Why Art Matters - My Response to Chancellor Rishi Sunak

It is the eighth of October 2020
I woke up to find my laptop full of anger towards a politician, Conservative Chancellor Rishi Sunak.

It’s been reported that when asked what musicians and entertainers who aren’t making enough money to live on during the COVID pandemic should do, he replied ‘get a different job’.
I felt pretty angry about this, but when I watched the interview, it said something kind of different:

You can watch it here:

https://www.itv.com/news/2020-10-06/rishi-sunak-suggests-musicians-and-others-in-arts-should-retrain-and-find-other-jobs

Now I do think that musicians and entertainers deserve the same protection as everyone else during lockdown -
but I also think the chancellor is kind of right too - it’s a part of life that if you can’t make money from your chosen career, you have to find a different way to make money. And I can’t blame a conservative politicians for being money centric.

I’m not a fan of the conservative party, but complaining when a Tory is more concerned about money than art is a bit like electing Satan to office and complaining about the smell of Sulphur. The country should have worked this one out before it voted.
The question that is at the forefront of my mind is a different one...

WHAT IS ART WORTH?

There are people who think art is valuable, and people who don’t.

The Daily Mail thinks that artists are looney leftie luvvies, who want everyone to pay for them to sit in bedsits writing bad poetry, smoking weed and spreading sodomy and Cultural Marxism. And you're welcome to pay me to do that, if you like, sounds like fun, but if that was actually what I did for a living, I would have gone bankrupt a long while ago.

The thing about art is it’s really difficult to value. If I offered to sell you a CD for £10, you might say ‘no way man, I can get all the art I want for free on Youtube’. You could literally spend your whole life watching YouTube and never run out of fresh art. Why go to an art gallery, when you can google the artist and move your face up to the screen really close?

And I think this is where I think the anger of artists and musicians stems from. For the past 20 years, since the start of Napster, our work is becoming worth less and less in monetary value. We’re not in it for the money, but to make decent art is a full time job, and we need to survive. Musicians turned to the gig circuit to make their bread and butter, but now during COVID, many’s lifes work is left with no monetary value at all.

In the 1960’s & 70’s art was in it’s absolute boom. Record sales were exploding, Britain was exporting it’s art all over the world, and the music of 4 men from the Northern Industrial city of Liverpool changed the way the entire world thinks and feels with the power of music. The Beatles have the surreal ability to make everyone happy. Well almost everyone - perhaps you had your soul stomped on as a child or something and it’s tainted your sense of enjoyment. Try the white album.
Anyway, ever since then, Britain became famous as an exporter of culture, and the centre of a movement in free thinking and experimentation.

And this is what Britain is still famous for today - apart from Empire and slavery. Shhh. The incredible art and culture we’ve produced, from Shakespeare to Monty Python.
So why, instead of the steam engine, or the computer, or the bicycle, do people associate Britain with the Beatles, and the Rolling Stones, and Dr Who?

Solitary confinement is a form of torture. Airports are almost as bad. What do we long for in these situations? We want to read a book to pass the time. To listen to an iPod, or watch a movie.

If you took away art, life would be utterly boring. Yes, life would go on, we would carry on working away, and all the suffering and labour would continue to keep the gears of the consumer economy moving, but when we got back home, after a hard day's work, there would be nothing. No TV, no Netflix. No music to streaming. No pictures hung on the walls. No elegant design. Just Brutalism, and the functionality of the continuation of existence, without any reason for actually living.

How many times have you heard the words ‘music saved my life’. How many times have you put on an album and danced, or laughed, or cried your pain away? How many of your favourite memories involve concerts, festivals, movie nights, parties? So many of these things can be viewed as ‘pointless’ and ‘Unnecessary’ - but without the fruits of culture, without the desert of life - why are we actually alive?

So if someone shouts at me ‘Get a real job’ when I’m playing music, I just smile - because I know that the closeness I feel between me and an audience when I play is an ingredient in the most important bit of life. I’m the dessert. I am your donut. Hi. Pleased to feed you.

Trying to work as a professional musician is hard work - it’s a bit like being an athlete. Every part of my day, from what I can eat to how much I talk and how much energy I spend has to be planned around how many sets I have to play in the evening. I don’t often get to have a beer after work, because if I have to sing four hours a day for the next 3 months, I have to manage everything I do around that. I work on a contract by contract basis, If I damage my voice my career is gone, with no backup. If I say the wrong word onstage, my job is gone. At 30 years old, I just received the first sick pay I’ve ever been entitled to. I have back pain from years of lifting speakers. I have tinnitus starting in my ears. I have no pension plan. Almost every single possession I have in some way relates to my job. And you know what? That’s OK. I’m happy. It’s worth it to make people happy. Still, I have to be able to feed myself.

The money in music used to be from selling records - and that was what made the record industry great, and what means my shelves are stacked with amazing experimental music. Then in the 90’s, the record industry sold us those same albums on CD, and made double the money off them. Now, if I try to give away a CD after a gig, people tell me they don’t have a CD player. Why would anyone pay for a download when you can stream any song anywhere on the internet?

Because music is dying. And it’s our fault. We’ve been happy to take, take, take the experiences musicians ploughed their lives into making, and stream them for free at the click of a button. Anyone who works as a touring musician reaches a time when they want to settle down and have a family, and not be constantly moving around, and what should they do when the art they pour their hearts into loses money? Because the fans would rather stream them off Spotify than support what they make? When your favourite band breaks up, this is usually why.

If we don’t invest in art, we will be stuck in our cold grey boxes, eating toxic processed food, with nothing to watch but ‘Homes under the Hammer’, with nothing to read but the Daily Mail, and with nothing to listen to but Little Mix. ugghr.

But the economy will be there right?

If art dies, humanity dies. Art is the part of the human consciousness that is worth saving. Everything else is just cobwebs and suffering. Think about all the objects you’ve surrounded yourself with, and the junk food and alcohol, and the plastic crap, the make-up, the clothes, maybe the flash car, the coffee machine. Has any of it actually brought you real happiness?

