Ginger Says – None of us would be here now if it wasn’t for this fucker
By Ginger | April 17, 2001
So I got home late Easter Monday from a weekend away having shite-loads of drunken fun in the country. Tired, and more than a little bilious, I nabbed a quick look at the weekend’s mail before catching up on some much needed kip. I saw something about Joey Ramone dying on Easter Sunday and drifted off into a peaceful sleep, interrupted only by dreams of being a kid and getting into a love affair with my first band. Yeah, I loved KISS when I was a child-sized-kiddy (in the way a kid loves Superman, though I personally couldn’t stand the fucker myself), and I later loved Motorhead for the simple reason that they played louder than anyone I’d ever seen before, and they were also British, therefore guaranteeing me a ticket to see ’em live at least a few times a year… but Ramones?
Well, it was vastly different. For a start, I already looked like one of them. Secondly, they played ‘pop’ which I always thought was much more ‘punk’ than pissed-off-sounding. And they had long hair (which I also saw as being ‘punk as fuck’, y’know? I mean my mother wanted me to have short hair!). They also shared something with KISS in that they didn’t have a dodgy-looking member in the group. They all looked like Ramones. They were also the only band that sounded exactly like I imagined them sounding, purely by looking at the cover picture.
I can’t count the amount of times I physically stood up for Ramones in those ‘whose band are the coolest’ situations. No one I knew liked them, which kinda made them even more of a find. I used to get the piss endlessly taken for, supposedly, “looking a little like Joey Ramone,” until irony struck and I got one of South Shields’ first known (to me anyway) blow jobs from a cute lil’ Ramones fanatic because I “looked a little like Joey Ramone.”
My first concert in London was Ramones. I sneaked into the venue via the girls’ toilets. My first band played Ramones covers. You could sound good playing that shit because they played at roughly the same standard as you. As years moved on, my love for Ramones grew as large as the holes in my jeans. (Dunno how, but my jeans also always went at the knees first – stop yer sniggering at the back).
I kinda lost them after Subterranean Jungle, and consider Pleasant Dreams to be their last truly great album (hey, I’m older than you, remember?). But classic videos for I Wanna Be Sedated (new version) and Psychotherapy kept me hanging on like the fan I always was, waiting for them to get their sense of humour back. Sadly, they turned into a Heavy Rock band and I stopped buying their albums – there were too many po-faced bloody rock bands filling up the 80’s, y’know? Still, after all these years I could look at photos and still get a rush (like that recent Mojo magazine spread with the ‘ripped jeans’ cover), and I never missed a concert if I could help it as Ramones were the greatest live band of all time. Their crowd were the most fucked up looking bunch of misfits ever to peacefully share an evening together. And Joey just got more and more bizarre, continually reinventing the English language until Blitzkrieg Bop became ‘Blleeeeeeeeeeee-bup’.
I was lucky enough to actually meet Joey Ramone at a Backyard Babies show in New York when The Yo-Yo’s were supporting. He had enough time to talk to every fan that had anything to say to him. I thanked him for being such a huge inspiration both visually and musically, and Danny shouted / sprayed into the side of his head how “none of us would be here now if it wasn’t for this fucker – no one is fit to lick his shit.” He stood patiently, showing not the slightest concern, or fear, about this pissed-up, tattooed Geordie yelling into his ear in a language that must have resembled dogs barking mixed with live Joey Ramone-isms.
Joey was a very rare thing in this business. A smart, talented and unique music fanatic, living out a dream until his last day alive.
Hey Ho.
Death is only the beginning. Play the records and have a drink for him when you come see The Wildhearts in June. You wouldn’t be there, we wouldn’t be there, had he not been there before us.
For everything. Joey Ramone, you will never be forgotten.
Ginger
Ginger Says – Alcohol And Girls
By Ginger | April 6, 2001
There really is nothing else, is there?
I woke up this morning (cue blues riff) and the world was getting in my arse something rotten. Bills, debts and general badness abounded about my existence. ‘Fuck this’, I thought, ‘let’s hit that bottle of Absolute and fuck it all. In fact, fucking fuck it all. Fuckers. They can get a sober man down, but a pissed up Geordie… no fucking way baybeehhh, just no fucking way’.
Got myself drunk as a lord and the first of many things happened.
