Studio Dreams

I just fell asleep and had the weirdest micro-dream…

I was watching the Presonus Dude do some mixing thing on YouTube when I fell asleep and my brain kept listening and built a whole dream around it.

DREAM: I’m in a version of my studio but it’s huge. This dude who looks vaguely Jake Busey in a threatening manner is stalking around my studio, moving keyboards around roughly and pulling out cables that are audio live. This causes realistic clicks and bangs and very unrealistic actual small explosions and arcing cascades of sparks.

All the time, he’s giving a running commentary on how to record / mix vocals and keeps singing at me, “Look how farrrrr we’veeee commmmeeee!” and then tweaks another bit of my gear and sings it again. It’s like he’s tuning the studio for his own personal use!

I’m following him around, trying to grab things off him and then I stop him and start shouting that I DON’T NEED VOCAL PRODUCTION LESSONS and I know how to setup a mic, whereupon he just starts running round faster and HE’S CHANGING THE EQ CURVE ON MY BLOODY GENELECS by flicking the DIP switches.

I grab his hands and I’m shouting in his face, all the time he’s looking at me, singing, “LOOK HOW FAR WE’VE COME!!!” and then I wake up.

I was sooo angry he was messing up my studio and simultaneously insulting my vocal production skills.

Still angry now. Wanna stab a motherfucker.

Old (F)Art

(Commenting on this post)

This is the joy of being old and, in particular, of being an old artist.

During this lockdown, I’ve started streaming music production sessions ( and have had some wonderful interactions with musicians 25, 30 years younger than me.

They’re at the very start of finding their own voices (sometimes literally) and I’ve been doing this a long time now. I know who I am artistically and how I want to say things even if I’m always searching for new ways to connect and improve my art.

All it takes is some support, a few kind words to really help a young artist. They may not have a supportive peer group, they may not have a supportive family.

That’s why I think it’s important that artists always try to pass their experience on to those coming up. For me, I want to open musicians / producers up to different ways of thinking about sound design, about composition.

EVERYTHING is out there, it’s a wonderful universe of creative possibilities

Ten Colours Red

Just took this quiz and here’s my results.

For the optically minded out there, this is how bad my eyes are: 

Sph: -8.00 Cyl: -2.75 Axis: 178

Sph: -8.25 Cyl: -3.50 Axis: 179

Right: +1.50
Left: +1.50

Aided VA
Dist: 6/5 Near: N4

Dist: 6/5 Near: N4

BVD: 12.0

Sooo, it’s good that at least I can see colours well. That might help me, post-apocalypse when I’ve fucked my glasses Burgess Meredith-style as long as the edge of the cliff is a *slightly* different red to the waiting chasm. 

I’m In Horny Jail

I was trying to post a nude pic to one of my sideblogs on here and WHOOPS, posted it to my Facebook instead. (I’ve been tired, leave me alone.)

So, facebook has put me in horny jail and I am not allowed to post anything for another nine hours yet. I feel soo… nonplussed? I don’t feel chastised as much as I’ve got a severe frowning from an elderly nun. 

I’d post the hugely offensive image on my primary blog but we all know what being horny on main gets you. I’ve only just got out of Tumblr titty prison and I don’t want to go back to my cone of shame avatar again. 

(But if you do need to see the pic for.. er.. reasons, it’s here -> )

Enjoy! But please do remember that naked women are the source of all evil and corruption in the world so you may want to domestos your eyes after, better safe than sorry, eh? 

Stratford With Nat


Nat and I were trying to think of somewhere to go, not too far to drive and that neither of us had visited before. She picked Stratford-upon-Avon and we had an awesome day out on Wednesday!

I guess I should confess that I was prejudiced; I expected a very corny, soulless, tourist-trap of a town. What we actually found was one of the loveliest places either of us has seen, a town that brims with independent eateries and other businesses, vibrant streets bustling with life even during these Rona Madness times. Top points to the lovely lady running the Magic Alley shop whose friendliness was matched only by her love of Farscape esoterica.

We walked, we sat, we ate our own weight in the tastiest pastries I’ve had in years. If you get a chance to go, GO!


We’re two months in, here in the UK. 

For those of us with pre-existing mental health issues, Rona has laid an extra layer of FUD on us. Reach out. In my region (the Midlands), try TRENT PTS for online counselling. Don’t feel you’re going on or that people are bored of hearing about your mental health, don’t suffer needlessly. 

For those of you who were previously okay in terms of mental issues, your current suffering is valid, is important, don’t feel like you can’t share it or also reach out. You may never have done this before, you may be worry about being stigmatised. Please don’t – if you need help, please try and get some. 

All around me, my friends are in pain and feel lonely. I phone / Zoom them but that can only do so much. We’re a species that should be sitting around, snacking on berries and grooming each other. The way you punish a human is to put them in solitary. 

Things are frayed, I’ve gone a bit asocial and had to apologise for being stilted and weird in convos. And my normal personality is a bloke who goes alone on stage with an acoustic guitar and invites 200 strangers to listen to him sing for forty minutes. I am not shy normally. So, if I’m feeling the effects, I can only imagine what it must be like for the actual shy people out there. I’m sending you hugs in particular. 

Be kind to people. Cut them some slack cos we’re all going doolally. Send your friends a card or text or some chocs or whatever. Let people know you love them. Give them a virtual boop on the nose. x

I Miss My Dad

Four years ago, my Dad died.

Last night, I dreamt about him. The dreams were calm, it was like he hadn’t died and he was asking how I was while he was reading a paper and smoking his pipe. God, I used to love watching the whole rigmarole of him patiently cleaning, filling and then smoking his pipe. When I was little, I’d always nick his pipe-cleaning penknife and marvel at the assort of prongs and teeny scrapers.

I told him about the girl I’m in love with and showed him pictures. His comments were perfectly him: “Well, she’s very pretty! If she has a brain, too, she may be good for you. Be careful you don’t lose her!”

I’ll try not to, Dad. I’ll try.

When I woke up, I thought, ‘oh, I should give him a ring, have a chat!’ And than I remembered I couldn’t. It was that liminal moment between dream and reality where everything slumps back down on your shoulders and a small storm of despair rises and falls in the space of a second.

So I had a cry and then got on with the morning; the routine of showering, shaving and then trying to remember the good, happy times with him.

He really was the best Dad ever.