Stuff that matters

 

The Kardashians don’t matter much, unless you’re a Kardashian, that is. Or one of their 400 million close, personal friends. The result of sports games don’t matter much, unless you were involved in the said games. 90%* of the stuff we do, especially around social media – doesn’t matter at all.

Last night, I was asked to speak/sing at the One Percent Collective’s Generosity Sessions, in support of the Neonatal Trust. For those who have no clue what that is, think babies born too soon, babies born sick, think incubators, unthinkably tiny hands and feet, think ridiculous sadness and hope and love all rolled onto one. This area of medicine, like so many, is under-funded and under-resourced, so they rely on the goodness of others to help. So when I was asked to help, I agreed immediately.

First to speak was Dr. Max Berry who is Consultant Neonatologist based in Wellington. The stuff she does matters. She took those gathered on a stormy, hideous night, through the struggles and triumphs of working in a world where so much is yet to be understood. It would appear they operate on the best knowledge that they can get their hands on, passion, commitment and the sniff of a (barely) oily rag. That this exceptional woman spends much of her time raising funds, as opposed to being exceptional – makes no sense whatsoever.

Then there was Emily Writes. Mother/Blogger/Author/Bogan. She tells a story like no one I’ve ever had the privilege to listen to. She was funny, touching, dark, realistic and refreshingly honest as she told us of the struggle she and her husband (Hot-Hataitai Gardener-Guy) had bringing their son Eddie into the world. There were few dry eyes in the room. Her work matters a lot, and I now know why 35,000 people follow her. Make that 35,001.

How the hell do I follow that? My speech went out the window.  What could I add to it?The reason I was invited was because in 2012, I wrote and performed a song called “What you don’t know” at the Neonatal Trust’s provocative production “Project Born.” It was written from the perspective of a father who visits his premature babies at the hospital morning and night and goes home to an empty flat to eat his cold baked beans out of a tin. What made this particular song special to me is that my daughter Lily, aged 12 at the time sang backing vocals on the session, and at the beginning of it, the sound effects are those of my wife Sam’s sonograph when she was carrying George (who will tell you that he is now “5 years and 10 monfs”). Most recently, as part of Points for Purpose, we have decided to support the Neonatal Trust, so I dusted off “What you don’t know” and – with a voice chilled by nerves, the southerly blast and the strain of holding emotions at bay – I gave it my best. It was croaky, emotionally charged, but honest.

 

I followed it up with Innocent & Wise, and I’ve never, ever been so proud of a song. I knew as I wrote this song that it was good, but I never knew just how much I would enjoy performing it. In that setting, talking about generosity and about stuff that matters so much to so many, Innocent & Wise was a story of hope, honesty, respect and resilience – much like the journeys neonatal families face. I sat IN that song. I didn’t over-sing it. I didn’t need to try, – I just told the story the way it was supposed to be told, just like the speakers before me had told theirs.

Last night mattered, and I made a mental note on my drive home with the assistance of an urgent southerly wind – to matter more. Thanks to Pat from the One Percent Collective, to Neil and Justine from the Neonatal Trust, to Max and Emily.

Emily Writes                      www.emilywrites.co.nz/

Max Berry                           http://www.otago.ac.nz/healthsciences/expertise/profile/?id=1263

Neonatal Trust                   http://www.neonataltrust.org.nz

One percent Collective     www.onepercentcollective.org

 

*This figure has been arrived at through the exacting powers of the author’s hunch, and should therefore not be quoted under any circumstances.

 

 

4 Sessions to sanity – R.I.P Liz

Tonight I was googling a counsellor I knew, because I wanted to recommend her to a friend. Actually, she wasn’t just any old counsellor, she was the one that helped me to realise that I was perfectly normal during a period of sustained plot-loss in my early 20s. Sadly, instead of contact details for Liz, I found her death notice.

Gutted.

Let me set the scene: it was the early 90’s, I had big hair, big potential, big plans – and ultimately – a big crash.

Turns out that media isn’t the best industry to be involved in when you’re a bit loose up-top, a touch vulnerable, if you will. Turns out that doing the graveyard shift isn’t great for your wellbeing. It also turns out that you shouldn’t tow a large promotional sign on a trailer down narrow streets, especially one which behaves like a sail in Wellington’s wind.

This stunning photo was taken mere months before Liz worked her magic. Big Hair. Big stripes. 