Sanctuary Management placed a bill in my hands for services rendered for the silly figure of £18,000 (er, did I miss something? I thought they didn’t get me signed or earn me a single penny? What a wonderful business!). Now, as you in the real world know full well, this kind of money doesn’t exist. It might as well be £18 million – I’m going to jail, y’know?
Then I got a call from Nikki Sixx who said that he loves the SilverGinger 5 record (hey, ya gotta check this out) and wants to sign us to his label. And guess who wants to close the deal? Sanctuary America – the same people that issued that extortionate bill to me this very morning!!!
At this point I’m thinking, ‘there is absolutely no reason for getting wound up about anything, just get drunk and see how it all looks from that side of the bottle’. See? It’s easy. You don’t need smack, you don’t need crack, you don’t need nothin’ that’s gonna get you arrested. Drink, it’s your friend. And a fucking good friend at that.
Then my girl comes home and puts it all into perspective. She says (and take this in, it’s a blinding piece of advice): “Do the right thing and it will bring you good luck.” She was so right that I had to pour myself a new drink.
DO THE RIGHT THING.
If you’re a good person, and aren’t fucking over anyone that didn’t deserve it, you will be paid back in justice. Why? Because there are millions of people not doing the right thing; trying to break people’s balls; making the less fortunate suffer for their enforced supposed superiority; booking themselves a one way ticket to Hell. And believe me they are going right there. No drop offs, next stop fire and punishment.
Me? I’m gonna be up there where the grass is green and the girls are pretty, and God is gonna say, “well done young man, what a bunch of wankers!” See, God fucking hates cunts. And cunts make up the majority of the world… therefore Heaven is a place with free tables and good service.
Justice will be seen to be served. As it always has… you just didn’t notice.
New solo singles, tickets for Wildhearts shows selling swiftly, SG5 finally getting the attention they deserve (maybe?) and realising that your girl is the greatest thing to happen to you since you came kicking and screaming into this world. What more could anyone want?
Well, I’ll tell you what I want. I want you lot going fucking mental in June. Acoustic shows, SG5 shows, Wildhearts shows – it’s enough to make you cry. I don’t feel like I’m in a band. I feel like I’m in a gang, and there are hundreds of us fuckers!!! Power in numbers? You’d better believe it.
Someone emailed me the other day saying that my heart wasn’t in this. The guy must live on an island in the middle of Dickville! No one knows exactly how me, Danny, CJ and Stidi are feeling at the moment, but it’s real and it rocks. It’s a free bar. And it’s vibrating like an epileptic woodpecker. It hurts. And it feels like life.
Timing? Alcohol? Girls? ROCK ‘N ROLL? Fuck it all and let’s party like we invented getting high! Shit man, know how cool this Summer is gonna be? Think about it, then times it by hundreds, and it feels good, right? Wrong!!! You don’t even know, because you haven’t ever felt like you’re going to feel. You only know how you have felt, and that example is only there to be improved upon. Fuck, I can only thank God that he didn’t put me here in the last generation and had me miss all of this shit.
Gotta go now, I’m scaring myself. Life is fucking beautiful and hard as fuck. Would you want it any other way? Yeah, me neither!!!
Rock fucking absolutely ROCKS!
Peace, love, alcohol and girls
Ginger
Ginger Says – I’m in love with the rock ‘n’ roll world
By Ginger | March 19, 2001
Hey, hey, hey… so it all happened as laid down in the hopeful rantings of last month’s intro. Funny what happens when you commit yourself… or, if you like, ‘careful what you wish for’.
Gotta admit, the response from the news that The Wildhearts are to reform was quite frankly ridiculous. Men openly weeped, women openly weeped, sores openly weeped… and the UK was once again a cool place to be.
Well, the news this month is that the line-up has been completed by Stidi on drums, recreating the magic line-up of the classic Earth Vs The Wildhearts album. So that’s three Geordies and a southern, shandy-drinking nancy puff (just don’t tell CJ that I said that or he’ll kick my ass).
There looks likely to be an available slot for The Wildies at this year’s Bulldog Bash, as well as a tour in June, from 15th to the 20th. Just a short one first. Got to get the lube oils dripping again.
