seat, back, and strengthening & stabilising supports. The problem was that all of my efforts would end up in a collapsed heap on the floor. My father would continue to encourage me by asking me how I was getting on with my chosen task and I’d always say I was still working on the creation of the perfect chair. Time passed, as it does, and still not a chair in sight and eventually, perhaps with a degree of gentle frustration, my father came in one day from work and on discovering his heir still hadn’t mastered the design and construction of a chair, he took three pieces of wood and he nailed them together in something similar to the shape of a “n”, creating a very primitive, yet functional, two legs and seat. He said, “There’s your chair and, until as such times as you can master better, this will suffice.” Don’t you see his well made point was: ‘at least you have your basic chair and now perhaps you can start to perfect it.’ Or, if I wanted to paraphrase it even further, ‘you’ve got to learn to creep before you can learn to walk.’

So my lesson well learnt, and better taught, I proceeded to consider building my religion.

Personally speaking I’ve always felt that religion should be like a family. For me it’s always been about family life; caring for, protecting and encouraging your family members. If we could only learn to love and look after our families behind our closed doors then once we pass over the front doorstep we’ll be much better equipped to deal with life and with people. But don’t you see as humans we generally seem to be in conflict with things and people, rather than to go along with the greatness of things; this not a criticism because this fundamental flaw seems to be built in to most of us. So, a family type support structure, as in what you’d ideally like from your family, had to be a vital ingredient for my religion

In my religion music would also have to be very important. The healing quality of music should never ever be underestimated.

When I was growing up in Magherafelt I remember going to prayer meetings in a wee hall (and in the summer in the marquee) and being totally turned on by the gospel singing. You know there’s that wonderful sound that’s created by the blend of all the male and female voices and magic is created when their unique harmony creates a third voice. I remember the very first time I experienced this chills-down-the-spine sensation like it was yesterday. I even remember turning and looking around the congregation to see where this new voice had come from.

That was my first major “musical” experience.

The second would have been the soulful sound of the voices of the great singers around the Irish Ballrooms and clubs at that time; Billy Brown, Paddy Shaw, Billy Williamson and Paul DeVieto always sounded wonderful and inspirational to me. Then on the recording front I discovered the works of Ray Charles and Otis Redding, both life-changing events for me.

This unquestionable and unquenchable thirst was heightened when I was working with Van Morrison and we went up to the Shetland Islands to hear the chanters in the churches. I don’t know if you’ve ever witnessed this chanting but the sound of a burly Scottish gentleman chanting his lines in a foreign language (to my ears) for the congregation to offer a reply in their sweet soulful harmonies was just unbelievable; truly another hairs on the back of your neck on full alert experience.

These are the times I’ve experienced the true greatness of men and women and they’ve all been connected by music.

So, when considering the foundations of the Second Federation Church there was always music running through my head and as some of you may know the music that makes the connection with me is the music of the Beatles, Jackson Browne, Bob Dylan, Jennifer Warnes, Karen Carpenter, Neil Diamond and Van Morrison, etc etc.

The cent dropped and everything else fell into place easily for me one Saturday night when Catherine and I were in our house in Ramelton. The Town Band was heralding the triumphant return of the local football team. There was as much excitement as if Wayne Rooney had scored a double hat-trick for Manchester United. The Town Band was playing Neil Diamond’s infectious Sweet Caroline. It was just such a joyous sweet sound and they were delivering it with such passion, vibrancy and in a transparent, feel-good manner. They were, to a boy and girl, all beaming from ear to ear in such evident pleasure at the music they were creating as they danced along Ramelton’s streets.

I was so inspired by them that I immediately made them the cornerstone of the Second Federation Church’s music; I based the church choir on the Ramelton Town Band. From there it was a series of very small steps to Van’s Have I told You Lately That I Love You; Dylan’s Forever Young; Listen by Christy Moore; Here Comes The Sun by George Harrison; You Inspire Me by Nick Lowe; In The Neighbourhood by Tom Waits and then two really big ones for me, Graham Nash’s Teach Your Children, the perfect song for a family and an even better one for the church, and Jackson Browne’s The Only Child with Jackson’s unselfish vital lyric, based around the theme of taking good care of each other, becoming the overlying theme of the First Federation Church.