I was lurching from one idea to the next to try and get myself sorted, until one day I found myself standing toe to toe with a stranger, going through an excruciating exercise where you have to look directly into the eyes of the said stranger for 2 minutes. (Try it, it’s just so, so wrong.) As part of these sessions, we were encouraged to share. So share I did, by saying something like:

“I’m going to be fired from my job tomorrow.” At which point the love poured forth from the other developees “no, it will probably be a pay rise” “be positive, and it will be a positive outcome” “let light into your heart before you go into the meeting, and the light will”…..

 

 

 

I was duly fired, and I never saw those sorry fucks again.

And then, in a letter, cos that’s how we rolled back then, my sister suggested I go and see Liz Clewley. In just four sessions, from her office in Cuba Street, this lovely-woman-who-just-happened-to-be-an-occupational-counsellor opened my eyes to what was going on in my world: I was trying to live the life of the potential me as opposed to the REAL me.  Worse, I was being hired (then fired) based on this potential version of me. Yes I was clueless, and yes I was useless (my words, not hers) but I was not on my own, apparently loads of people at the same stage of life are equally inept.

I will remember for as long as I live, the feeling of relief when, after a particularly gruelling role-play session where I had a heated conversation between the two warring versions of me, I uttered the words “but I’m not ready!!!!!”. At which point Liz, in her quiet way, told me our work was done.

Years later, I heard Liz Bowen-Clewley on Radio New Zealand as I was driving home from work. I decided to let her know what she meant to me. I hand-wrote a letter to her, included a copy of the Whirlwind CD, and thanked her from the bottom of my heart for setting me free all those years ago. She replied saying that, although she couldn’t recall the sessions, my letter was perfectly timed as she was having her own crisis of confidence in her career, and it had given her the courage to carry on.

It felt good to be able to help the helper, and to have given my thanks while I could.

So Liz – thanks again, I’m doing ok.

Liz Bowen-Clewley

 

Angel in Black Boots

 

This is perhaps the most feel-good song I’ve ever written. Which is a big thing, because I don’t tend to write big feel good songs. I try, but they mostly end up wistful. But this one – it’s got the big hooks, the big chorus and ever since the release of Toasted, it has been a crowd favourite.

The song came about in an unlikely manner. I was due to go into the studio in Hoxton Square, just to the East of the City of London (well before Hoxton became cool, of course) to record my first album. I had signed to Colossus Records, and was being looked after by the long suffering Chris McNabb. I took a week off work at my job as a copywriter in Soho Square at TMP Worldwide, and on the day before the recording was to begin, I got the flu. You can hear it in every song from that session.

 

The Scene Of The Crime

At about that time, Travis had released the pop classic “Why does it always rain on me?”, and I remember being remarkably jealous. Its easy delivery, the fantastic harmonies, the huge hooks, and just the fact that it is just so bloody singable – pissed me right off. And inspired me. So, on the morning when I should have been going through the songs we had to work with, I sat down in the waiting room and wrote Angel in Black Boots.

To be honest, the song is the very definition of an insecure creative throwing his toys. I remember my wife had suggested to someone at school that her husband wrote the odd song and wouldn’t mind at all writing something special for the said school. THAT SHE SHOULD ASSUME SUCH A THING!!!!! WITH MY ART!!!!! Sam, at the time, had a pair of decent black boots that she wore with her combat trousers (as one did) and I decided that she was stomping heavily around my precious music/art.

What a dick.

I can’t remember if I wrote the song for the school or not, but I do know that I needed a solid clip around the ear for being such a pretentious little so and so.

The song was recorded in the little studio by a Scottish bloke we called “Teeth”, mainly because his gnashers weren’t exactly in tip top condition. There wasn’t enough room for a drumkit, so we found the sounds in a computer, and I remember there seemed to be a lot of love for the less than dynamic drum beat which props the song up. It was decided that it must have been a one armed Irish drummer lurking somewhere in the ancient Macintosh (Cos that’s what they were called then) computer that played drums on Angel in Black Boots.

It was no easy song to sing, either – especially with a lung full of flu. Fittingly, I tend to leave the song till last on my set list, to deliver the realistic rasp that was going in Hoxton all those years ago.

Cold. Wet. Dank. That’s the memory of the studio in question. And the toilet. Oh the toilet.

A surprisingly good example of the toilet facilities in the Hoxton studio.

The kitchen wasn’t much better, and as the music geeks gathered around the aforementioned Mac, speaking the arcane language only known to those who know what they’re talking about – I set about cleaning the cups and saucers to ensure we would have a disease-free week.

 

In the end, it was a really fun recording process, and the end result is that I still get people telling me that this song is a favourite.