The band got together in ‘full line-up mode’ (for the first time in nearly ten years) on Friday 16th March to celebrate the completion of the first of my ‘solo’ singles (remember the 12 singles in 12 months plan? It has begun… and we don’t even have 12 months to do it in. Oh man, the impossible gives me the fucking horn). A small party was held, post-recording, at the studio… resulting in the warmest bout of mayhem I have had the pleasure to witness in a long, long time.
Man, I’ve missed these guys so much it really does feel good… y’know, like a band! CJ even supplied backing vocals on a couple of tracks, while Stidi played drums and SG5’s ‘Random’ Jon Poole carried out his bass workout in suitably impressive style. Fuck, can that boy shred! Hey, even Alex Kane turned up to torture some guitars. Is there anyone out there that doesn’t love this guy? Well, if there is, you’d better keep the hell away from this here site, buddy.
The final decision about which song to call the A-side was made at about 1 pm on Monday 19th March. When four tracks can all stand up to each other face to face, eyeball to eyeball, and like mad dogs fucking it’s imposssible to pull them apart, then the final decision is just to pick the one that rocks the most, a kind of sonic flip of the coin. And the victor is a belter called I’m A Lover Not A Fighter, a song originally written for Backyard Babies (with Dregen in mind for vocal duties) and inexplicably passed upon. Have a listen and tell me that it rocks harder than a crushed diamond enema. Put another way, you wouldn’t turn it down… so neither did I!
So the B-sides on the CD single look likely to be Same Again (an alcoholic prayer) and Don’t Let Me Die Lonely (a romantic’s plea, originally written as an A-side, which lets you in on the quality here). Add to that a vinyl single featuring the B-side Thailand Uber Alles (written during my stint in that Bangkok pokey) and you should be due to wipe that saliva dripping from your chin right about now (please note that there’s been a change of plan regarding the vinyl. See 21 March news – Ed). Recorded nice and quick and featuring more hooks than a New Order bassist look-alike competition, you could say I’m quite proud of this, the first wee step in making the impossible seem merely fun.
And just when you thought the fun has to stop somewhere, you remember where you are and open another cold one… SilverGinger 5 look certain to appear headlining one of the Metal Hammer nights of mayhem going down between 4th and 9th of June. Add this to the fact that The Wildhearts have been officially turned down to appear at the Ozzfest (surely a thousand of you could send emails letting the Ozzfest know that they just lost a lot more sales than whoever else is opening up? When will these people learn? Well, pretty fucking soon I reckon, but anyway…), and you will no doubt agree that this has been a pretty eventful few weeks.
And you know what? I have a funny feeling that the next few weeks are going to make this look like time off. I’m going into the studio on 26th March to record singles numbers two and three in one shot (owing to the fact that we gotta release one every three weeks, or something), so we’re talking eight bloody songs, man. No fillers and no fat. Family-sized nuggets of sonic / melodic pleasure and eclectic charm to warm the coldest and most jaded of stereos.
2001, as predicted, is already rocking like a motherfucker… and we’re only just starting to get the blood pumping. This country is going to be rubble by this summer. The news that rock ‘n roll is the next new thing, and will be spearheaded by Europe (the continent, not the band), will be on everybody’s lips. And Popstars / Hear’Say (regardless of the fact that the oriental-looking one is fucking gorgeous… aw, come on, have a look willya?) will pave the way for us rockers to dance upon the rotting corpse of Britpop shouting “I’M IN LOVE WITH THE ROCK ‘N’ ROLL WORLD”.
You only have to walk down any high street known for its fashion to see the proliferation of ‘flame’, ‘dice’, ‘number 13’, ‘devil head’, Coop- / Kozik-style shirts to tell the trend, feel the fad, and see the style of summer. It’s all coming back, boys and girls… and it’s all coming back home.
Drop that guitar a notch or two on that strap, make sure that shirt matches those shoes, and lose that fucking beer belly… sex is coming. Oh sorry, I meant to say SEX IS COMING… SEX IS COMING… SEX IS COMING… SEX IS COMING… SEX IS COMING… SEX IS COMING… SEX IS COMING… SEX IS COMING… (Blimey, that’ll improve our chances in search engines – Ed.)
And don’t forget who told you.
Songsmith, band leader, baby machine and fortune teller?
I love my job(s).
Ginger
Ginger Says – How to rock and when to roll
By Ginger | February 22, 2001
So I got pissed off with the way things were run. So I made some changes to the way that things were done (good line, right? OK, you can have it).
