Category: Archive

Er, I don’t suppose anyone reading this is going to the Sons & Daughters/Clor gig at the Nottingham Rescue Rooms tonight, are they?

I’d hate to give you the impression that I have no social life, but none of the usual gig-going gang could be persuaded to come along to this one, and I do prefer a bit of company at these things.

God, that sounds tragic.

Well, if you’re down there this evening and you spot me – down the front, left hand side of the stage as you look at it, somewhere around the far corner of the bar, pint in hand, guilty fag in mouth (they’re my only company!) – then please do feel free to march up and introduce yourself.

(Please note that the preferred form of address is: “Oh my God you’re TROUBLED DEEE-VA you blog is AMAAAA-ZING I read you ALL THE TIME!” I shall then graciously acknowledge your presence, dipping my head bashfully as if to bury my face beneath a non-existent Lady Di fringe. Them’s the rules. Don’t get out a pen and paper, though; that would just be unseemly.)

…and, judging by the two pages of handwritten notes which I made last night, it will be very long, and very rambling. Unless I hire an editor between now and this evening, that is.

In the meantime, here is a picture of some cows.

(Image taken from K’s moblog – oh, did I not say?)

As part of Stylus magazine’s special B-sides week, the UK Singles Jukebox team (of which I was once a member) were asked to cast aside the new releases for once, and to turn their attention instead to a bunch of recent-ish B-sides. More specifically: cover version B-sides.

Having resigned from the team earlier in the year, I was delighted to be asked to re-join it as a Special Guest, for one week only. (This made me rather feel like Farrah Fawcett-Majors re-joining Jaclyn, Kate and “new girl” Cheryl Ladd for a “special episode” of Charlie’s Angels.)

Settling down to review all fifteen tracks last night, I was quickly reminded of just what a tough gig it is, producing reviews for such an intimidatingly music-savvy readership. (They’re not like you lot. I can’t just toss out semi-informed drunken bitchy rants and hope to get away with it. Oh no.) Painful memories re-surfaced, reminding me of just how much blood I used to sweat over those damned singles reviews, perched over the kitchen table for hours at time on Sunday afternoons, snapping whenever the phone rang, or if friends dropped round, or if K had the temerity to walk in on me. (“How dare you try and boil a kettle! I AM CONCENTRATING!“)

However, five hours later, and just ten minutes before the submission deadline, I was rather pleased to discover that, for the first time ever, I had managed to bash out reviews for every single track. And this morning, I was absolutely thrilled to discover that, also for the first time ever, Stylus had seen fit to use every last one of them. Ding dong, full house!

(You do need to remove the first “effortlessly” from the Sophie Ellis Bextor review, though. How slapdash.)

I cannot remember a time when life (inner, outer, same difference) felt so frustrating, and yet also so full of possibility. I could be approaching a crossroads. It is all very… interesting.

I embrace change, I embrace change. Based on past experience: do I heck as like. But keep saying it, and it might start sticking.

Something within me is slowly being unlocked; the rusted mechanism creaking, as the shiny new key turns.

Ooh, DEEP.

Oh dear. As this was the first date of Dylan’s UK tour, and as the concert finished less than two hours ago, I might very well be in the awkward position of Scooping The World with this little report. Never have I felt so ill-equipped for the task in hand.

Because, you see (and random Googlers might want to stop reading right here), I’ve never been what you might call a Dylan fan. Oh, I fully respect his position in the iconography of popular music, and I recognise his vast contribution to blah-di-blah-di-blah… but, well, I’ve just never been able to form any sort of meaningful emotional connection to his oeuvre. It’s the voice, you see. And what I perceive as an unfathomable aloofness. His work kind of intimidates me, what with its Immense Cultural Significance etc etc… and the sheer reverence in which he is held doesn’t help much, either.

Maybe it’s because I’m a child of Punk, forever kicking over the statues.

Or maybe it’s because I’m just too damned shallow. Where’s the fun, the wit, the sexiness? By rights, I should stick to being waspish and flippant about the new Madonna album. Hey, I know my place.

Also, I’ve had a few.

But here goes, anyway. Don’t say you weren’t warned.

I had primed myself for two possibilities. Based on what I had been told about his past form, either Dylan was going to be electrifying, incandescent, converting me in an instant… or else he was going to be an embarrassing sloppy mess. And I was ready for both. Hey, at least embarrassing and sloppy could be interesting, right? Heroic failures often can be. I’ve seen enough past-it wrecks in my time to know that.

But what I wasn’t prepared for was polite, efficient, bloodless blandness. Bar-room boogie. Pub rock. The sort of stuff that might have been all right down the Hope & Anchor in 1975. Think Eric Clapton. Think Dire Straits. Well, quite.

It wasn’t just me, either. Everywhere I looked in the Arena, people just seemed to be sitting there, slightly absent half-smiles on faces, occasionally popping out for pints from upstairs. No-one looked engaged, ignited, transported. Even the nostalgia factor wasn’t really kicking in. Lukewarm applause, even at the end.

(A predictably bitchy word about the audience, because I can’t help myself. Never in the past half decade have I seen so much high-waisted denim gathered together in one place. And I swear that every teacher and social worker within a fifty mile radius was in there tonight. If they had dropped a bomb on the venue, then all Pastoral Care in the East Midlands would have been wiped out in a trice. I know, I know. The comments box is that-away, folks.)