Yes, Take Good Care of Each Other, I mean, is there really anything more important we can do in our lives?

And now, the bit before I go.

This time I’ve been reading and thoroughly enjoying The Coroner by M.R. Hall; Nine Dragons from the master, Michael Connelly, and the sad, yet realistic and funny Last Shop Standing by Graham Jones.

I’ve been watching the DVD version of the first series of mesmerizing Fringe.

And listening to the re-mastered complete collection of Beatles’s CDs, which are all unbelievably amazing. In fact as Beatle Paul recently said, “listening to these versions of the albums is just like being back in the room with the Beatles.” and he should know he was there.


Cheers for now,

pc

The Lives of a Family - September 2009

The politics, history and healing power of a family has always intrigued me.

When I was working on my first Inspector Starrett mystery, The Dust of Death, I realised pretty soon that the ideas I had for Starrett's personal story were too much to put in one book. Quite simply, there would not have been enough time left to deal with the crime element of the tale. I started to feel comfortable with the approach of writing it as part one of a trilogy, with The Dust of Death (2007), Family Life, just published (Sept 2009) and Hello Darkness My Old Friend, which is still to be written.

In fact the minute I completed work on The Dust of Death, I immediately started to write Family Life, going from the last sentence of The Dust of Death straight to "Hey Ma, where's Joe?"- the first sentence of Family Life. No breaks for newspapers; DVDs; checking the snail-mail or the email; checking on the television or radio for the news; going for a dander; enjoying a pit-stop for a cup of coffee, or even, my favourite tipple, a cup of tea. No Sir. I didn't even pause for one of Bakersville's magic Bakewell Buns. By the time I'd completed the first 20 or so pages, you know where the Sweeney family, siblings, partners, wives and children gather together in their ones and twos to celebrate the birthday of the patriarch of the family, Mr Liam Sweeney, I realised I needed to stop and spend some time getting to know the family properly before I could write more about them. Pretty much as you do when you're getting to know any real family. And, as is the case with any real family, it's not something you can do overnight. You have to take your time and let the getting to know happen organically, naturally, if you will. In writing the book I had to take time to allow the family members to have their own voices so the mystery could evolve.

I've always thought it incredible how the family unit will act as the basic support system for its members. I remember watching a very realistic bio-movie of The Moors murderers. My jaw was literally on the ground in disbelief as I viewed a family confrontation where Myra Hindley's sister laid it out, in very graphic detail, for her mother exactly what Myra and Brady had been up to. This was all the more shocking as it transpires little did the sister know. The mother, without batting an eyelid, chastised Myra's sister, saying essentially that anyone who went against Myra was no daughter of hers. The discussion took place across the dinner table - the focal point of most family debates. The impact of that scene is still vividly burnt in my mind and I play it over and over again. I keep trying to figure out how a mother could knowingly protect a monster; even if the monster in question was her own daughter.

Maybe therein lies the secret. Myra was a member of her family and as such the mother was helpless to do anything other than continue to protect her. Yes, maybe she did weigh it up and figured that what she, the mother, was doing was dealing in acceptable loses in that she was happy to lose contact with one daughter (Myra's sister) so that the other daughter (Myra) would not lose her liberty. But I kept thinking it was most likely her mind fast forwarding through this process. The decision making process most likely, as far as the mother was concerned, had nothing whatsoever to do with right and wrong. I felt it was as basic as: "You're either for our family or you're against us."

But what then of the families, whose lives had been destroyed, obliterated even, when their babies didn't come home? Did Myra Hindley's mother not stop and consider them in her thought process?