I got off Sanctuary management because they were just too big, too blind to the needs of the small guy. A great management company for some people, y’know? Just not for me. Too old fashioned. Times change, and management companies have less and less to do, and more and more to gain. Artists take less maintenance these days, due to the fact that most of them are as fucking boring as waiting for milk to boil on a candle-powered fucking stove. People in bands just tend to be a lot more boring than me. I’ve gotta move on. Gotta make waves… and waves are most definitely what I plan on making.
Over the next 12 months I plan on making up the lost ground that I’ve sacrificed over the last 12 months while I’ve been sitting here waiting for the corporate world to recognise that taste has a place in music. A labour of love and unrecognised ideals… and it fucking sucks. The majors are out. They have no style, they have no substance (Maria McKee cannot get a record deal, in a time where ‘Popstars’ has the media’s undivided attention… this is the truth, people!), and they have no balls. So, what are we to do?
Well, I know what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna fight. And I am gonna fight with my strongest asset at my disposal. My music.
Things are gonna happen.
There is talk of an acoustic album, recorded back when I played the 12 Bar Club (in Denmark Street, London, WC1), being released in a double CD package to coincide with a spate of acoustic gigs around town(s) to welcome this magnificent affair to the lives of the fortunate. And if that ain’t enough, there’s also talk of another acoustic show to be thrown in the faces of an agreeable audience, sometime in May, to be called something like ‘The International Hillbilly Cousins’. It’s set to feature me and the mighty Jason Ringenberg of the mighty Jason & The Scorchers fame (it’s funny how the people that you most respect seem to take notice of your efforts when you most need them to). This rock ‘n roll lark is definitely linked with a strong karmic- / justice-style theme that goes through every single rock and roll soul living on this here very planet. When the going gets tough the tough get active. And activity is what separates us folk from those big ugly fucking cows we see in every field that houses burgers. Big brown eyes aside, cows taste good but we rooooooool.
I will also (within the next year) attempt the death-defying feat of releasing a single every month (complete with the requisite 2 B-sides… natch!) for the next 12 months until there is enough material to make an album of A-sides at Christmas as a seasonal surprise for those unfortunates that missed the boat first time(s) around.
Then… there is the possibility of SilverGinger 5 recording our next album for Nikki Sixx’s label Americoma, with Nikki Sixx at the very helm of production responsibilities (although mentioning ‘Nikki Sixx’ and ‘responsibilities’ in the same sentence sounds a little ill-informed). This particular boat was meant to float.
Then there is The Wildhearts. Yes, you heard it right… THE WILDHEARTS.
I am so fucking bored with the pussies that constitute our rock ‘n’ roll fraternity these days. The world needs some attitude. The world needs some ugly behaviour. Where have all the bad boys gone?
I went out for a drink with Danny and CJ the other day. It was a usual Wildhearts night out. Danny had a punch up with some guy. I had a punch up with another guy. CJ smiled like a Cheshire cat throughout the proceedings. It struck me how much I had missed the mayhem that always was The Wildhearts. It struck me how much you have missed the mayhem that always was The Wildhearts. So we figured we’d get back together, do some shows and let these new fucking chancers know what rock ‘n’ roll is all about. Now, tell me you couldn’t do with the same dose of real life R’n’R that I could do with? This is serious! We are going to fuck with your world and we are going to do it around June of this year.
When the going gets tough… the tough think ‘fuck this for a lark… I’m off to do something that pisses people off fucking royally’. And in this tight a situation that’s as good a deal as you’re ever gonna need, let alone get.
There will also be a new SilverGinger 5 album out around late summer, or just as soon as someone gets their wallet out and recognises that talent and fun still belong in rock ‘n’ roll. The festivals are going to be full of me. The magazines are gonna be full of me. The radio is even gonna have to submit at some point and be full of me. Fucking me… and why not? Who else is gonna give you your daily dose of drama (sonically speaking, of course)?
Oh my brethren, and sisteren… sistren… sist… fucking chicks, we are going to dance again. We are going to sing again. We will make every night Friday night… unless it is Friday night, in which case we will of course make it a Saturday night. Or something suitable, I’m sure you will agree. Don’t worry, we’ll make it worth your while to leave the house… then you can put a fucking anniversary on the fucker. Needless to say, come summer, we will be having things on a very large platter… and that is all that matters.