He’d started well enough: a rousing, rocking Maggie’s Farm (Thatcher Out! Say No to the Poll Tax! Ah bless, he knows what country he’s in!), followed by a stirring The Times They Are A-Changin’ – the latter bringing tears to my eyes, as I connected with the collective shared histories in the room, and remembered the song’s profound and enduring generational significance.

Oh, but then, but then. Was it just unfamiliarity with the material (quite possible, I fully admit), or did dull album track really follow dull album track, in a stodgy wash of “tasty licks” and snooze-inducing noodling? By the time we got to the interminable “jam session” that was Highway 61 Revisited, my eyelids (and those of my merchandising manager Rob) were drooping.

At which point, admittedly, things did start to pick up, as the band expanded their repertoire to include some more delicately worked country blues, playing around with the basic template at long last. At the same time, there was a discernable intensifying of emotional focus – a shift in the dynamics, which lifted me out of the Land of Nod and even got me vaguely twitching, so far as the unpleasantly cramped seating would allow.

I should do my duty, and furnish you with some specifics. Dylan played the entire set seated sideways on at his keyboard, in a black suit with red trimmings and a wide-brimmed black gaucho hat. He didn’t play guitar at all, and I think he only used his harmonica the once (mercifully, I must confess). His five-piece backing band wore matching beige suits, not terribly well fitted, with some of them sporting similar headgear to Bob. The drummer was the weakest link, we thought: too perfunctory, too mild.

Dylan’s voice sounded great, though. Never a fan of his 1960s folky whine, I like the cracked quality that age has bestowed; it lends a expressive range (well, comparatively speaking). Diction: good. Not excessively drawled, but surprisingly clearly enunciated, and delivered with a pleasing intensity. Why, I could even make out whole phrases at a time. This helped.

About ninety minutes in, after an unexceptional mid-set filler (I was miles away), the music abruptly stopped. Blackout, silence. Then the lights came back on, revealing Bob and the band lined up at the front of the stage. Huh, that’s it? Interval time maybe? (Rightly or wrongly, I had expected a marathon.) Comprehensively wrong-footed, the crowd were slow to cotton on that this was in fact Encore Time.

Encore Time, then. Like A Rolling Stone had us on our feet, but still the atmosphere fell several yards short of Exultant Mass Communion. (Of course, Dylan had long since ceased to sing anything so predictable as the actual melody line, preferring instead to deliver virtually the whole song in the same low-to-high interval, like an obscure Anglican psalm.) Ooh, All Along The Watchtower, MUCH more like it! This was genuinely great. I beamed, I wiggled, I bobbed, in the zone at last.

Blackout, bow, exit, applause, house lights still down, expectations high.

House lights up. Oh well, that’s that. Another icon to be ticked off the list. Glad I went, honestly. Because now I know. Dylan’s just not for me, never has been, never will be.

OK Googlers, do your worst. “There’s something happening here, but you don’t know what it is, do you, Mister Diva?” My shoulders are broad.

Update: Some other reviews of the Nottingham concert:

1. Tim Anderson, a serious Dylan fan, offers up a considered, detailed, respectful song-by-song breakdown. True “Bobheads” should head there immediately.

2. Tony Roe from BBC Nottingham was far from impressed… and the same goes for the bulk of his commenters.

3. Quick, before the article disappears behind pay-per-view: Andy Gill at The Independent thought he was OK. Four stars.

The new Madonna album is, essentially, and provided you edit out all the usual aren’t-I-just-so-uniquely-fascinating fame-is-such-a-headf**k me-me-me-ness of the lyrics, one great big, non-stop-segued, spangly-disco-balled, glad-rags-on, hands-in-the-air, yo-DJ-pump-this-party, we’re-all-in-this-crazy-ship-together, ooh-these-are-good-ones, Christ-he’s-smiling-back-have-I-pulled-or-what, sod-the-attitude-let’s-SCREAM, (well-OK-just-a-little-bit-of-attitude-then), most entrancingly transiently transcendentally meltingly beltingly everything-just-SO, sometimes-life-is-just-like-the-movies, move-over-losers-Miss-THING-has-come-to-town Saturday Night Out of the year.

(Meanwhile, my partner K finds it all a little bit “full-on”. Quod erat demonstrandum.)

It immediately makes me want to doll myself up, squeeze myself into something irresistible, and go out on the razz. Preferably in 1994, if that could be arranged. I used to be a Great Beauty! My dance card was permanently marked! Gentlemen used to queue up outside my door!

(Or else my Oh What A Lovely Midlife Crisis! nostalgia glands are being expertly manipulated by one of popular culture’s most adept operators, who has recognised that now is the time to quit with the f**ed-if-I-care experimentalism, and explicitly target her core demographic of slightly past-it party boys d’un certain age. But hey, I’m cool with that.)

If I have a criticism – and, really, it ain’t much – it’s that the opening four tracks are just so deliriously, mega-tastically TISH-TISH SWOOSH, CHUG-CHUG THUD, UNHHH-UNHHH, WALLOP-WALLOP WHEEEE, that what follows must inevitably suffer by comparison. But it’s only a slight sag. The plateau after the rush, or something. I feel no need of further elaboration.

A prediction. At around 8pm this coming Saturday, every unattached, urban-based gay man in Western Europe and Northern America between the ages of 25 and 40 with Plans For Later On will be playing this as they get ready to go out, hula-dancing as they towel-dry, jiggling their tushes as they whip an iron over their disco tops.

Go on, ring round on the night, see if I’m wrong.

Nov 08, 2005: The Burial At Thebes (Sophocles’ Antigone translated by Seamus Heaney), Nottingham Playhouse.