Music does not cause climate change. Paintings don’t emit greenhouse gases. Dancing doesn’t make you gain weight, it cures your depression. Literature doesn’t make you hung over, it opens your mind . Festivals and concerts are where we go to refresh our brains so we can go back to work in those crappy jobs we feel we have to do. The cinema is where you go with your date and feel each other up in the darkness of the back-row, in the glow of an immersive artistic experience. Happiness comes from experience - and art is the experiences we as humans create for each other.

So the question you should be asking yourself is not ‘should we pay to subsidise musicians and artists’ but ‘do I really want to live in a world without my favourite art?’ You're subsidising your own happiness.

If you spend 40 hours a week or more in work, do you really want to spend your precious free time staring at a TV where a middle class couple consider moving from one home you can’t afford to another home you can’t afford? If that's all we are prepared to pay for, 

all that will be left is the most cheap, docile and monotonous entertainment.

Or shall we subsidise the arts, and get the next Beatles, the next Joni, the Next Dylan, Ginsberg, Dali or Freddie Mercury to create something that really opens our minds to new possibilities?


So now we come back to our question: what is the value of art?


My Answer is this:

Art’s value is beyond the measurement of a very insignificant little human concept called money. It existed before money, and when civilization falls it will continue long after. Art is not what we do to stay alive, it’s what we stay alive to do. It’s the cosmic expression of the human consciousness.

The economy is an administrational tool, to keep us alive, and so it is important. Art is the actual process of living. If we lose art, we are just fast food munching Zombies waiting for the heat death of the universe. 

That is my message to Mr Sunak.

A STRANGE NEW BABY

Sometimes, it takes years to get to where you want to be, but when you get there, it’s really worth it.

This week my band ‘The Society of Strange Living’ released our  first E.P. - called ‘Energy Efficient’. It’s just four songs, but it’s the culmination of several years of work, stealing time in between International tours, and trying to make the perfect songs with the perfect band.

Let me introduce you to our crew - on drums, Danny Krash - explosive energy machine, channeling the spirit of Kieth Moon. Locking in with him, Dan, the gentle loving heart of the band, weaving delicate patterns of counterpoint on his bass guitar. Bethany’s angelic soul voice both powers and harmonises the band - then there’s me, Sam - the poet, dreamer and restless spirit on lead guitar & vocals.

We REALLY care about making music. It’s taken us years - and many changes of members to find the band that really gel together. Once we’d got the line-up sorted, we’d have runs and runs of bad luck, finding it almost impossible to get us all in the same place at the same time. We had no money, so we had to record with outdated, broken equipment, which would often break in the middle of takes, making the work take three times as long as it should do.

Then we found the Birdcage. A free spirited little boozer full of warm hearted, open minded people gave us a space to develop our songs and our sound, until now we really gel together as a band as well as four friends, thinking alike. With people listening and enjoying what we were working on, we found a new power and pushed on. 

The hard bit for most bands is the songs, but for us this came pretty easy. We knew we wanted to write songs that sounded different to everyone else, about things other people wouldn’t dare to write about. Our E.P. has four of these songs. 

We sing about joining a sex cult and trying to explain it to your Mum, Sociology conversations with our washing machine, Secret jealous unspoken lust, and of course a bit of good old fashioned unrequited love. 

Featured on the last song is our washing machine drum kit, Ginger. He’s become an important part of our family, and one of the reasons SOSL sound like no other band in the know universe. Hear him on track 4 - ‘Instant Noodles’. 

It’s not been an easy ride. All working jobs, living lives and balancing relationships, and often not even in the same country, the band have pushed on through thick and thin, and now we have something indelible to show for it. A beautiful, hand-crafted record, made over hours and hours in a Frankenstein home-made studio. It’s not perfect, it’s a dirty, gritty, sexy beast, but it’s the first mark on the world made by four unique, beautiful friends. 

We hope you love it as much as we do!!!

SOSL Xxx

On The Payment of Musicians... And How a Plaster Rhino Destroyed My Faith in Humanity

'Yeh, basically it's going around about you that your exploitative and you use musicians to make you money. Actually, he said your a d**khead and scum'.

Right. OK. Now it's all coming back to me why I stopped promoting concerts. This old chestnut.

The weird thing is, whenever I stop putting on gigs, I have regular emails from people asking me when I'll start putting on gigs again. Saying things like 'my band need somewhere to play, there's just nobody putting on gigs here anymore'.

It's true and this is why - the bullshit factor.

I lost money over a recent gig, where I was greatly let down by a venue's management. Every artist was paid, I made a loss. I come back to England after living with my partner in Ukraine for a while, to hear that 'people' are angry about my 'exploiting musicians'.

So, I've put it off, but I'm going to tell you what it's like to be a gig promoter, and why nobody puts on any gigs here anymore.

Sadly, the days of bars paying £300 a pop for acts every night seem to be gone. With pubs shutting down right left and centre, the music industry is malnourished compared to what it was in every sense. It's a bloody tough living for the best of us.

So, when all this started, I felt like I'd got the golden deal. I would promote a gig at a small local venue. I would be paid fifty pounds flat fee, but if I filled the room I was given I would  receive another 50, which I would divide equally between the other five acts playing that night. Given £20 expenses, that would be thirty pounds for me, which was more than fair I saw considering the work that actually goes into promoting the night. When I'd proven how freakin' awesome my gigs can be, there would be a set price for £100 per gig, regular slots and for once, everyone gets paid, everybody is happy. Right?

The day before the gig, it's well promoted, pretty good Facebook numbers I'm feeling positive. There had been some setbacks though. I couldn't use the room I wanted, because the managers felt there wouldn't be enough footfall to the bar. I couldn't put fliers on the tables for the regular customers - I'm not really sure why still. My posters weren't up in the windows, but I didn't care. I knew the acts I'd chosen had the draw to make a great night for everyone.

Then I read the message.
'Ive seen that you've booked a lot of acts for this concert tomorrow - you do know we can't pay you?'