Get your tents out, boys and girls, the sun is gonna be be your friend this year. It is all going to happen. Know why? ‘Cos I told you so. And that’s a guarantee. And if I’m wrong? Well, at least it wasn’t a fucking management / record company telling you bullshit now was it? You can always trust a Geordie, right?
Hey, right or fucking wrong you’ll be seeing me.
The future started yesterday.
Ginger
Ginger Says – The industry knows what flavours you will put up with for the rest of your munching lives. They know how sensitive your little stomachs are
By Ginger | January 21, 2001
Happiness. Bullshit or not? Do you believe in it? Do you sometimes think that if no one believed in it, that there wasn’t a need for it, that anyone would have bothered thinking it up at all?
Yeah, happy new year. Happy New Fucking Year. It’s a bright, new, spring-loaded, multi-purpose, big, useless fucking new year to plough through, armed only with the hope that it’s gonna be better than the last fucking one. Like the last one was better than the one before? Like fuck.
Xmas? It was fucking shite, wasn’t it? A time for family? Unless you live in a paisley and pale blue world, where everyone says hello in the hallway and Mom and Dad kiss like they’re still dating, then you’re probably with me. Xmas? A time where, if you were ever gonna gun down the population of your town on a Saturday afternoon, this would be the season. I’m not suggesting you gun down anyone, mind you… but if you are then just make sure they work in the music industry. One less asshole, right? (More later.)
Fucking New Year? Fucking fuck fuckity fuck. “Happy New Year”? When you say that, when it tumbles over your lips, does it taste the same as “I’m really sorry to hear about your recent bereavement”, or some such ‘need to say something – make sure it’s bullshit’ auto-crap? It’s bullshit and the whole world laps it up and never complains about the flavour. It’s popular. Lies disguised as conversation. It’s blah blah blah… and don’t we just fucking lap that shit up.
I can’t get signed! It’s a joke, right? Now, I’m not naming any names, but for fuck’s fucking bastard’s sake, I’m sure I’m as good / talented / entertaining (choose adjective of choice) as anyone currently making a living out of / getting signed into this business. (I’m sure you think so too… wish you were an A&R man!)
Two (I’ll run that past you again just in case you missed it… two) shows in this country. Both in London, both crammed to the rafters with people all singing along to an album that hasn’t even been released, both attended by record companies looking for a band that look like a promising proposition for a seemingly ROCK 2001, and every fucking one of them said, “Nah, I don’t see it.”
So what do I have to do? I can’t cut myself, I swear to you, I wouldn’t know where to stop.
A year ago, I suggested to the faceless mass that we will simply refer to as ‘the industry’, that the album gets released in its original form, the form it’s in now. I was turned down on the grounds that “the industry knows best.” That’s a whole year spent sitting on your fucking ass waiting for this ‘big industry’ idea to blow your fucking hat clean off yer head. A year preparing to be impressed beyond anything your meagre ‘musician’ brain could conjure up, even in its most over-driven state of inspiration. You wanna hear the industry plan one year down the line? The industry are releasing the album in its original form.
Laugh? If I didn’t want to shoot myself through the fucking face then maybe I’d find it funny, perhaps even ironic. But I don’t… I just don’t see the fucking irony, y’know. I only see hatred – pure undiluted hatred buzzing through my body thicker than the walls of the veins that it somehow manages to squeeze itself through. And thank fuck it does squeeze through too. It’s the only thing that’s keeping me walking; keeping me writing; keeping me working as an automaton in a faceless world of clueless bureaucrats counting the spoils of their last successful campaign to fob off the public with some light entertainment – the kind of entertainment that is un-hampered by the anchor that the industry call TALENT. The mere word strikes fear into the heart of every lazy fucking pig in every stinking shit-infested office that resides under the crust that is the industry. You see, careers are built on power. Power is based on ownership. And ownership is the art of manipulation. The idea of talent undermines this power at the very core of the beast.
“If the guy we are signing writes songs himself, and we don’t think those songs are going to sell [remember these people know what you want, right?], and we suggest he has a whole bunch of writers write the songs instead of him, then he is going to be offended. That is going to cause trouble, and we don’t want no trouble. Forget him. We’ll instead sign up that group that look cute and will do anything to make it – even play whole albums, whole sets, and make whole careers out of other people’s songs.”