Classical Greek drama in contemporary relevance Shockah! Heaney’s unstuffy new translation strikes all the right notes, and the deceptively simple staging looks great when viewed from the Circle. A tightly staged production, with almost every movement choreographed with precision; even the folds on each actor’s robes somehow complement each other. It’s only short – not much more than an hour and a quarter, no interval – but this serves to heighten the sense of concentration, from players and audience alike. Proper drama, proper acting, proper art. For once. Highly recommended, particularly if (like me) you’ve not been to the Playhouse in a while and need your confidence restoring.

Nov 06, 2005: Steak & Chips, The Cottage.

In which, under K’s expert tutelage, Mike actually cooks a proper meal for once in his life Shockah! One of the undoubted highlights of the critically acclaimed Doing At Least One Thing Each Week Which Breaks Through Mike’s Comfort Zone season, the results were little short of spectacular: succulent steak (medium rare), crisp chips (washed, drained, dried, deep fried once, drained, deep fried twice), with peas and baked tomatoes forming a simple yet effective accompaniment. Can’t cook? WILL cook! (Repeated this Sunday, 19:00.)

Nov 05, 2005: Someone You May Have Heard Of’s Bonfire Party, three or four villages away, Derbyshire.

Last year, the assembled mix of political/media types (there were a lot of fearfully earnest, distressingly handsome young men in black sweaters and tight jeans, up from London for the weekend) and stout-hearted county folk (flat caps, rosy cheeks, sensible outdoor clothing in clashing colours) burnt an effigy of Robert Kilroy-Silk; this year, inevitably, it was the turn of George Galloway. Who, it has to be said, went down fighting. As the winds gathered force around him, so the great man’s flames (burning with a violent orange to match his permatanned skin) veered ever more dangerously sideways and up-field, towards the merrily jeering throng. A few minutes later, the transubstantiation from bonfire to flame-thrower now complete, the effigy was spitting hot fireballs above the heads of the rapidly retreating guests, and sending showers of sparks flying all over them, as they cowered in a huddle near the top fence. Standing safely below and behind, K and I could almost hear his self-righteous roar above the crackling timbers. “Yer lily-livered lickspittle popinjays, I’ll take the lot of yer down with me!”

Way back in the mists of time, when I was an eager-to-please and obsessively completist young blogger with an exciting and fast-moving sidebar (oh, we all had them!), I made a habit of providing brief descriptions of the albums in my we listen chart, which would pop up as mouseover text for each individual link.

After Firefox came along, with its pleasure-denying limit on the maximum number of characters for mouseover text, the fun ceased. (Also, to be honest, the code was a right old faff to maintain. So I’m not complaining or anything.)

However, if I were still providing these “pithy capsule reviewlets”, as I skittishly dubbed them, then they might have looked something like this.

1 (2) Tender Buttons Broadcast
Although initially abrasive/austere/unyielding, repeated listens (and a superb live show) have revealed an unexpected inclusive warmth buried at its heart. Sparse, fractured space-age-gone-wonky pop songs, as picked up by a dodgy shortwave radio from a parallel universe.

2 (5) Supernature Goldfrapp
Starts off as pure electro-glam pop, but it’s by no means not all pop. Mingling the best elements of the first two albums, Goldfrapp are finally ready for the mainstream; and I for one respect their all-too-rare lack of unseemly haste.

3 (6) Held on the Tips of Fingers Polar Bear
Energetic yet tightly focussed drummer-led contemporary jazz, scored rather than improvised, discreetly innovative.

4 (-) Feels Animal Collective
The first half is as gleefully bull-in-a-china-shop bonkers as their previous Sung Tongs; the second half is quieter, dronier, more expansive, and (in the nicest possible way) vaguely prog.

5 (10) Coles Corner Richard Hawley
Old-fashioned orchestrated balladry (Roy Orbison & The Bad Seeds?) with a lugubrious, tender-hearted sentimentality; texturally fantastic, even when the songs wear a little thin towards the end.

6 (29) The Magic Numbers The Magic Numbers
Having largely left me cold for months (they promised me warm California sunshine, not dour indie-lite Camden drizzle), something is finally clicking. Maybe it’s the sheer class of the songcraft, as it emerges, shaking its mane, from that woolly heap in the corner.

7 (3) Chavez Ravine Ry Cooder
Its first half affectionately celebrates the vibrancy of a long-vanished Los Angeles community, now buried by bulldozers; its second half is an extended elegy for it. Both halves are equally ravishing.

8 (8) Ceasefire Emmanuel Jal & Abdel Gadir Salim
North Sudanese veteran meets South Sudanese rebel rapper, in the name of national unity. Initially disappointing (I’m so over African hip-hop), but this is now slowly sneaking up on me.

9 (13) Noah’s Ark Cocorosie
Sorry, got to say “fractured” again. Like a faulty musical box from a Victorian penny dreadful, as exhumed by a pair of New York arthouse Wyrd Sisters. Features Antony from the Johnsons, if that’s any indication.

10 (7) The Rough Guide to Franco Franco
You can’t have a serious African music collection without a bit of Franco for historical perspective, you know. Them’s the rules.

11 (9) You Could Have It So Much Better Franz Ferdinand
It’s all a bit routine, isn’t it? But not without its charms. Then again, I’m biased (sigh).

12 (28) In the Heart of the Moon Ali Farka Toure & Toumani Diabate
Despite being more than a tad Incidental Music In New Age Gift Shop, these improvised guitar/kora noodlings are beginning to find their place – even if that place is mostly in the background, over a nice piece of chicken, with puy lentils and an agreeable tangy reduction.

