Shot to Dust

It happens that Steven Spielberg is in town working on his next big production. I don’t suppose the catering facilities look much like these:

Time for Tea

Time for Tea

But the humble nearby China-Bistro, a kettle that took ten minutes to boil, and an ancient woodburning grill were more than adequate for fuelling myself and my tiny loyal crew as we shot my next big production in a derelict former coalminer’s house circa four hours, two buses and three train-rides from the comfort of Berlin.

The plan: Overnighting meant an early start for filming  my next music video. One shoot in a desolate downstairs room.

Between Takes

Between Takes

The second under a towering glowering autumnal skyscape. Only it was the clearest, sunniest day for that time of year since records began….No matter, we found a place where the sun don’t shine

Swamp

Down by the Swamp

More on the whole adventure in my next blog – watch this space and don’t fall in any swamps…..

 Shot to Dust  refers to the song title in the upcoming video. For regular updates on me and my musical adventures join the mailing list.

P.S…..

I don't suppose Mr Spielberg's makeup people are busy tipping old makeup bags upside down in the hope of finding THAT postbox red lippy to save spending 4 Euros in Rossmann's on a new one

The makeup here took some organising! (Are Mr Spielberg’s makeup people busy tipping old makeup bags upside down in the vain hope of finding THAT postbox-red lippy?)

Don't Get Too Comfortable

Don’t Get Too Comfortable   The closest thing to a worksurface that came to hand.  But we weren’t fazed. Don’t ask me what the knife was for.

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Making the scene

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I never made permanent membership status for any subculture (“broke musician” doesn’t count ) but not for lack of trying. I’d always so wanted to belong to one scene only, with whatever  exclusive music, cars, clothes, hairstyles and unwritten social codes went with it.

It started when my big brother was hanging around with exciting people who smoked, listened to jazz music and only wore black. I dreaded them  spotting me in my school blazer (navy blue.)  Brother’s beatnik pals  hit the road and drifted out of my life, and the  logical next stop was hippie-town. Maybe I’d have lived my whole life out as a late-blooming flower child but  history intervened.

Heading West

Heading West

I was  living in a quasi-commune and even baking wholemeal bread for a while, when  along came punk and blew a big hole in all that Earth Mother rubbish.  I never wore flares again, and  only just missed hacking off my waist length hair and spiking it. I settled for bleaching my  fringe to  near-extinction My  former hippy pals blanked me in the street. So much for love and peace, man.

 

accs live 2

 

I  truly BELONGED  to punk for a while, but the intensity of that  flame dwindled as the eighties arrived along with a sea of synths and whining vocals.  The spirit remained, but my focus had to change.

For a moment  I was into motorbikes.  I earned a few  stripes by riding pillion on a Triumph from London to Liverpool and back. In the snow.  I’d  get a brief acknowledging nod from the bros in the biker pub with my honorary status as “righteous chick”. But that’s as far as it went.  The Biker Chick’s lot was not for me. Deep down I knew I’d always favour a shedload of musical paraphernalia blocking my hallway over a shedload of oily engine parts. And more importantly I couldn’t face a lifetime of never being able to have big hair because of the helmets.

Then there was Psychobilly, which could have been my default landing after Punk’s demise, but wasn’t.  I saw the seminal  Meteors in the Ace, Brixton in 1983, but the penny didn’t drop.  Several years passed before my next encounter,  when Joyryde supported Demented are Go at the Dublin Castle in Camden.  The sight of twenty sweating  fans with full body tattoos and Mohawks  (that was the men) wrecking on the dancefloor wasn’t my lightbulb moment though I liked what I was hearing. More years passed, before a chance meeting led to  playing guitar for the Death Valley Surfers. Once more I had that magic list of who to  hang out with, what to wear and what bands to listen to.

Death Valley Surfers

A cool ride while it lasted, but belonging to  the one tribe was  eventually thwarted; partly  due to  wrong hair (again)  and no tattoos, and largely  by the obstinate part of me that insisted on writing  and performing off-genre songs. My own psychobilly band got stick for not being “pure psychobilly” and I realised yet again, I couldn’t rest in anyones else’s comforting but temporary subcultural space.

Songs about not fitting in: HERE

Loner