Muso

Recently Owen has taken to calling me a ‘muso’. He usually says it whilst rolling his eyes and poking me in the flab on my stomach. He soon got wind of the fact that this label annoyed me greatly and started using it all the more. Now he uses it with a glee so infuriating it makes me want to smash his face in. Every time I innocently mention a band I like he says; ‘is that the hip word on muso street?’ or ‘oh really? They’re good are they oh wise muso one?’ or just plain and simple ‘Shut up you fucking muso, I know you like them - there hasn’t been anything else coming out of the stereo for the past seven days.’

My retort (through gritted teeth): 'I am not a fucking muso.'

Reasons I am not a muso:

1. I do not have an Encyclopaedic knowledge of the trainspotting music stuff, my knowledge about record labels, artwork, managers, technical production, famous tours and limited edition singles even of my most favourite bands is slim to none.

2 I do not worship vinyl and proclaim it’s the only true way to hear music. I like my CD’s. Mp3’s are even better, and you don’t have to trudge round obscure shops in Manchester in the pouring rain on a Saturday afternoon to collect and listen to them.

3. I do not masturbate over mint condition 1960’s editions of the NME and Rolling Stone. I don’t in fact, read music magazines full stop; I think they are just big corrupt advertising vehicles mostly full of egotistical and talentless bitter male writers who very rarely have anything interesting to say at all. I read more grassroots zines and weblogs but even then I mostly laugh at all the musos who take it all far too seriously.

4. Some of the bands I like are obscure but I am not attracted to obscurity for its own sake. I do not feel cheated when one of my favourite bands becomes successful- in fact I say ‘good for them’ and keep on liking them, even if they do start having number one hit singles a la the streets and the arctic monkeys. I am quite happy to like a band that is tremendously popular as long as they are good.

5. I am not competitive when it comes to music, live and let live is what I say. I get sick of these musos who get into the whole ‘bragging’ thing:

Muso 1: ‘Dogbeard…yeah…well I saw them back in their peak, in 1992 when they performed an impromptu session on a park bench and then vomited in their guitar.’

Muso 2: ‘Oh really? Well I saw them a year before that in the good old days when they performed a homecoming gig at the tap and spile- and they did a live acoustic version of chickenfeatherblues by the spaghetti heads and then afterwards the lead singer ate the microphone.’

That kind of shit just makes me want to eat my own head, or at least bash their two idiotic ones together until they are unconscious.

6. I would never, ever judge a person or a friendship on their taste in music. My best friend loves Brittany spears and James blunt yet we’ve never had one argument about it. If she wants to listen to horrible cheesy pop that’s her prerogative, but I can keep in perspective that this doesn’t, whatever musos might think, make Marie a superficial or brainless person, she is in fact one of the deepest most complex thinkers I have ever talked with. She just doesn’t get her kicks in the same place I do, that’s all. People who judge people on what they listen to must miss out on so many friendships, I don’t want to let anyone slip through the net.

7. I am not obsessed with mix tapes and compilations. I make the odd one or two but this is a side of muso behaviour that I have never really gotten into.

8. When you ask me what my favourite song of a particular artist is, I am much more likely to say one of their singles rather than some obscure B side on a Japanese limited edition import.

9. I do not sneer when I disagree with someone’s musical opinion.

10. I have fully grasped the concept that music can sometimes just be background noise or something fun to do a silly dance to in the living room or mime with a hairbrush in front of the mirror- I get sick of people who take it all a bit too seriously. Music is there to enjoy and entertain as well as all the deeper stuff.

11. I do not quote lyrics obsessively and fastidiously. In fact, even when I try to remember them, I usually forget. Even when I was playing songs that I had written in a band, I had to write the lyrics down on scraps of paper for when my mind went blank when I was performing.

12. I can stop talking about music. I am not one of these musos who keep on going and going even when everyone else has fallen asleep. I do talk about it quite a lot, but, there are other things in life as well, ya know?

13. I have never been to a festival

14. I have never been to a ‘secret’ gig.

15. I wouldn’t have a clue as to what the top ten albums right now are. Let alone the top ten indie albums.

16. I don’t listen to the radio for the same reasons I don’t read magazines. They are just corporate sponsored music pushers who play the same bands and songs again and again. I don’t want to fill my head with their sycophantic crap.

So, thus proves I am not a fucking muso. Whatever Owen says.