13 (1) Orientation Thione Seck
Recorded in Dakar, Paris, Cairo and Bombay over several years, this ambitious spiritual cousin to Youssou N’Dour’s Egypt is nothing short of a masterpiece. Best heard loud, through bloody good speakers.

14 (22) Clor Clor
Herky-jerky-quirky power-pop, of the Futureheads/early-XTC variety. I’m seeing them in a couple of weeks, supporting Sons & Daughters.

15 (-) Without You Masters of Persian Music
A perfect atmosphere-enhancer for the Monday morning drive back to Nottingham, as dawn breaks over Carsington Water and the dark silhouettes of the geese rise over us in airborne shoals. You wouldn’t think it, would you?

16 (16) Stars Of CCTV Hard-Fi
Ee, there’s hope for the younger generation after all. All across the land, fortysomething dads with Jam and Specials albums in the attic are beaming with approval as they pass their sons’ bedroom doors. And why not.

17 (-) Come & Get It Rachel Stevens
Frisky, intricate, sophisticated electro-pop, all but wasted on dull FHM-babe cipher.

18 (11) Kitty Jay Seth Lakeman
Foxy twentysomething dude from Dartmoor breathes fresh new life into boring old folk Sensation! Recorded in bedroom! Mercury nominated! (See also Spiers & Boden.)

19 (18) Legends of East Africa Orchestra Makassy
Twenty years old, still sounds marvellous, contains first African track I ever bought (Mambo Bado).

20 (25) Ruby Blue Roisin Murphy
Her out of Moloko, as produced by Matthew Herbert. Some have slagged this off for being a bit Smooth Jazz Wine Bar, but I beg to differ.

21 (17) Crying at Teatime Alfie
Just as I finally get round to buying one of their albums, they go and split up on me, due to “lack of interest”. Bah. Lightweights. They’ll be wanting a living wage next.

22 (4) Dimanche à Bamako Amadou & Mariam
Proper pop stars in France, where Manu Chao’s production influences must have helped nudge them into the mainstream. Sure it’s Crossover, but “authenticity” has always been overrated. Unquestionably the soundtrack to our Summer, and still on light rotation even now.

23 (19) The Understanding Röyksopp
It hasn’t made the same waves as its rather more stylistically unified predecessor, but there’s plenty of goodness here none the less.

24 (12) Humming By The Flowered Vine Laura Cantrell
I wouldn’t normally go for this sort of thing, but she was great live, like Nanci Griffith before she went Cheesy Showbiz; 14th Street is especially lovely.

25 (21) A Certain Trigger Maxïmo Park
“Solid” guitar band, who have hooked me in a way that so many of their 2005 contemporaries have failed to do. (Hello Bloc Party!) There’s nothing wrong with “solid”, you know. Same goes for the Doves, if you must know.

Primarily for the benefit of the attendees, this is a brief memory-jogging précis a near-as-dammit transcription (I just can’t help myself) of the talk which I gave to the Creative Collaborations “Your writing sucks” conference on Thursday morning.

“I am a blogger.” From guilty grubby little secret, to something which wins “networking opportunities” at boutique hotels.

What is blogging?

Impossible to answer concisely (“dead air” on the Radio Nottingham breakfast show) – as for every rule an exception – BUT:

– reverse chronological
– short articles
– usually a single author
– frequently updated
– most recent article at top, older in archives
– most link to other blogs – “community” or loose network of overlapping communities
– most allow readers’ comments

Produced via standard software:
– free, easy (no tech know-how, can get started in 10 mins), portable (no special software, just need browser and line)

Background.

Term dates to late 90s.
Started appearing from 1999 onwards – small self-contained group
cf. bursting of dot-com bubble
– “ants scurrying amdist the rubble of the dot-com crash”
– loss of original spirit of web (egalitarian/pioneering/enabling) – attempt to redress the balance
– Need To Know: “THEY STOLE OUR REVOLUTION/NOW WE’RE STEALING IT BACK”

Defining moment: 9/11
– bush telegraph (“so and so is safe, such and such is sealed off”)
– oral history (“we were there, this is what it felt like”)
“Big” media/old media interest – endless “discoveries” of blogging – mixed +ve/-ve reaction

Audience/reach.

Technorati says 20.5 million
…but most are “dead” sites
Better estimate of “active” sites: 3 or 4 million?

Vast majority have tiny readership, c.3-20 regulars
Big media says “you’re failures” BUT these sites are INTENDED this way
– online diaries, cf. letters, round robins, Xmas newsletters
– small ring-fenced network of buddies, eg. Livejournal/Myspace, teens/early 20s, “my parents don’t understand/school sucks/Green Day rules“, bad Gothic angst poetry

Other end of scale: tiny number with readership in thousands
Especially in US – phenomenon more mainstream
Top few have 100,000+

Rest of us float around somewhere in the middle
Troubled Diva (TD) has 650-750 visitors a day
(notably less at weekends: I’m your coffee break/water cooler moment)
c.30% through search engines
c. 200-300 regulars who “follow” the blog
Quite high for UK – BUT – successful UK blog = #39 in Albanian singles charts

Subject matter.

