Apparently, according to Jboy (onebads) last e-mail if I didn’t post a new blog by midnight last night he was going to turn me into a pumpkin. Again. He has a disconcerting habit of carrying out his threats and the experience of being a pumpkin is not one that I’m eager to repeat (being a pumpkin is not so bad - its when some interfering fairy godmother turns you into a coach that it gets uncomfortable) but as you can see this blog is not being posted before the deadline.

Before Jboy zaps me with his pumpkin spell I’d just like to proffer my excuses. You see I did take his warning seriously and so at about 4pm yesterday afternoon I stopped conversing with Stinky and The Wizard (two nice people from a flash forum who, in words of one syllable, have been selflessly explaining to me the finer points of action script) opened up Lotus, popped on Led Zeppelin and began to blog

I was just getting into my stride and they were just looking for the bridge when out of nowhere came a terrible noise. It sounded like the cheesiest of cheesy synthesisers. Straight away I leapt to the most obvious conclusion.

“F” I shouted through to the kitchen where he was trying to convince the Apple that it liked running Logic.

“In a minute, I’m just…” came back the reply

“No, this isn’t about the dishes” I shouted back

“What then?… I’m busy”

“Will you turn the fucking volume down”

“It’s not me” came back the reply ” I thought you were listening to Jethro Tull’s eighties album again”

“Well I thought you were mixing something for AD” I retorted angrily. It was a cheap point. AD (who I would provide a link to had they not, in an attempt to lower file size, exported their songs at 16 instead 80 bit with the result that it sounds like they’re being played through a sock) are (god it hurts to say this - I’ll type it quick so that I can’t read it) are actually really good and are being ironic when they use the cheesy synths while the only excuse JT had was Ian Anderson had spent some of his royalties on a recording studio (Lesson 1. never but never allow the singer to have his own recording studio - don’t even give him a tape recorder. Lead singers have the same fascination with recording their musical ideas that Mr Toad had with motorcars and the results are usually far worse than a car wreck)

I lowered the volume, cutting off the Zeps search just at the point when they’d been through the darkest depths of mordor, found the dork on Satan’s daughter (or is it doorway? - no a doorway on Satan’s daughter wouldn’t make sense) received a letter from their mother across the border and were (with the aid of a meletron, bow and valkeries armed with custard pies) just about to stumble across the bridge once more. God they don’t make albums like that nowadays - you can’t get the drugs.

The noise was still there. In fact, owing to the fact that I was now sans Led Zep - it was louder. It was also def. not a synth. It was far far worse than that. It was a sax. Now I like the saxophone. Next to guitar the sax is possibly one of the most sexy sounding instruments there is. At the risk of sounding pedestrian I’ll even admit to liking the sax solo in Baker Street. But there’s one sax song I hate. It’s that especially annoying one. You know the one that sounds like its the title track for a bad eighties show where the guy (who wears loafers with no socks) looks like he’s a Chippendale, is really a DJ doing the midnight slot and works as a Bounty hunter during the day and moonlights as a PI. You know the one I mean? No not the show, the song. No? Oh you do. It goes toodee toodoo pause toodee toodo pause toodee todo pause warble warble repeat to coda. You still don’t remember it? You lucky fuckers. I’ll probably never forget it now. Toodee toodoo pause toodee toodo pause toodee todo pause warble warble repeat to coda don’t forget the reverb.

I looked out of the window. Not a saxophonist in sight. But the noise went on. Toodee toodoo…etcetera…etcetera…etcetera. It was definitely coming from outside. Then I spotted it. Not the saxophonist. The neighbours. They had balloons. Purple ones. They’d tied them to the washing line. It looked pathetic. I’m not just saying that because I’m a miserable fucker with no life. (although I am) I appreciate balloons as much as the next person and if the next person’s Jgirl then I appreciate them more, (Jgirl having a deep seated psychological terror regarding a balloons propensity to go bang when you stick a pin in it apiece of knowledge that, once she’d shared it with us meant that forever afterwards we made a point of buying balloons and sticking pins in them next to her for the simple pleasure of seeing her launch ten foot into the air from a sitting position) No, these particular balloons looked pathetic because whoever’d blown them up hadn’t done it properly and they sort of hung there and flapped in a vaguely obscene way. But though they were an affront to any aesthetic sensibility they definitely weren’t making the cheesy saxophone sounds. That was coming from a cheap stereo buried somewhere inside the depths of the downstairs flat and obviously turned up to the max. You could tell it was cheap stereo as the only thing you could hear was the mid. It went on and on…Toodee toodoo pause toodee toodo pause toodee todo pause warble warble repeat to coda.