Holy f**k. My blood ran cold. I'd literally put my last few pennies into this concert, trying to make it beautiful. I didn't even have a fiver to my name. How could they possibly not pay me? We shook on it. I rushed for my coat. Would I have to find another venue? I couldn't call it off now.

Eventually we agreed that I had been offered money to promote the gig, and I would be paid the baseline fifty pounds. The hours were ticking down, but something else was eating me - the acts playing that night had agreed to play without fee, as this first show's payment would be adjusted to the audience numbers to remove risk to the bar. I had always assumed though that the bar would fill up and we'd get the hundred to split. But now it seemed obvious that the bar wouldn't pay the hundred whatever happened, the deal wouldn't be upheld - I couldn't let the acts go unpaid. I decided to pass round a bucket through the audience and split what we got between the acts. Best I could do. (each act got a fiver).

Weird for a performer, but I suffer anxiety quite strongly. I wasn't a good compare this night,  I was restless, and unhappy. I knew I couldn't please this management, although I also knew they were running a profit on the night. Going by the deal we'd shook on, I should be paid the full hundred, and it would still be worth there while, but that handshake felt like a world away. I put back my last pennies on drinks to settle my nerves. I was here with my friends, but I just wanted this to be over. Something felt really odd for me, but I thought 'brave face. this is your party'.

The gig was full of great musicians, but I'd put myself last on the bill, and to my sadness the room was almost empty by the time I got to play. I'd shot myself in the foot again for everyone else's sake. But the gig had gone OK, and that was a relief.

And then the Rhino.

This horror story reached it's peak when without warning a plaster bust of a rhino dived off the wall without prompt, to smash on the floor. I went to look, and it seemed the tacks the held on it's hanger had vibrated out of the plaster as the music played. I decided honesty was the best policy.

F**k no it wasn't.

'That Rhino cost £80.'

'Really did it?'

'Yes, it was my wife's pride and joy. Of course you'll have to pay for it, but as a good will gesture I will give you £20 still for the night'.

What. The. F**k.

'Are you sure it cost £80?'

'Positive, I just looked it up online'.

'Funny, because it says £19.99 made in china on the sticker on the back of it...'

But I didn't have the energy to fight. I didn't have the energy to argue that I shouldn't pay for breakages that weren't my fault. That we'd agreed that if I got more than 20 people into the bar that My payment would be doubled - allowing me to pay a full £15 with the bucket money too (thats more than I earn working for ships by the hour). I just wanted home and bed. I was close to a meltdown that night and I'm lucky  my friends were there to pull me out of the pit.

I made a loss.

Gig promotion sucks.

Lugging gear around sucks. Making artwork sucks. Postering and fliering sucks. But it's worth it.

What really sucks is hearing that one of your friends who played the gig is trash talking you. Saying 'He's lucky he's not in the country, because he'd be in trouble if he wasn't'.

Apparently this person was upset because they didn't know I was getting paid when they weren't. Even though they were.
And I wasn't.

WHAT THE FFFF....

I don't know who this is, but this is what I want to say to them:
Just why?
What's wrong with you?

I've played thousands, literally thousands of unpaid gigs. For the fun. For the love of it.

If you don't want to play an unpaid gig, just don't do it. Please. If you don't get anything out of it, don't say yes. Stay away.

There are people who need unpaid gigs. For fun. For experience. For practice. For the sake of doing something cool with your friends.

I'm doing my best. To pay you. Even when I can't give you hard cash, I take videos, pictures, I record and mix you for free, I make concert movies, I share your stuff and I listen to your music.

I'm a fan. That's all. Everything I've ever done has been 100% genuine. Full of love. And I thought I was doing it for you.

I'm sorry to the hundreds of people I've worked with who've never thrown it back in my face. I wish I could see clearly enough right now to realise that your love and your friendship means so much more than the haters, but I'm tired of this shit now.

Maybe it's time to move on in lots of ways and try something new.

I could do with something to restore a little faith right now...

Record Review: SvarcTrio - Touch

I've not reviewed anything in a while, but this looks pretty special!

Touch by Svarc Trio

http://svarctrio.bandcamp.com/album/touch

Before you even begin to listen to this record, the artwork is stunning.

The second thing that hits you is astounding musicianship. A lovely dark master lets this work wash over you, and the overall product is incredibly listenable.

Jazz is a genre that I don't pretend to have a comprehensive knowledge of, which probably makes my enjoyment of this record more profound, as the Jazz stereotype is music for musicians. I'm ignorant of all that stuff, and I love it all the same. I think this falls into the spectrum of Jazz, although the sound reminds me heavily of early prog, with it's space echoey guitars and fat drums.

The more Nothing Serious develops the more into it I get. It feels like listening to one of those great old early 70's prog records that last forever but really don't drag. A ten minute jam can easily turn into musical masturbation, but this doesn't. Not a second is wasted here, it's a tantric build up. A slow, tantric mind-fuck. I love it.

I should add I'm listening as I type.

Imprints part one, kinda spooky. I love the echo, all reminds me very much of John Martyn, whose Solid Air album is a firm favourite of mine.

Holy Crap! Chainsaw Snore is nearly 20 minutes long! I'm expecting good things here. Oh, wow. I guess that if you drop acid to this record this is where the freak-out comes. It's like a funky jazz-moose stampeding through a china-shop. Oh shit, a lorry's now reversing through the china shop and space time is falling apart. I'm going to stop with the analogy, it's not helping. I'll leave the ending as a surprise.

2 troubled magnets enjoys more spacially-aware writing, taking time to build and pull the separate parts into one entity. I have complete admiration of how these musicians can operate so individually yet so as a whole. All the instruments feel detached, but this must rely one a hyperawareness of what the band are doing as a whole.

Imprints part two is now tying the whole album together in a kind of epic finale. Seriously beautiful stuff here, the tracks really work as a whole, not just a bunch of jams glued together.

I was expecting this record to be good, but I'm a convert. This is wicked. In today's music world, a record with so much space, so much delicacy and intensity is very hard to find. Nice one SvarcTrio.