That is what this business is giving you to munch on, boys and girls. And they know what flavours you will put up with for the rest of your munching lives. They know how sensitive your little stomachs are. See that huge wall outside? Pick up the biggest stone you can lift and hurl it towards that big ol’ wall… and listen to hear if it says “ouch”. This is your industry, you paid for it by buying their ideas. Ideas that they knew would work. Me? I’m outside of it all. Never bought Marilyn Manson. Never bought Limp Bizkit, Korn, Blink 182. I can’t complain that they suck, y’know, because I never wore the hat in the first place. Let’s face it, I don’t like the taste of cock, I can’t roll over and have my belly stroked, and I won’t be someone’s clown… unless that someone is me.
What hope in the fucking world have I got of getting signed? And on top of all that, if having self-respect wasn’t handicap enough, I have TALENT. I write my own songs, in the long-standing, and sadly dwindling, art of self-exorcism / -promotion / -preservation. I couldn’t be less attractive to a major record company if I was a rapist. (Actually, at least that would have a market… OK, OK, bad joke, but we are on the subject of bad jokes, right?).
So what do I do? Suicide is right out of the question, as tempting as it sometimes looks. (Hey, I’d probably get a Best Of out of it, though!) No, what I do is keep on going, ploughing through the mire, living off the many compliments given to me by the record-buying public that fill the pockets of this sick industry, while I struggle to pay the rent. Ironic? You couldn’t make this up! (Copyright: Darren Stockford.)
And don’t you – yeah, you at the back – gimme any of this “people would give their left arm for the gift of being able to write a song” bullshit, because I’ll rip that fucking left arm off the first person that spouts any of that “at least you’ve got your eyes” crap. Go fuck yourself. “A working class hero is something to be.” (Copyright: John Lennon.) Only someone that was once working class and had now moved on to pastures far more lucrative could write something like that. “A cult hero is something to be” (trad. arr). Same principal applies.
“Money can’t buy me love”? Then you must be really fucking ugly. Money equals success as it is the only currency that makes any sense, and therefore has any value, to the people running this business. It is the only valuable item. Everything else can be worked out. Jobs for the boys. Back scratching. What a filthy fucking business this really is. Songwriters will be killed by this business just as artists have been killed by computer graphics.
The future? It looks like there will be some kind of a future, though not one I want any part of. A future safe with blueprints instead of passion, stunt-cocks instead of artists, designers instead of style. I don’t want to be part of a world where the term ‘artist’ has ceased to apply. And I will stick around for as long as it takes for us to become fully extinct.
No longer.
Ginger Says – Since when did we get together and pay for distant friends to visit our country for nostalgia? Insulted? I know I am…
By Ginger | November 23, 2000
December it is. Xmas it will soon be. And fucking hungover we are all destined to find ourselves come December 18th. Oh, throttle my exit with the raggy end of a pineapple, yes! You see, there is something strange going down in the darkest portals of SilverGingerVille, and it looks like a keeper.
I have known, or suspected, for a long time now that I / SilverGinger 5 / The Wildhearts / stuff-that-I-do-type-thing have the best fans around. I know this is a popular concept with all musicians currently ploughing the crevices of their own arses, but I was convinced – nay sure, nay surely convinced – that in this instance it was true. And then it was proven. And that, my small but very eager and constantly gaining momentum, bunch of cohorts, is a damn good feeling. Beaten only by childbirth and / or truly amazing quality cocaine.
Not only have you, the fans, voted Black Leather Mojo top of the nme.com readers’ album chart, but you also took us to the top of the Music Event Of The Year poll on the same site, with a voting margin of 20 thousand between us and the number two slot. And just as this is settling in and making some kind of sense, they / you / the fantastic bunch that call themselves ‘listees’ (ie, members of The Wildhearts Mailing List) decide to rig the most ridiculous idea I have ever heard in all the years I have been drawn to ridiculous ideas: the Fly The Buggers Over campaign, or FTBO, which entails someone from a foreign country so far away that they narrowly avoid being extraterrestrial being flown to the next SilverGinger 5 show (this time at the London Astoria on December 17th), following a whip-round from the fans themselves to cover the cost of the flight. Yes, we all know a whip-round can help pay for someone’s make-up to be replaced if their bag gets stolen… but over £800?! This is madness, with a capital THIS IS MADNESS.