95% online diary/journal, but few of the big hitters
Next most popular: political.
– reaction to 9/11
– few left wing or party political
– many libertarian or “hawk” re. US foreign policy
– politicians (Boris Johnson)
– commentators: journalists (Stephen Pollard/Melanie Phillips) & many wannabe journos!
– can be dense/complex/difficult to plot on trad left/right axis

Celebrities (Moby/Streisand/Paul Daniels/Scott “Dilbert” Adams), but cannot engage with readers due to remote status – so in “blogosphere” perspective, marginalised figures

Special interest: music, MP3, hand-drawn, photo, sports, creative writing, business/marketing, web design, web punditry, sex, food, knitting, God…

Confessional aspect.

– depression/divorce/sexual misdemeanours etc etc
– cathartic for writer, car crash rubbernecking for readers?
– “online disinhibition effect”
– liberating effect of screen: confession booth/heart to heart with friend/therapist
– “I’m insignificant”/”no one will find me”
– OH YES THEY WILL!

Many, many examples
– people have been sacked (“Dooced”)
– sites closed abruptly
– own experience (unfairly bitchy account of posh lunch party, found by friend of the hosts)
– assume that they WILL find what you’ve said, don’t say anything wouldn’t say to face
– stick to being rude about politicians/celebs: that’s what we pay them for!

OR… stick to YOURSELF as subject
– hence criticism “bloggers are self-obsessed”
– goes with the territory

My own category… “personality” bloggers.

Not usually categorised as such
Sink or swim on attributes of writer’s personality
That’s what hooks readers & brings them back
Not always WHAT we write about but the WAY we say it
Can you take a day where nothing happened, and still make it interesting?

My own blog – background.

Started 4 years ago by accident/curiosity/desire to imitate (Single White Female)
No clue what to do with it at start
Friends & family not interested
Started getting comments, leaving comments, others reading my comments, checking my site, if they like it they stick around
Unexpected alternative audience of strangers, small but growing
Dsicovered “blogrolls” (lists of favourite blogs, kept on sidebar)

My defining moment: 40 in 40 days project
Autobiographical 40 day series
Established a readership
Found my voice – or had I? – considered, “writerly”, literary aspirations

As time went on, relaxed this voice
– more pseudo-conversational, immediate, rough & ready
– “first draft”, doesn’t HAVE to be polished (written in gaps during the day, time pressure)
– may look crap in print, but not intended for that – immediacy part of charm

Discovered blogging heirarchy, “A list”, blogging awards (The Bloggies)
– horrified – against egalitarian principles – “they’re not all that”
– or jealous?
– then nominated myself this year
– volte-face, “so glad my dear friend so and so is nominated”, like pigs at end of Animal Farm
– but we evolve!

Success of blog – mentions in press etc – largest pressure – stage fright/”stats vertigo” – visualise 3 or 4 people in room, now a whole crowd

Finding of own voice.

Whole medium geared towards it
INSTANT – INTERACTIVE
Idea for post – one hour later it’s published – one hour later there’s comments – instant feedback
Know exactly how people are reacting, all the time
Can monitor stats – like stock exchange index – can dip, then strong content makes them rise again (we all check them!)
Can see when blog is linked by others
– or individual posts are linked
– or when added to/removed from blogrolls
I engage my readers
– talk to them, e-mails with them
– read their own blogs

…I KNOW WHO MY READERS ARE

Therefore can precisely target content, BUT more sub-consciously than overtly
You simply learn to write with your audience in mind

Not all bloggers take this approach
NME indie band: “we just do what we do & if anyone else happens to like it, that’s a bonus”
I’m the opposite!

BUT… at the same time, write with YOURSELF as audience
– the sort of blog YOU’D want to read

so a kind of happy serendipity at work

also… ITERATIVE.
Most blogs don’t hook you in at first read
Takes time, repeated visits, build up picture of writer, want to know more about them.

AUTHENTICITY valued highly in “blogosphere”
(even if content filtered through persona – jokey, drama-queeny etc)
– blog readers are constantly sifting/evaluating – making quick judgements
– sharp antennae, can easily spot fakes/wannabes
– remember: not in it for the money, so motives are “pure & noble” / untainted by commerce
(even if we’d all jump at chance of book deal/offer of newspaper column…!)

blogs as fair online representations of personality…?
but… you tease, you don’t give it all away, people never quite feel they know you?

TD thrives on unpredictable/erratic/rough around the edges/what’s coming next?
no need for “brand consistency”
– ok to experiment/fail – failure can still be interesting

therefore FREEDOM to write what you want – no commercial pressure

“Edited” vs. “Unedited”

No editors in blogging
A freedom, but a mixed blessing?

– TD tends towards verbosity – but my favourite stuff often in the cracks/digressions/parentheses
– Written style which tends to the over-stuffed, chaotic, sentences running away with themselves/being reined back in the nick of time

Blogging as presenting UNEDITED version of self
– spend a lot of time in real life holding back
– at work, in social situations with people who don’t share my interests/pre-occupations/world-view
– blog is where I can say what I want, without being interrupted
– eg. musical interests / interests not shared with partner

Thus blog audience is self-selecting
– virtual social life?
– differences between real/virtual friends
– can be loyal, can be fickle, come and go
– cocktail party analogy: mingling, forming/dissolving groups/cliques
– “darling it’s been wonderful talking to you, but there are some interesting people over there whom I simply MUST meet!”
– good strategy for absorbing rejection!

We THINK we know each other, but do we really?
– building a strictly controlled (idealised?) image of self – witty / urbane / fascinating etc
– Walter Mitty syndrome? (bored office worker vs personality blogger)

Thus is it fairer to say we’re presenting EDITED versions of self?

Conclusion.