Sam x

Porter's - Cardiff

We Spent the next day of tour driving through Wales - beautiful Wales! A lot of it was boring A roads, but eventually we got to some amazing countryside! We stopped off at this beautiful place to get out bearings and I decided to climb on top of the van.

Logging in a forest

Molly

Georgie & Jeng

Teamwork...

Awesomeness!

Later on we arrived in Cardiff and started looking for the bar. We were running pretty late, and when we parked up I found I had a text from my friends Sophia and Catherine who I'd met when I was playing on the cruise ship Thomson Majesty. They were at the bar waiting to meet with us!

We dashed out into the torrential rain, not really sure where to find the bar, but we trudged on and suddenly we were there! We even found an umbrella on the way, which has hung in my van ever since for just such emergencies...

When we got to Genevieve's Open Mic at Porter's, Cardiff, Sophia and Catherine were waiting for us, and we proceeded to have an amazing night. Not only were the standards of music awesome, but the bar was incredible. It had it's own cinema, and a front room with a giant record collection for the bar goers to listen to! Check it out...

When I got on stage I was right at the end of the night, and I got to play four songs, including the début of a song never played before called 'Writers of Rhyme'. It'll be online with a video in the next few days, so I'll post it at the bottom when I've made it.

Afterwards I used my normal method of letting people have CDs and records for free, but asking for a donation. This works sometimes, and doesn't others. Normally even if people don't give so much, it covers pressing costs. The great thing is, at Porter's the audience were so generous it covered our journey all across Wales! Much love to everyone who was there on that wicked night :-) x

So, that's the official verdict. Genevieve's Open Mic - give it a visit. It was totally worth the trip!

Liverpool - Hannah's Bar

Woke up in Sheffield, Laurel and I went into town before we split. We took some photos with the giant metal balls pictured below and did some shopping. I found two records - one called 'music to bathe by' with nude women swimming in a pond on the cover (featuring Johnny Cash's 'If I Were A Carpenter') and No Tomorrow by Orson (on vinyl - who'da thunk?).

Big Kahunas

Then Laurel headed back home and I headed onto Liverpool down the A57 through the Peak District. I pulled over in a layby, met a sheep and cooked some Tortellini.

Tortelliniiiiiiiiii

Angry Sheep

Open Plan Kitchen

When we got to Liverpool, Georgie, Jeng and I hit the town for the next gig of the tour, returning to Hannah's Bar and Ogo's open mic. It was a great night but we bailed pretty early for an early start to Cardiff - here's some pics!

We stayed in Birkenhead for another night, then headed out to Cardiff the next day. Pics soon!

Start of the tour: The Millhouses, Sheffield + Welton Sports & Social

Welton Sports and Social was a good fun gig, most significant for this lovely bit of Graffiti on the cubical wall - right next to the words 'Cock - yum, yum, yum...'. I don't think it was related.

'Sam Harrison Rocks' Anon. Nice Person...

Next night was a bit of a triumph however - setting off a night later than we thought, we headed to Sheffield to a pub called 'the Millhouses'. Their Sunday open mic was in full swing when Laurel & I arrived at nine, but it carried on right into the early hours. I've never seen such a passionate and exciting jam! I was a bit nervous at first to play my own stuff, but the crowd were lovely, and gave us bags of support. I would recommend this open mic to anyone looking for a great audience! Here's some pics...

We ended with a really wicked Jam, and then we walked into Sheffield for a midnight explore and some takeaway pizza. I remember finding some giant metal balls covered in water, and we have pictures somewhere, I'll drop them in if I can find them.

I wish I could go into further detail about the acts here, but I'm awful with names, and I'd sooner not leave anyone out. I do however remember an incredible country duo with the sweetest vocal harmonies. They really blew me away, along with the high standards of the whole night. Millhouses, Sheffield folks - a real pub with real music :-)

Liverpool - Return to Heebee Jeebies....

 Moving house for our friends gave us an excellent excuse to play in Liverpool again – Moral Laurel and I headed down in Molly the van armed with a guitar and plenty of booze money. We rode through the Mersey Tunnel into Birkenhead where Georgie and Jeng were putting us up, then caught the train into Liverpool James St. to meet them.

We rolled on into Heebee Jeebies on Seel St. for their Thursday open mic – this is the second time I’ve played this bar and I’ve really enjoyed both nights. One or two of the regulars recognised me, which made me pretty chuffed and put me in a good mood for the set. The atmosphere was great and a whole chain of cracking acts took to the stage, including a guy who sounded like Tom Waits. Love a bit of that!

Georgie & Jeng

I took a bit of a risk by opening with 'Price Tag' by Jessie J – the bar was what my Mum would refer to as 'trendy' – i.e. Indie, dark and low lit – very un-poppy. Still, Liverpool's inherent friendliness shone as always, and everyone got involved and some sang along – no music snobbery here! I followed it up with my song 'Cheese on Toast', 'I Wanna Be Like You' and finished on a Johnny B. Goode jamming with the Heebees regulars. I bought a stack of CDs and Vinyl and managed to get rid of them all.

Heebies

(Welcome) Stage Invasion

The liquor kept flowing – we started by teasing free shots out of an empty gay bar called 'Pink'. Then we headed to meet Dan, Suzie and Amy at some pub in Mathews Street which by this point some serious inebriation had prevented me from recalling the name of. Within a short time we were all dancing like maniacs on a little stage, where the locals were joining us for a sozzled tumble. From this pub we went to another and watched a band absolutely blow the place away. They were called JC and the Two Steps and had a residency at one of the clubs. They were tight as a ducks arse and the crowd went mad for it. I have a vague memory of a gay bar called 'Superstar Boudoir', with drag queens and some really eclectic songs that were meant to be classics, but they were completely fresh to my ears. We then headed back to Birkenhead, where Laurel went to sleep and I lap danced a pot plant.

Thus concluded Liverpool...