Yes, I love, if not adore my music and it’s true, high fidelity is one of my all time favourite books. I am familiar with quite a lot of musical artists and am pretty picky in my tastes. When I’m not busy living life I may listen to four or five new albums a day. I find it nearly impossible to be in silence and I am surgically attached to my Mp3 player. I do indulge in totally nerdy behaviour like reading biographies of bands/ musicians and downloading their entire back catalogue, listening to each seminal song as I get to that part in the book. Even though I am not even in a band at the moment I am constantly writing down songs and lyrics for the day I have courage to one day start singing again. I quite often start conversations with friends and even strangers: what music are you into at the moment?

It’s not that I don’t admit to being a little bit obsessed with music, you see. But the macho muso culture is something I want no part of. So sure, I say to anyone who’s into their music; come round to my house, chill out and we’ll listen to some tunes. We’ll debate them passionately, laugh, weep, reminisce, hug, shout and sing together. We’ll revel in each others musical tastes, I’m always open to ideas and willing to learn. Say anything you like, anything at all and I won’t judge you. You can even say that Eels are a one trick pony or that Joni Mitchell can’t sing. But if you dare to call me a muso I swear I will not be held responsible for my actions and you might find yourself leaving with several less teeth than when you arrived.

X Marks the Spot

Well, the deed is done. I put a cross next to the candidate’s name, dropped the ballot in the box and in doing so exercised my democratic freedom. Waiting to give my name to get my voting slip, I couldn’t help thinking ‘what a fucking joke.’ Not just because of the depressing details that I couldn’t help but notice; the fact that, at six o clock it should have been a busy voting time but there was only me and Owen in the entire building. Not just because the party Owen wanted to vote for didn’t even have a candidate standing in our ward, or because the women who took our names had a look on her face of utter despair and boredom. All these things were pretty lousy but above and beyond that, to me the whole thing just felt like one huge big ridiculous fucking farce.

What I wanted to write all over my ballot: ‘There is no such thing as democracy anymore in this country. I will not play along with your pointless charade.’

What, in reality, I did write: X (next to the Green Party candidate)

Why? For the same reason that I will not allow myself not to vote, even though I am totally disillusioned with British party politics and the utter corruption of local government. I am an idealist, a dreamer, and I just could not bring myself to spoil my vote. It seems such a negative, wasteful thing to do, even if it does reflect my line of thinking more than any positive vote could. I told myself that I was acting out of respect for the people who died trying to get me that vote. I stood in the cubicle, thinking of those women and men chained to railings, thrown in prison, dying all over the place so I could put that cross on that paper. That does, undeniably weigh heavily on my conscience and it did influence my decision. Also, I do agree with a lot of the Green Party manifesto and have voted for them many times in the past. Still, I feel like a bit of a coward for not putting what I thought. Even if only one vote counter had read what I said it would have made a point.

We are not living in a free and fair democracy. Our vote does not matter one jot. The truth is that Corporations are the real policy makers, both locally and nationally, rather than just lowly politicians, or, perish the thought, voters. If you want to make a difference then it’s probably more effective to vote with your talents, your money and your time. Some humble suggestions (aimed at myself more than anyone else): don’t shop at the out of town Tesco that’s ripping the city centre apart, even if it’s the only place that does stock the organic pink grapefruit that you love for breakfast. Make sacrifices. Simply don’t buy the local newspaper that devotes page after page to scaremongering, shitstiring and racist gossip making the streets feel unsafe and causing deep divisions in the community. Consider spending a couple of hours a week volunteering at a local project or charity that is actually something you believe in and helps bring people together for a cause other than money. Treat others with respect; maybe there isn’t such a thing as true altruism but looking out for your neighbours; saying hello, getting to know their names, offering to feed their cat when they go away is always a good start. If someone in the street falls over, help them stand up. If you bump into someone, say sorry. Support local arts events, rather than always going for big names, go to concerts of small local bands who have something to say. Visit galleries of promising regional artists, book tickets to see the amateur dramatics or youth theatre productions. If you are confident enough, join a committee. One night a month on the school governors or the local hospital might make a difference to something of massive local importance and you will find yourself with a surprising amount of power. There are loads and loads of things you can do to help local issues.

If we really want to think local on this Election Day, then we should probably commit more than just a pointless cross. For a long time I have believed that corporations are winning this battle by alienating us from our environment and our fellow human beings. I have always believed that acting locally is the way to fight a global war. It makes the problem more manageable, less overwhelming, more rewarding (in my head I think of it a bit like the GCSE bitesize course run by the BBC!) Let’s face it, if everybody, self included, was more involved in their community, we would be a lot less alienated, far less divided and therefore a step closer to solving the global problems.

A Speck in Their Eye, A Log in Our Own

A bit of a rant:

I am absolutely sick of people tutting and ahhhhhhhing when watching the news or even in the streets, at Islamic women who wear hijab, especially in this country.