Blogging as obsession
– constant voice in head / inner tabloid journalist on own life
– “ooh, can I blog this?”
– friends: “Mike, you’ve got to blog this” / “Mike, please don’t blog this!”

But if you can harness obsession, rewards can be great

Blogging has made me – 43 yr old office worker – successful on my own terms for first time ever
– reconnection with ability which lay dormant for years
– re-configuration of sense of identity
– has given much needed confidence

So… having started at random four years ago… I’ve ended up standing here this morning… slightly mystified… but hugely grateful.

Footnotes:

1. To read some more points of view regarding “finding your voice” as a blogger, take a look at the comments box at the end of Wednesday’s post.

2. During the Q&A session, I was asked to recommend some other blogs. These were: little.red.boat – JonnyB’s Private Secret Diary – Guyana Gyal – Naked Blog.

3. Towards the end of the afternoon session, I mentioned an recent instance where corporate creative writing had spun out of control: the Barry Scott/Cillit Bang incident. You can read more about this incident here, with a follow-up here.

4. Further reading (didn’t mention this on the day, but it’s really excellent, and relevant to the whole day) – gapingvoid: how to be creative.

5. Here’s a guide to the most linked UK weblogs (from within the blogging community) in May 2005.

Update: 6. Here’s a write-up of the whole day, written by Jess (who I met at lunchtime).

“I could have danced all night, I could have danced all night, and still have begged for more. I could have spread my wings, and done a thousand things I’d never done before…”

Oh, my darlings. I simply had the most wonderful day!

It was, I have to say, a huge relief to be billed as the warm-up guy. Plenty of time to be forgotten about later on, if I turned out to be crap. No time to sit around stressing myself out, unable to concentrate on the rest of the proceedings. No chance of being unduly influenced in style or tone by my fellow speakers. (I am, as I’ve said before, highly prone to Zelig-style tendencies.) Instead, I just had to get up there and bloody well Do It.

I’m not an experienced public speaker. Indeed, the last time that I addressed an audience was over six years ago – and that was at a funeral, so it wasn’t what you might call a usefully analagous experience. But the thing is: once I get over the hump and make the commitment, public speaking is something which, given more regular practice, I could probably do quite well. Deep down inside, I’ve always known this. It was good to be reminded.

As K advised me the previous evening – just in the nick of time, as I was seriously sweating by then – I didn’t make the mistake of over-preparing, and instead managed to strike the right balance between comfortable familiarity with subject matter and overall structure, and the flexibility and space in which to extemporise and elaborate, wherever the fancy took me. All of which meant that – joy of joys! – people actually laughed at my quips and bons mots, which hadn’t been laboured to death in advance. (Because I did feel that laughter was probably the best way to kick-start the whole event.) Why, I even had my hands in my pockets at one stage. There’s casual!

OK, so I did grind to a shuddering halt on one occasion, about two thirds of the way through. But people don’t pick up on that sort of thing nearly as much as you think they’re going to, as I learnt from doing that short series of podcasts over the summer.

As I spoke, the front page of Troubled Diva shone proudly behind me, on a giant screen (this being one of the benefits of holding the conference in a cinema), to a degree of magnification so great that even people on the back row could read the opening paragraphs of Wednesday’s craftily constructed post, complete with its Yo Broadway! shout-out. All I had to do in addition was to hit the F11 key, for Full Screen mode – thus bringing the all-important Troubled Diva coffee mug into view, at the foot of the screen. Other speakers may have had books to plug; all I had was my merchandising tat, so plug it I was bloody well going to do.

(Before commencing my speech, I did suggest that if people got bored, then they could always read the blog, and stick their hands up when they were ready for me to Page Down. Maybe there was a sea of hands, and I didn’t spot it. I don’t like to look at audiences too closely, in case I make eye contact and weird out.)

Honestly, it felt so good. Not only that: it felt so right, so natural, so Me. (The last time I felt like this was while I was writing the Eurovision preview piece for Time Out magazine.) I’m an IT consultant, working on “legacy” software for a car manufacturer; I don’t get the chance to hang out with other writers. And from what I later gathered, many of the self-employed freelance writers attending the conference don’t get much of a chance to hang around with each other, either.

Maybe that’s partly what accounted for the disarmingly lovely atmosphere, which pervaded right throughout the day. My worst fears were availed: instead of being confronted by an intimidating crush of brittle, pushy schmoozers – all networking furiously, whilst glancing over each others’ shoulders in case someone more important passed by – I encountered nothing but openness, friendliness, supportiveness and encouragement. Who knew?

Many thanks to Jeanie Finlay for recommending me as a speaker, and to Gareth Howell (Digital Arts Forum) and Ben Afia (26) for inviting me, and for organising such a splendid and rewarding event. It was also great to see Richard J. again (we’ve been out of touch for way too long), and finally to meet Clare, who has been reading this blog almost since its inception.

Oh shit, I really did promise to post my lecture notes, didn’t I? WHY DO I SAY THESE THINGS? Sheesh. Well, soon come. Ish.

I shall now go and have a nice sit down, while I attempt to get over myself.

Tell you what: let’s jump in at the end, and work backwards.

During the main afternoon session, we were asked to undertake various “automatic writing” exercises:

“…to get words flowing instinctively and creatively, to get us to commit to the written word whilst silencing that inner voice of self-doubt; to appreciate our own intuitive and individual response to words, ideas and stories. Be prepared to write without thinking…”

As someone who struggles with Bloggers’ Block on an all too regular basis, this was a hugely enjoyable, liberating and confidence-boosting way of spending a couple of hours, and there was enormous fun to be had in sharing our efforts with each other.

