Saturday 8 June 2002

On the Edinburgh-Glasgow train: I only seem to write diary entries in transit ...

We had some good news this week: an agent in New York wants us to do a US tour in the season 2003/04. I suspect there a few more hurdles to jump before it becomes a firm reality in the concert diary, but it's a great encouragement nonetheless. After hearing about this on Thursday, Marie and I were back at the Scottish Arts Council to talk about what kind of projects they might or might not support that same year. Their entire system of music funding is about to be shaken up, but no-one knows how, until the Scottish Executive make some decisions about how much money they have to spend. So it's a frustrating and rather confusing process right now for all concerned, the SAC included.

It seems like musicians everywhere in Britain are talking about last weekend's rock gig at the Palace: for the record my favourite bits were ... Joe Cocker, the Abbey Road medley, Cliff (honestly - it was great to see him surrounded by musicians rather than showbiz people), Ozzy, Dame Edna telling the TV floor manager where to shove it on air while introducing Macca, and the grin on the cameraman's face on the palace roof as Brian May played the national anthem in front of him. But most moving was Brian Wilson clearly enjoying himself with his band of expert musos. Mark Fisher has kindly got us tickets for Wilson's gig in Edinburgh next week, and I've been preparing for the experience by downloading mp3s of the great unfinished Beach Boys album, Smile - lots of little musical fragments that give a tantalising glimpse of what might have been, if Mr Wilson had just stopped being stoned out of his box for long enough to work out how to finish it! A warning to all those who think that getting spliffed up helps them to be creative: it's fine if you want to spend your entire income on unnecessary studio time ...

Anyway, I've just done yet another RSNO gig with Petrushka. It was straight on with no rehearsal today, which was pretty scary, particularly in the Usher Hall where it's quite hard to hear what's happening elsewhere on the stage. In those circumstances you have to learn to pick out sounds from the wash of orchestral noise very quickly: it's a skill that impresses PA operators, who are used to, and generally tired of, people demanding very specific levels of every instrument in their monitors. When you've got used to interpreting the mush that comes across the stage of an acoustic concert hall, having anything at all coming out of a speaker at your feet is sheer luxury.

I may have been interpreting the mush wrongly, but it didn't feel like a particularly good gig, and I made a complete arse of the solo in the Dance Russe (an Eric Morecambe: the right notes, but in the wrong order).  As I came off I said to Garry the conductor 'Sorry, I just went for it and it was nowhere' - 'Don't worry,' he said 'I did this piece with Peter Donohoe and he was nowhere too'. Funnily enough even on Donohoe's recording with Simon Rattle he doesn't manage to get all the notes ...

I've just been out in the garden - at 10.30pm there's still enough to daylight to sit under a tree and enjoy some peace and quiet.  So there I was minding my own business, when a fox trotted past minding his. 'Hello' I said, at which he stopped, arched his back, and tried to work out what to do next.  When he eventually went back through the hole in the hedge, I looked over the fence to see him and his two mates, patiently watching and waiting for me to go away so that they could use our garden as a thoroughfare east.  I wonder where they're going.