First of all this issue is complex. I am sick of this oppressed Islamic women bullshit. It is a gross oversimplification to simply assume that they are wearing these clothes against their “true” will (presumably the will that they are too scared to speak because their violent narrow minded husband will beat them for it). Oh, we think, they must look around at us westerners with such jealously, with our freedom to wear ‘whatever we want'. Not quite. These kind of smug “concerned” attitudes are just as racist as any other stereotypical line of thinking. The truth is that Muslim women often wear these clothes as a personal choice, and for many different reasons: to show solidarity with other Muslims, because they feel it is a personal and meaningful religious obligation, because it gives them an increased sense of security and freedom, because they feel it is the modest polite thing to wear or, god forbid, because they like the style of dress and countless other reasons.

Yes, some women are pressured, sometimes even forced to wear Hijab. When Hijab isn’t a free choice I do have a problem with it, I believe that everybody has a right to choose what they wear in the morning, and if a woman is threatened and feels restricted because of hijab then it is surely wrong. But, before we get on our western high horse that whinnies pity, why not take a look at our own children? I see girls around town aged 12 and 13 struggling to walk in a straight line and without pain on their faces because of the pressure our culture puts on its women to get used to a life of walking in heels, even at such an early age. Although it is often argued that these ‘heels’ are there to empower us to make us feel taller and stronger, in reality often have the effect of making us weaker, more vulnerable, less free – have you ever tried running in them, or walking a long distance? If worn over a long period of time, high heels cause structural damage to a woman’s skelto muscular system, and can often cause great problems with walking in later life. Yet, the cultural pressure to wear these shoes is enormous. Going shoe shopping, the ratio of heeled to flat shoes in many shops is probably about 20:1, girls who don’t conform are often called dowdy or unfashionable, and the advertising budget for shops that stock nearly only these styles of footwear must run into the billions, often only targeting teenage girls. Sure, we don’t say, ‘wear heels or we’ll cut your feet off’ but the fashion monster we have created for our girls and women to slavishly follow is often as strong in its dictatorship as any Shiite regime. All I’m trying to say is, before you feel pity for the woman all in black, look at yourself, or at your own girlfriend, wife or daughter and think: are we really that free?

Secondly

If I have to hear the phrase ‘When in Rome….’, accompanied by a meaningful eye roll aimed in the general direction of Muslims in this country who continue to speak in their mother tongue, socialise with each other and wear traditional dress I will scream! This phrase usually comes straight from the mouths of people who have an air-conditioned house in the heart of the expat community in Spain. There, they speak not a word of Spanish, eat fried breakfasts in English themed bars, walk around their small Spanish villages half naked scaring the locals half to death with their blistering lobster skin. If they don’t actually own a property themselves like this then they would certainly aspire to, or don’t object to English people behaving like this. There is such hypocrisy in our culture. Rich English people moan about the 'immigration problem' or 'Pakis taking over' whilst simultaneously swarming across the continent wrecking local economies and communities by buying up countless properties and behaving with a blatant disregard for local values, all in the name of a good tan and unlimited sangria.

The immigrants who come to Britain on the other hand are (usually) working hard at all the shit jobs we feel are beneath us. They are cleaning our hospitals, emptying our bins, sweeping our streets, even caring for our parents in old people’s homes. They are generally living in all the lovely substandard housing this country has to offer and are keeping our economy alive. Can we really say that our own countries migration patterns are having such a good effect on the local economies? True, we don’t always live in la la liberal land where Mr and Mrs Khan arrive in the street and invite the Smiths down the road over for a chicken bhuna where they bond over Manchester united and the state of youth today. Yes, there are integration problems. But this story has two sides and lets take a look at ourselves for a change, have we as the “Smiths’” made much of an effort with our new neighbours? Have we strove to educate ourselves about their heritage, languages, customs and their genuine beliefs? Have we gone around with a cake and an offer to help them settle into the neighbourhood? And really, as hosts and natives, isn’t this traditionally, sort of like, our duty? After all, aren’t we the ones who after our six month cruise around the world said: “I loved that little village in the mountains, the locals were so welcoming, so friendly. They would have done anything for us.’ Yes, we are happy to take and value other culture’s hospitality, but when it comes to welcoming people here, we are generally renowned for being lazy, antisocial and rude.

In a nutshell: I am sick of the hypocrisy in this country. I’m not saying the Islamic community doesn’t face issues and we don’t have the right to comment, but it is so easy to see the problems in other cultures without even stopping to criticise our own. Maybe, just maybe, we should shoot the pitiful high horse, renounce this fake moral high ground and concentrate on getting our own shit sorted before we point the finger.