There's one scene in Family Life where Inspector Starrett is outside the Sweeney farmhouse and he's kicking his heels until he can go back in and start to interview the various members of the household again. He goes for a wee dander, never straying too far from the house. Starrett acts as our camera in this scene as he enjoys the splendours of the rich Donegal countryside. Suddenly he hears the plaintive cries of a runt from a litter of cats as the mother, apparently cruelly, leaves the weak and deformed runt, essentially meaning that in the countryside, it will die, or be killed. Either way the runt's end will most probably come pretty quickly. Starrett wonders how the mother of the runt can ignore the heart-wrenching wail and leave one of her own behind. Then he realises that if the mother doesn't make this sacrifice she is risking the remainder of the litter. Maybe Myra's mother should have taken an excruciating painful lesson and treated Myra as a runt. Cruel? Perhaps, but then don't you see, by not allowing Myra's sister's sense to prevail, at least one other innocent life was lost, on top of which, her own family was ultimately destroyed as well.

Still, at the heart and soul of every great family you will invariably find a compassionate, strong, yet gentle mother who will be called on to make such decisions. This magical, generous, considerate, compassionate, taken-for-granted woman, will put her children's and husband's lives before her own on a daily basis. She will have the patience of a saint, the wisdom of King Solomon and will try to mend, heal and fix every single thing you can think of, including, sometimes even a broken heart.


Starrett's mother is the 7th daughter of a 7th daughter. That's just the way it turned out. In my getting to know the Starrett family it became clear that Starrett had benefited in his life from that extra something, maybe even something bordering on the supernatural. For a time I even considered he might be the seventh son of a seventh son, but then I felt that having him the son of the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter would make him a gentler person and a person who perhaps wouldn't be quite so preoccupied with this special gift. To me, this, all of this, how people are related to each other; how they relate to each other; the composite of the family members; the personalities of our relatives; how we fit into the family hierarchy, all have a major impact on our personality and on our lives. Each family will be composed of: the passengers; the motivators; the observers; the wreckers; the builders; those preoccupied with grudges and by long running feuds, you know who did what to whom and when; and those whose only ambition is for the family to be looking to, and surviving, the future.

It would be my opinion that running a successful family is pretty much a full time occupation and as organisations some exist so successfully that governments would do well to take a well-worn leaf from their book.

In Family Life, Starrett is faced, as I was when I completed the first twenty pages, with discovering the workings and the secrets of the Sweeney Family, a proud family who have farmed the land just outside Ramelton in Donegal since 1875. At the same time he's also discovering how he fits in with his own family and during the course of the book he realises that the family unit does not just consist of parents and children. Loudon Wainwright III put it in perspective perfectly with his fine lyric on the song Dump The Dog (Fame and Wealth CD):

I'm a son and I'm a father
I am just a middle man.

Our family members are the ones we want to share our proudest moments with and, because they're our family, we somehow feel that the vanity is no longer a sin. Our families are the ones we expect most from. We also live with the burden that we know they are the ones on this earth who expect most from us. Equally, deep down, we know they will still accept us for all our flaws and faults. Unless of course we're a runt and then they'll most certainly be taxed with wildly mixed emotions about us. Who'd be a mother, eh?

And now the bit before I go:

This time I’ve been reading and enjoying:

Snowball by Alice Schroeder

The Gates by John Connolly

In a way both these books are connected in that Snowball is so big you’ll not be able to close the door of your room while you’re reading it and on The Gates you’ll not want to close the door to your room while you’re reading it for fear of what might be on the other side. The Gates is excellent, a brilliant display of story-telling. I haven’t read a book in ages that I so much wanted to read again and, as soon as possible

Also I listened to (and watched) The Johnny Cash American TV series featuring: JC, Dylan, Derek and The Dominios, Louis Armstrong, The Everly Bros. Incredible footage, beautiful performances, just totally amazing!


Cheers
P.C.

First Flights – August 2009

When I was young, so much younger than today, about 7 or 8 say, I had this theory that there was another person somewhere else in the world identical to me. Identical to me in that even at that point he was also enjoying the exact same thoughts about me. My theory kind of broke down once I started to get into the difference the thought process would have to be in other languages. Don't you see for my theory to work, the identical me had to live on the other side of the world, otherwise he might be spotted by someone who actually knew me and the ruse would be broken.

