A day being an Old Fart

So I went to Blackpool, never one of my fave places, to a festival of 'experimental music' called Other Worlds. A pleasant train trip and quite sunny so all good. I guess I went without much prior knowledge, knowing only that Saturday was sold out so it boded well for some interest. I took a few Headshock CDs in case it was the right kind of experimental and we might want to play there next year. You gotta admire the optimism.

I had printed a map of the various venues, not apparently of any use on the Friday. By a process of elimination I found the one that was open but it turned out the printed start time was wrong. These things happen, still keeping with the optimism. With an hour to kill I bimbled down to the pier, had a beer, took some pix with my phone. Aimed away from the people and the shabby buildings.

Anyway, I arrived at the venue, got another beer (to get in the mood) and, eventually, it started. The first act was a bunch of earnest beardy youths making dischordant drones. Not totally bad, I thought, if a little aimless and structureless. Process sorted, performance to work on, is how I'd mark it if I was being a glib-arsed critic. Next up was a girl with a flute and a looper. It started pleasantly but then seemed to last forever. I got more beer and, looking around, started to feel a bit out of place. Noticed, belatedly, that the majority were young student types (beards not optional), or perhaps these were other acts for the weekend checking out the competition. Reading the programme and getting the general tone, I started to ponder the possibility of catching the early train.
The plan had been, had the music turned me on, that Pat would drive to pick me up but that seemed increasingly unlikely when, third, a bloke in a red wig carrying a red plastic hand arrived. He pretended the hand was strangling him and pretty soon I wanted to help it. He was armed with an ego, a glass of wine and a backing track. I began eyeing the visible exits. Then trying one. I didn't leave any of our beautiful CDs behind.

Speaking of which, I got a free CD on entry. I played it this morning and it left me hugely relieved I'd wasted only one day. I could be totally wrong but it suggested there'd be more pretentious shite. I suspect journos from the Guardian, Quietus etc. would have loved it all whilst stroking their respective beards. Mind you I think they'd love Headshock too so I'm nothing if not delusional. I predict these acts, some of them anyway, will turn up on the Culture Show being feted and admired. When they do I'll die a little inside, more sour grapes from an old, failed artiste who can't recognise new talent if it drones for an hour under his nose.
I wanted to discover something new, different and local and I maintain I'm not jealous of people with real talent. I know quite a few. Speculating further it may be that it's my old preference: music for the heart over music for the head. I prefer not to write negative stuff yet here I am getting it off my chest so I don't have to say it elsewhere and upset anyone. After all, if asked for an opinion I'd have concentrated on positive things because what do I know? Very, very little, it seems. And less by the day.

Pottered in the studio today, did some nice percussive sequences on the Analog Four. I seem to be doing mostly percussion and pads these days, sequences kinda not making me happy, at least conventional ones. Hope I get the vibe back before the Binar gig or it'll be a strange affair. Stranger.