I have been floored by surprise at the sheer generosity of human spirit in the past, but never by generosity channelled purely to enable someone to see one of my gigs! And from bloody Australia! Twenty-four hours on a plane. Animals with pockets in their guts. Shit, that place is so far away it’s warm there. So, it’s official – SilverGinger 5 fans are the coolest fans in the world. Can you imagine someone disagreeing? Me neither!
I read, after the Scala show, that a lot of people were looking forward to December so that they could see the “second best gig of the year”. I read, recently, that the Scala was like a first date, but come December that crush will have turned into full blown love. And we’re talking messy love that you can smell for weeks after. To me, the Astoria has overshadowed the achievements of the first date already. There is now a common bond that, if it had existed previously, has never been put into practice. We all fucking like each other!!! Now, compare that with the current rock scene. (OK, compare it just for a second then forget about it – those miserable fuckers don’t deserve your thoughts.) We are creating something here. Something new. Something a thousand times more scary than another American cutting himself. This is an army!
That is why Melody Maker can only give the Scala show 3 out of 5, the middle score. Sitting right on that fence with their passports in their hands waiting and hoping it will reach them, rub off on them, that they will feel it, that their time will come to be happy. Yet never really expecting it. Preparing themselves for the inevitable fall. The inevitable fall? Well, if you will go shopping with pennies, you will come back with jumble. And they actually wrote in that review, on the subject of the audience “how many will maintain a vigil when nostalgia gives way to more radical needs?” (copyright: Pippa Lang). Who is she talking about? What is more radical, in this day and age, than things that the very people she is writing about are actually doing for other people? Since when did we get together and pay for distant friends to visit our country for nostalgia? Insulted? I know I am… but not enough to override the sadness I feel for this poor journo that had to sit through one of the most joyful nights in recent memory, and force herself to have a bad time! Oh man, you can’t imagine how much that must hurt.
And there we have it, ladies and gentlemen. We are on a quest, and the going will be rough. There are so many miserable bastards out there that will attempt to kill our fire. But we burn brighter and for longer… and we touch people. And we help. We are few compared to the unhappy millions in this country, but we can invite them onboard… and we can fill the fucking Scala theatre without so much as an advertisement, let alone an album release!!! And, hopefully we can fill the Astoria. And if we do, we will have made history. Again. Our own version of the way the books should be written in the future.
Oh man, if any of you are looking forward to December 17th with the same zeal as I am then I salute you. If you are all looking forward to the Astoria this much then this ain’t no gig… this is a fucking rally. We are the future. This is good. Can you feel it? Can you feel it, I ask you, my brothers and sisters, CAN YOU FEEL IT?!!
We came… we saw… we didn’t agree so we made a few changes. Small steps first (yeah right, like flying people from all over the world), but with time, confidence and belief we will do some great things. And people will remember. So, for now, just give yourself a big fucking slap on the back because you deserve it. All of it. This is all yours. And for now all we gotta do is have the best night of our lives at the London Astoria on December 17th. We are really in this together. We are family. NICE WORLD… WE’LL HAVE IT!!! Next year is going to really fucking rock like none before.
I am so proud of you. The truly radical.
Peace, love and respect…
Ginger
Sonic Shake Appeal
By Kris | November 9, 2000
SilverGinger 5 Live at the Scala, London · 9th November 2000 · Review by Darren Stockford, photos by Clay Roberts
“If something started to go wrong, we’d just think, what would Iggy do?”
Ginger’s standing in the upstairs bar explaining the method behind his band’s madness. Two hours earlier they’d launched the starship SilverGinger in a manner so damned rude it’d have whipped the knickers off a nun given half a chance (it certainly whipped someone’s small black lacys off – they landed on stage, much to the delight of Conny and Ginger).
London has probably never seen a show like this in a club this size. With flashpots, glitterbombs, fireworks, and more bangs per minute than that fuzzy, overplayed vid you keep in the bottom of your underwear drawer, this was a show in the truest sense of the word. Even without the pyro, this would have been a spectacle of Spielbergian proportions. Great washes of white light rose up and reflected off the glitter paper that was littering the stage, making it look, from my vantage point in the balcony at least, as if the band were playing on a lake of something hot and glowing. They say that when you die and take the walk down that long, dark tunnel, you see a brilliant white light at the end beckoning you. Hmm, you thinking what I am? SilverGinger 5 are a band who’ll gladly take that stick out of your arse and poke it in your eye.