Me n Laurel

The Boy On The Naples Train

The Boy on the Naples Train

I decided to do Pompeii as a post on its own because this seemed like such a significant happening at the time that I felt it deserved a detailed write-up.

Pompeii was pretty dull in itself, especially after Ephesis with Grace last year, but was worth the train ride. I didn't see however the plaster people which was a big point of going, because we had to catch the train back. What was particularly important about this trip for me was the train journey.

Naples station was full of beggars. What in retrospect struck me particularly about these beggars were the number of women, especially those with young children in tow, sometimes babies. It has only occurred to me as of now the disproportionate amount of male beggars there are in the UK. Maybe UK society is less sympathetic towards the stronger sex, who knows.

The train was packed to the point where we couldn't move. Two of my friends were sexually harassed et the stray hands of a smelly Italian man, who clearly thought a lot of himself. The girls ended up hiding behind the guys to keep away from this asshole. I’ve never seen anything like it apart from maybe the 11X bus on a busy school night. Somewhere in the two hours of this cramped sweaty endurance test, we had out first train busker.

She was an elderly woman, with a small kid in tow. She had a cheap old accordion, and she clearly had no idea where to play it. Through trial and error and hours of riding the trains, she had found a button and a set of keys with which she could make a sorry excuse for a tune with. She squeezed up and down the train as the small boy went around with a little cup. I put a euro or two in. It genuinely made my day when he gave me a fist pump and a hi five. This kid made my day.

On the way back an experience so strange happened that it has left an impression on me that will never go away.

A boy and his father walked onto the train, the boy with a drum and his father with an old trolley with a speaker on it. He triggered an mp3 player, and cranked up the music real loud. This tiny tiny boy began to drum. I disagreed with his age with my friend later, I thought he was younger, he thought a little older, and being skin and bone he may have been right. The kid looked starving and so did his dad. Still, he can't have been younger than seven.

He kicked ass. He was amazing, he had natural rhythm and flourish, the marks of a natural performer at an age when it rarely shows that well. His eyes however looked tired and betrayed the fact that he'd been on the trains all day. His Dad shook a tambourine, but couldn't hold a beat, let alone a rhythm, and it was clearly just a token gesture of performance.

The boy drummed for another three songs, which were long and loud and pissed off everyone in the carriage. The boy would have done better playing alone. Afterwards he looked up at his father, who said to him in Italian 'You know what you have to do – take the cup around'. The kid was shy, but he did it anyway for his Dad.

The kid didn't come to me. He didn't ask me. I wanted to approach him, but something held me back. Here was my thought process:

a) This child shouldn't have to work

b) His Dad was pushy, and will take all the money he's earned at the end of the day.

100. That kid is scared, tired and unhappy. It's not fair.

Nobody on the train gave him a cent. For some reason my feet were glued to the floor. Some deep inbuilt etiquette, some social fear, the same one that stopped me buying lunch for a homeless man in Greece put the brakes on a naturally good gesture. Here was my thought process.

a) That kid was amazing.

b) He's playing to the hardest crowd anyone could play to.

100. I know what it's like to be a performing monkey in front of people who don't want to know – especially if they're all glaring at you. At 24 it can break me down emotionally. This child is having to deal with continuous rejection at the age of below seven.

500. If I give this kid money, at least he'll eat tonight. He'll have to work anyway, money or no money...

Then he was gone, him and his dad hopped off at the station, with my feet still glued. I watched the slums and shanty towns rush by the window and I ached with guilt. I’m earning more money than I ever have done in my life and I couldn't put fifty cents in a cup for a starving kid. I’m a wanker. There, it's said. I know that boy will never read these words, probably never even knew I existed, but If I could say something to him, this is what I'd say.

You're amazing. You're a real star, you work through the pain and fear for your family. I could see the fear in your eyes as that train full of people glared at you, but you played on and your held your head high and you passed your cup around. In a grown up world full of rules and conventions, you weren't shown the appreciation you deserved, maybe you never are. It wasn't your fault, it was the grown ups who had their priorities fucked up. But somewhere in the world you have a fan, who loves your playing, and if he'd pulled himself together you'd have had twenty Euros in your cup.

Some of you might be reading this and thinking that I’m pretty soft. Maybe too soft for travelling around the world, where poverty is a daily encounter and something that is to be come to terms with. Well, I say to you that if a child working, or a begger with a baby in her arms doesn't give you pain, then you're dehumanising yourself to cope with a broken world. The minute that poverty becomes an acceptable fact of life to you, you become part of the problem. That's the kind of thinking that lets condos and shanty towns share the same beach.

Here's a conversation I had recently with a colleague. I gave a coin to an old wizened lady, begging.

Him: Did you just give money to that beggar?

Me: Yeh.

Him: Bad idea!

Me: Wha?

Him: I used to give money to beggars, now I know better. If they have two hands they can work.

Me: Well, I disagree.

Cowardly me. What I should have said was this:

Me: 'That analogy is stupid. It ignores the concept of unemployment which has to exist for capitalism to function. Also, what about the mentally ill, or disabled? Have you never depended on the charity of another?'

Another colleague told me this:

Her: Lots of beggars fake it anyway – they pretend to be poor, but have iPhones and stuff under their blankets.

Again, I kept quiet. What I should have said was this.

Me: That's crazy. If they're hidden how would you know about them? Anyway, the whole benefits system works on the internet now – surely it makes sense that the first thing a homeless person would need would be internet connectivity? Also, even if these people do exist, why should you let the genuine beggars suffer?

Another colleague told me this:

Him: Didn't you hear about that beggar who was actually really rich, and drove a Mercedes? He had a really good job, he just did it because he was greedy?

Me: That's the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard in my life.

Well, at least I got it right once.

These are first world defences against a sick worldwide wealth gap. Nobody chooses to be a homeless beggar, to live in the freezing cold and demean themselves to every person who walks by them just to earn enough to carry on. Begging to people every day would kill every last ounce of ego someone possesses, and how do they pull themselves together and get a job?

