Jon and Libby

And so to Hanley, a town described by Wikipedia as having a name derived from either "haer lea", meaning high meadow, or "heah lea" meaning rock meadow. Given that green spaces are sparse and rocks of " monkey dust " are plentiful, it seems rude to accept the former over the latter. Before I left for the Potteries, I weighed the gig bag. 19lbs. No wonder my hips and back hurt the day after I lug it about. If anyone mugs me, they'll never be able to run off with Libby.  Marjorie, my ever-faithful satnav, had expertly guided me through the maze of bypasses and roundabouts despite the traffic to The Electric Tentacle at The Captain's Bar. Trudging from John Street car park (closing time 23:30), I glanced at the time. 6:06pm. A bit early, but for some reason I hadn't felt like eating my tea before I left. The Captain's Bar is about 200 yards away from Victoria Hall, where back in 1983 I saw Gary Numan play. It was my first ever gig and it was

This blog entry is potentially the hardest to write. It's about a very special kind of nothing. Not even the absence of something. Just nothing. If it's about a feeling, then what is this feeling? Apprehension? Not really. Ennui? Partly. Excitement? Oddly, yes. Being at a loose end? Closer, but not quite.  Ask ChatGPT to wax lyrical about the time between locking in your first set and playing your first EMOM slot, and it will describe the electric thrill that crackles through you, the anticipation and apprehension that bubble up from your very soul. It reads like Paul Morley at his flowery worst, circa whenever you like (he always writes like that). But ChatGPT is an idiot. Artificial stupidity. The feeling is best summed up in one word: waiting. And there's no known cure. Right now, there's no real need to compose anything, no need to arrange anything, or to produce anything. Or any real reason to design new sounds. The set is done. This is the music that will be playe

 The mercury was already well below zero as dusk descended to draw an end to November 2023. After loading up the gig bag with laptop and power supply (very important), audio interface, keyboard, mixer, collapsable metal stands, USB hub and various spare cables just in case, we trudged up the hill to the train station, reflecting on lines from "Fool's Gold" about aching backs and knifelike straps.  Venturing into Manchester city centre promises a multitude of architectural delights, blending ornate Victorian civic pride with the cutting edge. The reason is clear: Manchester is engrossed in its own seemingly perpetual reinvention. From being the actual birthplace of the industrial revolution, and later wet nursing the infant computer revolution, this city's taste for innovation and change is borne of its revolutionary roots. Any notions of waiting to hear what London thinks are routinely abandoned and surpassed with Mancunian ingenuity and an attitude of "I'll