A couple of examples for you. Following a complex process of word selection which I won’t bother you with, we were tasked with writing a short piece about our four chosen words – mine being Elizabeth, Edinburgh, euphoria, and elbow-pads. However, there was an added, devilish twist: every word in the piece had to begin with the same initial letter as the words selected. And we only had two minutes.

Following a sudden, glorious flash of revelation, this is what I came up with.

‘Ello! Elizabeth ‘ere, entering Edinburgh. Eh, Edinburgh’s effing excellent! Excited? Ecstatic! Eww, embroidered elbow-pads everywhere – entertaining! Easily emptiable, especially erotic… ‘eavenly!

Next, we were charged with composing a short story, containing exactly twenty six words. The twist? Each word had to begin with each consecutive letter of the alphabet, starting with A and ending with Z. Again, just two minutes. (Or maybe it was three.)

This was my favourite exercise. As my effort works best when read out loud, I’ve recorded the results onto a short MP3, which you can listen to here. Alternatively, you can read the story in the comments box.

Finally, we were divided into pairs and asked to collaborate on another short story, by passing a notepad back and forth between us… but one word at a time, with no conferring. Our workshop leader warned us that this might be a frustrating exercise, with each partner trying to pull the story in different directions. Happily, our team’s experience was quite the opposite. Despite never having met each other before, and despite not discussing what we were going to write in advance, we found ourselves constructing a miniature political satire, with a level of synchronicity that bordered on the spooky. (Mind you, there were a lot of Meaningful Looks.) Here’s what we came up with. (I provided the first word; my partner’s words are in italics.)

Yesterday, David and Tony declared they loved Americans. “We think Americans are gorgeous!” Never hesitating, both men embraced Condoleeza, who visibly cried, clutching them jealously. Government officials confirmed that they had a filthy menage à trois.

If you attended the conference yesterday, then a) hello and welcome to Troubled Diva, and b) if you fancy sharing the fruits of yesterday afternoon’s labours with my lovely and supportive “community” of readers, then please leave them in the comments box below.

I’ll tell you how my talk went a bit later.

Oh God.

Oh God oh God oh God.

It’s tomorrow.

My therapist and I have decided that I should commit to performing at least one activity each week that will take me outside my comfort zone. For instance, I made myself change a ceiling lightbulb yesterday evening, even though I had to place both my feet on the very top step of the stepladder, with no additional means of support.

Despite being so scared that I felt physically sick, I managed to do this. And it felt good.

But look, isn’t that enough to fulfil my weekly quota? I changed a lightbulb, for crying out loud! So do I really have to speak for fifteen minutes (plus another five for questions) tomorrow morning, in front of an audience who have paid good money to hear me wittering on about Troubled Blithering Diva?

After all, I don’t want to run before I can walk. Small steps. And any other Putting One Foot In Front Of Another metaphor that may or may not be appropriate.

Oh, do drop the faux drama queen act, Mike. You know perfectly well that it will all be fine.

Because – and here’s the thing – given the choice between climbing to the top of a ladder, and giving a talk in front of a bunch of strangers, I’d rather give the talk, every time.

Tell you what, readers. Shall we put that Iterative And Interactive Grassroots Online Community Building Paradigm Wotsit into practice, right here, right now? (Hmm, needs a bit of work. I’ll get it tickled up before tomorrow.)

Take a look at this, from the publicity material for the conference:

“Finding a voice is the key to engaging audiences in any form of creative writing. Whether you’re writing for a specialist audience, putting your own life into words, or developing believable characters. The writers in this panel write for different audiences and media and will share their varied techniques for bringing writing to life.”

The key element here – and possibly the unifying theme for the whole day, from what I can gather – is that phrase “finding a voice”.

So, tell me.

• Has blogging helped you to “find a voice”? And if so, then what sort of voice have you ended up with?
• How did the process take place? Was it a natural process, or did it involve trial and error?
• Would it have been a different sort of voice if you weren’t writing on a blog?
• If you do write elsewhere than on a blog, then do you slip into other tones of voice which suit the medium in question?
• Or is the whole idea of adopting a “tone of voice” mere poncey bullshit, because you write straight from the heart (man)?
• Or is your writing voice is basically the same as your conversational voice, because you don’t believe in masks (man)?
• Do you deliberately adopt tones of voice that you know will play well with your readership?
• Or do you just (deep breath) do it for yourself, and if anyone else happens to like it then that’s a bonus?

Tell me, do. And if I run out of things to say and need to pad my speech out a bit your contribution is sufficiently interesting and worthwhile, then I might quote you tomorrow morning. (Yeah, I know. Lazy bugger.)

On Friday, I’ll be posting a transcript of my notes for the speech, primarily for the benefit of the course attendees. Well, it has to be better than sending them all to sleep with Powerpoint slides. (Is it just me, or does the very sight of a Powerpoint slide send anyone else off into an automatic catatonic trance?)

Wish me luck. Although, to be honest, I’d rather you answered some of my questions.

As long-standing readers will know, I haven’t altered the basic visual design of this site since Spring 2002 – when I abandoned the last vestiges of the original Blogger template, in favour of the symphony in mauve which has come to define my brand.

To be honest, I might never re-design Troubled Diva. There’s something about it which works for me – and I still find it visually satisfying, even after all this time. It’s a “busy” look – and as such, somewhat out of fashion – but then I like busy-looking blogs, stuffed full to bursting with a myriad of clicking opportunities. They make you feel like you’ve landed in the middle of a swarm of activity, or something. Also, I like to have as much content as possible accessible by a single click, with a minimum of sub-pages.