I think everyone who grew up in a first world country has some degree of 'fat wallet guilt' when they look the living conditions of a world of which massive chunks are still below the poverty line. There's two ways to deal with this – come up with some crappy false logic chain to justify your wealth, and your greed in not giving it to someone in need – or to give some tiny act of charity to try and sooth that guilt a little bit. The charity probably isn't going to get rid of your guilt, and it probably isn't going to solve the problems of the person in need, but it will help. The only alternative is becoming an ass-hole, so probably best to embrace it.

Like the butterfly effect, one small good deed can spread out indefinitely, like falling dominoes throughout the world. Sooner of later, somewhere along the line it will come back to the boy on the Naples train.

EEK! I can't blog fast enough...

22/04/14

OK, so I haven't written anything for over a week now, and I need to catch up on some stuff. There are two reasons for this: firstly, like anything wonderful and beautiful this cycle of ports has become a little routine. I’m getting to know these places better and starting to enjoy them without feeling the need to gush so much. The other is my determination to finish reading Bleak House by the end of this trip and to finish my book, which I’ve been writing for years and I want to ensure is complete, although I’m sure it's nothing publishable it would be nice to say I’ve written one.

So where did I leave you? Ah, the day at sea!

So we pick up in Lisbon. With hindsight, I think Lisbon is one of three unmissable places I’ve been on this trip. I'll point them all out as we go. I went around it's wonderful flea market and bought a reel of 8mm film of unknown content – I’m excited to see it!

Then I met up with L and we wondered around the beautiful mosaic pavements for a while, nipping in and out of shops. Nothing much happened while with L, but the conversation was good and the surroundings were perfect. The feeling is really impossible to describe, but taking in the little unremarkable features of a place together make a beautiful whole which all the words in the world can't recreate.

Then came Portimao – I went to the beach, which I found to be bright, long and empty for miles. All the shops and cafe's were shut so I wondered taking photographs and writing poetry. This is when I started to feel quite lonely, and the feeling is sticking. I’ve never needed a day off so bad before! Well, only two more months.

Ah! and that's the next piece of news. I’ve been offered another month on my contract. I’m unsure whether to take it or not, but I’m probs going to. I’ve talked it thru with the band and they agree.

Next came Casablanca. I woke up a poor man and became a rich man as I walked deeper into the souk. I saw new things today, the fresh fish on Ice, straight from the ocean just hours before. The giant slabs of meat hanging, flies buzzing around and the hundreds of chickens, looking half dead crammed in cages. Everywhere smelt of effluence. I brought two of round loaves of bread I love so much and gave one to a man I met in the park called Mohammed. He'd travelled to England through France and loved London greatly. He spoke pigeon English and I spoke pigeon French, so communicating was a fun challenge.

I’m going to say while it's happening that I’m listening to 'The Storm' from local band 'That's Not Me' – it's really a solo by Ellie Shutie from their album 'The Road Ahead Is At My Feet'. I really like the album which is still growing on me greatly. Initially I liked a few tracks on it, but the more I listen to it the more I love their unique sound and writing. Their lyrics are incredible, and very relate-able in my current situation. With music like this, the whole Long Haired Music project is so worth it.

Before I left Casablanca, I stopped to buy a packet of cookies from some young girls looking very bored at their family store. 'How Much?' I asked them in bad french. 'One Dirham'. That's ten pence for a packet of cookies. I bought three and gave two back to the girls. 'These are for you' I said. The girl snatched them to her chest and her eyes lit up. 'MERCI BOUCOUP MONSOIR!!!' she shouted after me in abject delight. It's easy to play the good guy when your a rich man. Then I left the souk and became poor again.

Next came Cadiz, a city completely unmemorable to me in every way. I spent the whole day searching for a post office and nothing really else happened. I bought a tambourine for my favourite waitress to beat if it takes her fancy.

Then finally, Gibralter. Finally I got to climb the hill with L and get into the moutain park. It turned out the 18 euros we'd been unable to afford the previous day got us none of what we wanted to see and it would be in fact 23 Euros to see everything in the park. However, we could walk around the whole park for a Euro each. The decision was made. We spent the day teasing the apes, which kept swiping at our cameras. They jumped on the back of one lady. In a moment lacking in empathy we both asked 'hey can we photograph you?'. She said 'Sure, but can we get it off me?'. The moment the ape realised it was being photographed, it jumped down and ran off. L was delightful as usual, and the day was sunny and perfect. I with we could have every adventure together, but out schedules are crazy manic!

Then came Malaga again. This time it was kind of weird. There was some sort of procession going on, with marching bands, brass bands and all these childen and adults in robes that looked like Klansmen, but in different colours. I know these outfits had their origins in Spain, but I don't think the white ones are worn so much now. The kids were all in black or dark red robes, and it looked like a Hogwarts graduation parade as they meandered back through the streets, hoods in hand. I tried to find out more, but all I know is it had something to do with soldiers.

Toulon was fairly dull. I got rained on, had my hair cut on the boat by the genius of Uros, went back out into the sunshine and sowed a patch onto my Uke case while being started at and bothered by teens asking me 'Cigarette? Cigarette?'. Je ne fumer pas, poulet tetes. I really need to learn some more French.

Yesterday I got off in Mahon, and did some clothes shopping with one of the dance team. I’ve not really got to know him yet, but he turned out to be pretty sound. I bought just one shirt, but a really nice one from a designer suite shop. Now I can look good one more day of the week! Was really chuffed with this.

Emily Morgan, an awesome young songwriter from Stamford received my tape in the post. Her tape lives in my van and is my favourite driving music. Check it out if you can find it! I think its called 'Unravel'. Maybe we can bring back the cassette tape! Er, nah.

Today, I spent the day on the outskirts of Valencia with J the ents host. Had a wicked day, grabbed some wifi, and now here I am.

Tomorrow Cartegena and then a new course – Thank goodness! Never thought I'd get bored of Spain, and I probs wouldn't if I had more time in her, but I’m looking forward to some new places. Italy next weeeeeek!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

'Travel is like flirting with life. It's like saying 'I would stay and love you, but I have to go' - Lisa St. Aubin de Teran.