Now most people who have neighbours who play their music too loud are - well they’re probably living next door to us - but if they aren’t then what they probably do is close their window. But I can’t do that. Not that there’s anything wrong with the window. It opens and closes perfectly. But, just as Jgirl has psychological aversion to balloons and Jboy can’t drive at less than 90 mph and herebe can’t use words of less than five syllables or F can’t use the washing machine, I can’t close windows. It’s a long and sad tale to do with having fresh air in the house and like most things I blame it on my mother but there you go.

It was dilemma. I could speedily evolve into the sort of person that is capable of closing a window which was unlikely given that even the fastest evolution takes a few generations, or I could ask them to turn the music down which would make me a party pooper of the worse kind (and force me to actually speak to my neighbours - which apart from the answering good morning/afternoon when I meet them on the stair - is also something I don’t do) or I could grit my teeth and put up with it. Again the last option was not viable, although I have dental insurance I doubted whether it would cover the damage caused by gnashing molars to the tune of Toodee toodoo.

What I needed was something to mask the sound. A frequency guaranteed to cover up the piercing tones of a saxophone. So began my search. Through the very depths of my CD collection into Adventures Beyond the Ultraworld. I was a Ghost in the Machine journeying through Solid Air to the edges of the Blue Nile by the light of a Pink Moon. I touched on Jane’s Addiction and blacked out in the red room of a Sonic Temple a Little South of Sanity. In Manic Nirvana I sat Waiting For The Sun in Fields of Gold and Shook the Tree leaving Blood on the Tracks. Blow by Blow until I was Black and Blue I searched. I thought things were Hunky Dory and that I’d found the Real Thing with the Kohn concert but it was just a Placebo and Living With the Law didn’t work for an Infidel like me. There was a Communiqué Cool from the Wire but it was from Raingods with Zippo’s and it all turned out to be Rumours. A Flex-able White Rabbit watching a Passion Play In A Gadda Da Vida suggested I Use My Illusions but I was a Dummy venturing into the Superunknown and I didn’t have the Knack. And all the while the ungodly sound continued… Toodee toodoo pause toodee toodo pause toodee todo pause warble warble repeat to coda. It cut through everything I tried.

Until at last, buried somewhere in the bottom of my CD lists I found it. Not loud. Not brash but the only thing that could possibly stop the sound. Eagerly, nervously my fingers hovered over the mouse. Dare I play it? I knew Mum would disapprove. Not so much music as a lifestyle choice had been her critique. The last time I’d heard this I remembered putting the needle on the record but things had gone a bit hazy after that. On and on the saxophone played. Toodee toodoo pause toodee toodo pause toodee todo pause warble warble repeat to coda… Toodee toodoo pause toodee toodo pause toodee todo pause warble warble repeat to coda. Oh God I couldn’t take it any longer. Haze would be preferable to this.

I couldn’t stand in any longer. My fingers hit the mouse button. There was a brief silence as time rewound. And then it began, almost silent yet you could feel the weight of the notes hang in the air. Guitars, sweet as molasses, tasteful as an armani suit and as wholesome as a bowl of grits. That slow familiar mumble. Hypnotic as a cobra. “Thirteen Days on_______down South. We’ve got enough dope to keep us all high. We’ve got two girls dancing to pick up the crowd. Sound men to mix us, make us sound loud. Sometimes we make money, sometimes we don’t know. Thirteen days with life to go”

The sax faded into the distance as the backing singers took up their refrain. “Nah nah nah nana Nah nah nana. Thirteen days with life to go” For this amount of peace it’s worth becoming a pumpkin.

This entry was posted on Monday, September 6th, 2004 at 5:21 pm and is filed under Music. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.