And then when I grew older and was lucky enough to have some books published and then I attempted to find a website name for my books. Well didn't I only discover that there wasn't just one of me but close enough to several dozen in fact. Some light, some dark, some small, some tall, although I'm not quite sure how I ascertained those facts by the list of registered names, and some that possibly didn't even exist at all. But the bottom line was that every possible permutation of my name had already been registered.

Then someone came up with the idea of sticking the word "the" on the front of my name not because they, or even I, would claim that I am the Paul Charles as in the one and only Paul Charles, or even the best Paul Charles, and hopefully not even the worst Paul Charles, but the only Paul Charles with a "the" on the front of his name. Now, I promise I won't have business cards, or t-shirts or even book jackets with this moniker brashly displayed. No it will only be between you and I, so that you, if you wish to, will know how to find me on the world, wide web.

But there's more to this tale, along came web genius Maddee (Madeira James) who came up with a better idea and registered paulcharlesbooks and so I no longer had to claim to be the me. Which is quite handy; I mean you never know when you're going to meet another Paul Charles and have to deal with all of his baggage as well as your own. Please don't tell them this though, because for the foreseeable future thepaulcharles will always get you on to this site.

Did you ever have any similar theories to that one? I mean now it might seems funny that anyone would ever entertain that as anything more than a passing thought, but I will admit that I considered this theory intently and troubled myself over it for a couple of years. I also used to fret about the wind blowing me away over the rooftop of our house in The Alley in Magherafelt. Again I was around the same age and we must have experienced some blustering storms, because I definitely remember seeing myself in my mind's eye blowing away over our roof. Not in a Harry Potter type of controlled flight experience. No, not at all, mine was more a heads over heels tumbling on and on into the sky. For some reason thought my flight path always took the same route. I don't believe, in the history of the world, that anyone (child) has ever been blown away over the rooftop. I've just googled that, as you do, and there are 35,000 entries, 2.78 million roads, 10,000 motorways and - (no, no sorry I promise to leave all the jokes to Colin Bateman, he's so genius at them). So, 35,000 results but not one confirmed flight I'm happy to report. But my point was more why would I have thought that, or feared that? I do actually remember feeling what such a flight would be like; butterflies in the stomach, wind whistling past my ears and though my hair, clothes fluttering in the wind and ballooning furiously. The wind gusting all over the place but particularly in my face, and all of that, So, at least for me, it was quite a real experience. And, going back to my original point, why would I have thought that there was another me? What did that say about my thought process?

What else did I think about way back then? I though I should become a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I really did. I could never work out if it was because of how cool I though their uniform looked or if I thought those wings on their trousers would help me in my airborne adventures should I ever actually be blown over the rooftop.

There was nothing else major that preoccupied me thought, otherwise I'd remember it, I hope. Why do such thoughts stop? "Because you've (hopefully) grown up," I hear you say, yes and that's true but you still have to use that part of your brain somehow. These days when I'm not trying to work out a unique method of murder for a Christy Kennedy Mystery, I'm using all my mental powers to try and invent a thingamajig, which will automatically sew missing buttons back onto your shirts. I've kind of figured out that the gadget will look like a fountain pen. However when you take the top off you'll discover what looks like a syringe but with three needles instead of one. You'll inject this triad of pins through the button and into the shirt and somehow three strands of plastic thread with come out through the pins, which will heat the thread and melt them together, affixing your escaped button securely back into place in one quick, elegant manoeuvre. As you can see I'm still working on the finer details, so please don't tell anyone about it until I manage to get it patented. I'm thinking of calling it a PenPal.

And now, the bit before I go, the bit nicked from gentleman John Connolly.

I'm currently reading, and thoroughly enjoying:

Manhunt - the 12-day chase for Lincoln's Killer - by James L. Swanson

Recent great gigs:

Lisa Hannigan @ the Acoustic Stage, Glastonbury.
Ray Davies with Bill Shanley @ the Acoustic Stage, Glastonbury
Ry Cooder & Nick Lowe @ the Carre Theatre, Amsterdam.
Crosby, Stills and Nash @ The Edinburgh Castle