Besides, design really isn’t my strong point. Having devised something which works, I have become almost superstitious about tampering with it, lest I break the spell and dissipate the essence.

Having said all that, I love it when other bloggers – equipped with the requisite skills and enthusiasm – re-design their sites in fresh new ways, whilst still managing to retain whatever it is which constitutes their core identities.

Bugger, I’m over-selling again.

Anyway, two of my regular reads – Gordon McLean and Pixeldiva – unveiled their new looks today, and I’m mightily taken by both of them. I especially like the way that Pixeldiva has chosen to blend her words and pictures, and the way she has chosen to display her comments.

(Besides, if I redesigned Troubled Diva then all the merchandising would become instantly redundant, and we could never allow that.)

Thursday 27th.

Installed our super-duper new cordless digital phone (Panasonic, John Lewis), which we bought to replace the crap so-called “digital” phone with the constant buzzing noise and the hopeless sound quality (BT, Dixons, half an hour of wrangling to get a refund).

(Hmm, maybe we don’t need to go to quite this level of detail. Otherwise we’ll be here all week. They’ve got all my mother’s stuff to wade through as well, remember?)

Met an old friend for a meal at the Kean’s Head pub in the Lace Market. Catering to a polite, well-heeled older crowd (as evidenced by the music: The Stranglers’ greatest hits at a discreet volume level, oh how times change), the Kean’s Head was Nottingham’s first ever non-smoking pub.

For the benefit of certain establishments on St James’ Street who are currently making grandiose claims to the contrary (blackboards on the street, the full works), I’ll repeat that: the Kean’s Head was Nottingham’s first ever non-smoking pub. (And just round the corner on High Pavement, the Cock & Hoop was the second.)

Until last night, we hadn’t seen our old friend for nearly two years. We’re seeing her again this evening (early evening pint at The Gate in Brassington), and again on Sunday (picturesque autumnal hike twixt the mellowing and ripening hues of the Peak District National Language, hem-hem descriptive language that should go down well at the la-di-da “writers’ conference” next Thursday I’ll have that book deal now please). With us, it’s famine or feast. ‘Twas ever thus.

Wednesday 26th.

Woo, political comedy! To the Nottingham Playhouse, to see Rob Newman and Mark Thomas.

Now, I’m OK with political comedy so long as a) it reflects my own particular prejudices back at me and b) it actually remembers to be, you know, funny. The first is easily achieved, as there are in fact no successful right wing (or even Blair-ite) comedians that I can think of this side of Jim Davidson (or even Ben Elton), thus PROVING that MY LOT ARE BETTER CHEERS CHEERS HOORAY THE ANGELS ARE ON OUR SIDE. The second can be more of a hurdle, as evidenced by the dreary box-ticking orthodoxy of your Mark Steels and (sorry to say this) your Jeremy Hardys.

(We saw Hardy perform a particularly hang-dog, lugubrious set last year, which mostly consisted of him moping on about how depressed he was about the war in Iraq. Fine, but YOU’RE A COMEDIAN, that’s what it SAYS ON THE TIN, and we’ve come out to HAVE A GOOD LAUGH AND CHEER OURSELVES UP, blinkered dupes of the system that we are.)

Thomas and Newman succeeded on both scores, with Thomas (despite his best efforts) only managing to offend me twice: by making a cheap crack about the size of Charlotte Church’s arse, and by DARING to slag off, for NO VALID REASON WHATSOEVER, the daytime television GODDESS that is Auntie Lorraine “Hooray for Eurovision! I love The Gays!” Kelly. Scratch his right-on surface, and you’ll find that he’s really quite the unreconstructed Geezah underneath.

(My much-valued readers from overseas, are you following all of this OK? I’d provide explanatory links, but time is tight.)

Newman, on the other hand, was impeccable. Having chosen a diametrically opposite career path from his erstwhile comedy partner David Baddiel, he has turned his back on stadium-filling mega-stardom, and is now to be found delivering eloquent, erudite, well researched, factually rich salvos of brain-spinning polemic, as filtered through an arch, dandified, deceptively insouciant persona which charms as it impresses as it provokes. (Precis: European foreign policy towards the Middle East has consistently been all about controlling the oil supply, ever since the start of the First World War; but when the oil runs out, we’re all going to be seriously f**ked. Boom! Boom!)

Tuesday 25th.

Our fifth anniversary of moving into the cottage (and thus also of my last ever wild night down at Trade). Five years ago, I could never have predicted that what was intended merely as a weekend bolt-hole would eventually come to feel more like home than our place in central Nottingham. This is a massively welcome development, and all credit to the village itself for facilitating it; for there’s no doubt that we live in a special place. If this is middle age, then God knows what I was worrying about, as I careered recklessly (and frequently shirtlessly) through the extended mid-life crisis that chewed up most of my thirties.

To the cinema, to watch Wallace & Gromit: The Curse Of The Were-Rabbit. Wholly delightful, but you don’t need me to tell you that. So disarmingly charming and inventive, that not even the distinctly ragged, under-developed plot denouement could shift the big grins off our faces.

Monday 24th.

Absolutely sod all of interest happened on Monday. Work, telly, bed. Yes, let’s stop there.

(Oh, but I did call up my mother, in order to read her all of your lovely kind comments, which both stunned and delighted her. So thank you for that.)