Song Writing Slide
A day can be lost to washing up. However, a hum drum convention can be reviewed by a welcome break in creativity.
I’d taken an overnight coach with a bag full of 5pm closing down Jaeger T shirts. Such an early morning arrival made time for a classic concerto cooked breakfast off Trafalgar Square.
Various groups assemble as dribs and timely drabs for 9.15am at a swanky Hilton at Tower Bridge. A German mother mused with me outside reception over the Saturday morning email that said ‘making It Happen 2017 & Thank you for booking a VIP pass with Songwriting’. She was a schools music coach and by the time we reached the top of the stairs there was another teacher though she was from Devon. When we signed in I said ‘I think my name is Fran.’
The First Lady up was called Chanel who brought forth degrees of eye moistnesses as she tipped up various scales from under a tweedy cap. Anyone over a three year spurt on stage tends to revert to teaching these days because of the cultural command in bringing people in is to let them copy encouragement. She beckoned to Rebecca from the audience who was shown how near she should stand to the microphone.
From a mid range back at a front row I was beside a graduate performer that wore a crushed velvet skirt and she’d come from neighbourly Blair Athol. Many years ago the late late many friended childless & hairless duke had me to stay in order to offer me the successive title as a duchess because he was dying in slow motion and he recognised me as a songwriter with enough of a fortune to reinstate the place up to modernisation. Anyway I was about 14 & had school the next day but would keep it in mind.
A man with a keyboard gave a demo about how to arrange strings. It was for people who couldn’t work a keyboard. During the break afterwards I had a fag outside where a man told me I had odd socks but that he wrote gong songs. I said I hated misery and what was the point of even whistling a tune when there was already the fabulous Mozart.
Upon my return I told a person with Byronic hair of my encounter and wondered if maybe the man downstairs outside had been a Hollywood reject at the British character. For the rest of the morning I scanned outlying corners of my eyes for his reappearance but that didn’t recur and the speaking man said ‘Tom has left the building.’ Moody people can fade around as non particulars to a bigger exposure but the requirement for umpires is for one of those inferior moments. The sliding away of an understanding had conclusively happened.
P.S. Much like what songs can brilliantly do both each way over upside down and the other way round.