Thanks to Grace for that one.

Miss you England, you have my heart!

xxx

Valencia, Cartegena, Malaga, Day At Sea

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Valencia, Cartegena, Malaga, Day At Sea

Tonight, there will be a masked ball. It will be, Unlike the stately Masquerades of old, held in the grubby smoke filled crew bar, where loud repetitive pop music will drown almost all conversation. Unfortunately, with my crew card blocked as I can't pay my bar bill, I have to deal with this environment sober, unless one of the passengers of crew makes a gesture of unprompted generosity. Still, I'll dance my legs down to the knee if L is in the bar.

Tonight, L will not be in the bar. Still, rationally, I can't spend my every waking moment with L, and maybe tonight will be a good opportunity to, if not pull than at least to catch up with my friends I’ve somewhat abandoned in this last week.

Valencia was pretty dull. L didn't want to go out in the cold, as it was fairly nippy that day, so I left her to Skype her devoted boyfriend while I spent an hour exploring the dirty port end of the town. I found a mask for the ball, and some 'Adventure Time' crisps. The rest of the day I spent just chatting with her.

The next day in Cartegena I became extremely miserable. The ship left port at 15.00 and I managed 20 minutes in the port through oversleeping. That day, the cabin got smaller and smaller until L knocked on my door to say hi in between shifts. This is when I started to clock the fact that I had a problem. Having only a few friends on the boat I'd been quite content to take as much time to myself as possible, reading, writing and listening to music. Now with L and her lush conversation I’m starting to resent the time I’m spending alone. I really, really needed a days grace from this ridiculous routine. I said goodbye to an amazing set of passengers today. But then I said hello to L and my head set straight again.

Malaga. More and more this city becomes a breath of fresh air. The day was spent rambling with L. Exploring, climbing, laughing and joking through the rich and colourful hillside gardens up to the castle. On the way up some horrid guy picked my pocket of 20 Euros. By this point I didn't care though, I was too relieved to be out in the sunshine. I simply stripped off my shoes and socks, rolled up my jeans and walking into a fountain, smiling splashing and loving the city.

We walked back along the beach to the ship, and took in the fun. I taught her tongue twisters, and she taught me basic Russian and Latvian. I’m getting better – My Latvian includes 'Sveki', hello and 'Atah', bye. My Russian consists of 'Breviate' hello, and 'Spokonay Noiche' goodnight, although that's probably nowhere near the right spelling. L and another are the ony two Latvians on the ship, but shared with the Ukrainian is a common language of Russian, which I believes shares a lot with Ukrainian. So Russian is more practical to know, but proper Ukrainian will curry favour from the waitresses. I went back out later, just to soak up as much fresh air as possible, and changed in the nick of time for passenger drill. Tying peoples life-jackets up has gone from being terrifying to kind of theraputic.

I’m always nervous with a new set of passengers, but I one these guys over by the end of the night.

Now day at sea, I’ve read a chunk of Bleak house and might have some food. At least I got change to sleep!

Cadiz, Gibralter, Malaga, Barcelona, Toulon, Mahon and why I’ve been so Lazy with my blogging..

OK, I’m stalling with this blog. I started letting my one-post-per-port system drop in Cadiz.

Cadiz was a port where second time around, literally nothing happened. It was extremely boring, I only had two hours off.

Then came Gibraltar. The problem with Gibraltar was is was far, far too interesting.

In crew bar the night before, I'd overheard a conversation between two people I vaguely know, talking about finding a camera shop in Gibraltar. Ears burning, I butted in and said 'hey, I know where there's a camera shop in Gibraltar'. The girl who was asking, I'll refer to as L, as I’ve been trying not to name people in this public blog. The result was we went into Gibraltar together the next day to find the camera shop where I bought my card reader.

The shop was shut, so we started walking up the hill to find some monkeys (or Barbary Apes as they really are). We found some, but the castle turned out to be too expensive for either of us. By means of apology for dragging her up and down a small mountain, I bought L a coffee. On the way back down, I walked her down the main street, which, as I now know, is thick with pro camera shops. I'd made a friend for life.

First day I didn't know what L made of me, but considering we've spent most of our time together since we became firm friends that day.

I don't really want to bring any other characters into this blog besides myself, but as I’m barely leaving the boat without L at the minute, it's impossible to leave her out.

Malaga I spent the whole day trying to find an HSBC bank to register my pin with. After walking miles down a road tourist info said there might be an HSBC down, and finding nothing but Santanders I began trying my card with it's brand new pin in every machine I could find. Finally, I came up trumps. 'La Caxia' would not let me see my balance or change my pin, but it would give me cash. Nice to know that if my card was pinched they couldn't do anything with it – except steal all my money.

Barcelona, I overslept. Probably because the night before I'd spent several hours dancing with and chatting to L. Without making this into something it isn't, I’ve genuinely found one of the most fascinating people I’ve ever met. Anyhow, I only got to see a couple of hours of the city, and with the boat moored a half hour walk away from the city it took me an age to get there, but I ended up at the second hand market in the bottom of Los Rambles. I got a few pressies and a patch for my Uke case. It reads 'Cat Power' who are a band I saw at Glastonbury, but somehow I don't think this patch was made for them. I have to find out what it means.... it makes me uneasy knowing its on there without knowing its other meaning.

In Malaga I'd bought rope and thread. I'd already found a needle in the carpet of my cabin and I set about making an adjustable carry-strap for my ukulele case. I’ve realised in previous blog posts that the Ukulele is a flirting master-tool. Sorry, friend-making master-tool I mean. Now my uke travels with me to every city.

The next day was Toulon, and I got up mega early with L to hit the port before she stared work. We accidentally found a rock festival, and listened to this amazing French jam band, a bit like Santana, but funkier, with two gorgeous dreaklocked girls singing and playing guitar. We walked around the port, L with her SLR, talking and occasionally she'll freeze, turn the camera on and photograph something inane. When I look on the view screen at the back, the mundane has become beautiful. It's weird.

My sets have been getting better and better this week. My playing's just dropping into place, mainly thanks to Steve, who's back on board today, raving it up with us in Crew Bar. Today L heard me properly for the first time, be it from around the corner where she was photographing passengers in front of a giant fake sunset. 'It frames you nicely!' I told her as we chatted, her SLR in her hands as always, like an extension of her body.

It was Mahon today. I love Mahon.We wondered up through the town, and walked out in the non-obvious direction, right from the port. We found a track leading out into idyllic countryside, unfamiliar plants and wildlife. We walked out as far as we could, both photographing everything. We were rewarded by a few of true rural Spain. This is what Laurie Lee must have seen and experienced, and a side of Spain neither of us had seen before. On the way back we got wonderfully lost, and climbed down the giant port wall by a different method. Tiered with gardens and wonderful views, L climbed over the wall, thrusting her camera at me. 'Hold please'. So as L climbed precariously out onto the port wall, photographing the perfect abyss of the harbour, with silt diggers on barge penetrating the blue, I sang her songs on my ukulele.

We came back down to find L's Indonesian colleague, a cheerful photographer, also with a permanent SLR addiction. Only N is most commonly found deeply lost in her phone. We played on the swings, taking turns and crazy pictures with all three cameras. I lay on the floor singing nonsense songs.

'We're sailing in the Majesty

On the Mediterranean sea

If only had wifi for free

You would be our heaven'

All to soon we had to get back on board ship, but things are changing. I was wondering how I was going to get through 3 months of solid Majesty ship life, now I don't know how I’m going to leave it behind.

'Two months was a very long time now

Two months is a very short time

Toulon is-a bright sunshine and

Gibraltar is a very long climb'

Well, at least I’m writing again.

Love you and miss you all,

Sam xxx

Casablanca, Here's Lookin' at You...

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I keep hearing from passengers that they didn't enjoy Casablanca. I can understand why, but at the same time I can't.

Casablanca is really alien. I was prepared for it after Marrakesh, but it was a hyperactive version of the same. On my second visit I had an even better time.

I went to look for Rick's Bar, of movie fame. It isn't real, but I guess that's the done thing to do in Casablanca, and I figured I'd try. God knows where it was, I couldn't find it. Anyway, I found myself lost deep in the Souks miles away from the tourist track, where nobody spoke any English, or accepted Euros. The streets were dirty and smelt of everything under the sun, crowded, ramshackle and an impossible maze. Exactly where I wanted to be.

My first stop was bread. The Morrocans have this round flat bread, backed in stone ovens on wooden paddles over a wood fire. I’ve seen it made and it tastes like nothing you can possibly buy in a shop. I struggled for a while to find anyone who would sell me a loaf of bread. Be it the quantity of one loaf, or the Strange foreigner money I was trying to pay in, some just got annoyed. Eventually a man took my money. The bread tasted sweet, rich and refreshing, and could have been my meal for the whole day. For many people it would be.

I passed fish cooking on what looked like thick black garden barbecues, the smell was insane. Men with sheets on the floor sold electronic goods, multi-adapters and phono to scart leads. Surprisingly, SD cards were easy to obtain in Casablanca. One man even offered me Argon Oil, ceramics or some quality marijuana. Judging by the quality of all their other plant produce, he probably wasn't lying.

My big scoop came from a table chock full of strawberries. There weren't any flies around it, and the guy looked friendly, so I figured I'd give it a shot. Now Morrocan strawberries are nothing like English strawberries. You know when you really fancy some strawberries, you have that sweet sweet taste on your tongue, you go to the supermarket and buy a pack and that taste like misery objectified, all sour and yucky? Not in Morroco. And not just because the only supermarket for miles is the street itself. These strawberries are big, juicy rich and red, each one like a small heart, with two swelling chambers. You bite into it and receive a little head-rush from a taste so rich you believed it to be a mere fantasy of sugar and e-numbers. How could such a dry and barren land yield such glory?

I digress, so I found a strawberry seller. I asked him how much I could get for two Euros. He took it and looked at it suspiciously. He shouted over his friends, and before long a huge crowd had gathered, to watch the strange tourist buying strawberries. He loaded a Kilo of strawberries into a bag, while his seniors discussed the exchange rate. When they finally worked out what I was paying them, the shop owner crammed even more into the bulging plastic bag. As I left he clutched my hand and looked at me with delighted eyes and said 'My house is your house'. I had to smile. That's what I love about Morocco, it pokes you and reminds you how lucky you are.

On the way back to Majesty, two young Muslim women demonstrated to me the key to pulling in Casablanca. 'La Frais'.

Au Revoir x

Wet Portimao

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I woke up with only an hour in this little port. I basically walked around in the pouring rain for an hour photographing all the things I couldn't last time having left my camera in my bag.

Because of this, I’m going to tell the story of the last time I went to Portimao which I seem to have saved over and doesn't feature on my blog.

I got off in the port, the first building I saw was a very old ramshackle, tumbled down fort. It was open to the sky, but gave the appearance of being lived in.

I went further into Portimao to discover that it was probably the poorest port I’ve been to. The shops were closed mostly, the ones that were open were often understocked. I bought my lunch there from two young kids who looked so surprised at having a customer and excited. They spoke brilliant English, and the younger boy was watching loud English cartoons on a laptop.

I ate my lunch on a bollard, and a beggar came over and asked me for money. I gave him what I had, and my apple. I was starting to think Portimao was in a bit of a rut.

Then on my way back I found the Musee De Portimao. It was a massive old Tuna factory (I think) on the waterfront, converted into this incredible museum. There was loads I took away from this, including the whole Tuna processing room exactly as it was.

There was even a picture of this beautiful old ruined hotel when it was new. I'd seen it in the square! There were two hotels in this picture, both brand new. In the square, one was in ruins, one was immaculate. It left a big impression on me.

The one thing I couldn't believe was that there was a giant sound and lighting shop! That made me laugh. Also a socialist cafe, with murals.

Anyhow,

Adios! xxx