It wasn’t just the chlorine-like chemicals from the firepots that brought a tear to my peepers tonight, though (and boy, did those li’l devils sting). When Ginger threw his mic into the crowd and let us get on with it as the opening riff to 29 x The Pain started up, the Scala suddenly became a church, with music the preacher. “Give me old, give me new, let me know you feel it too.” It may have been one of the oldies as far as tonight’s set was concerned, but this really did feel like there was “a brave new world” just around the corner. “I’m up, how can I get down when I’ve got all my friends around?” Ginger gestured to the crowd and we knew exactly what he meant. Shortly afterwards, he launched into an impassioned speech, marvelling at the fact that the show had sold out without the aid of the press, promotion or a record company, and thanking the fans on the ‘Net who’d turned a dream into something he could actually touch.
Back in the bar, Ginger’s still glowing from the warmth of tonight’s show. He says that he always knew it was going to be a great night, but reading the messages of excitement posted on The Wildhearts Mailing List, and the numerous goodwill emails he’s had over the past couple of weeks, had pushed him to almost coronary-inducing levels of anticipation. There was no way that this could be anything other than one of the best shows of his life. Failure was not an option. And all, apparently, because of Iggy and the Stooges. A picture of the punk legends hanging at the back of the Scala bar reminded the band that, no matter what happened tonight, they shouldn’t let it bother them, the cry “what would Iggy do?” becoming a kind of pre-show mantra.
So, when he’d had enough of his first guitar, Ginger just took it off and chucked it into the audience, fetching Old Faithful (his sticker-covered friend) from the wings and carrying on as if nothing had happened. Mic problems? Just let go and let the crowd do the work. Guitar trouble? Just hurl the instrument to the floor and wait for it to come back fixed. There was a time when a guitar-less Ginger looked a bit uncomfortable on stage. Tonight, he prowled the stage as if he’d really always wanted to be a frontman after all, curling up into a ball during The Monkey Zoo (“a song about monkeys”) and screaming the middle-eight in a manner that would’ve made Arthur Janov proud.
Not that Ginger needs to worry too much about being the sole draw here. Even before guitarist Conny took over the lead vocals on Girls Are Better Than Boys, it was blindingly obvious that he’s made of quality frontman material too. Though his guitar seemed to be annoyingly low in the mix for the first half of the set, his personality and stage presence blasted their way through the light show and started ricocheting around the venue’s walls from lift-off. It was a pleasure to see a bona fide, long-haired, rock ‘n’ roll guitar hero doing his stuff. There ain’t too many of ’em around these days (though they seem to breed ’em in Sweden – S$666’s You Smell Canadian got an airing tonight in dedication), the life having been sucked out of the art by a decade of miserable munchkins who’d rather be creating “aural soundscapes” than lifting people’s hearts.
Bassist Jon Poole has quite an imposing presence too. Maybe it’s the shiny dome, maybe it’s the natty whistle. It might even be the way he throws himself with absolutely full force into his backing vocals (he appeared to be in his element on the harder numbers like Motorvate and Inglorious). ‘Course, like a lot of imposing stage presences, he turns out to be a nice guy (our brief conversation about footwear – he’s a Converse lover too – was enough to convince me that I should cut down on my mileage. He reckons he can make a pair last ten years. I’ve had my current pair for just two and they’re already coming apart at the seams). Visually, he may not be the long-haired rock ‘n’ roll reprobate that Ginger had in mind when he advertised the post earlier this year, but the weight of his reputation as someone who’ll do anything brings a bit of danger – or, some might say, randomness – to the band. Which is exactly what Doctor G ordered. Whether or not Jon’s inclusion in SG5 is a permanent arrangement (he’s still a Cardiac, and with the possibility of clashing commitments as the band picks up steam, I’d imagine that he’ll have to let go at some point), he’s already left a sizable mark.
And, at the end of the day, sizable marks are what this band are all about. All or nothing. Do or die. I’ve never met a casual Wildhearts fan, and judging by the super-charged atmosphere in the Scala this evening, I’m unlikely to meet a SilverGinger 5 fan who thinks “they’re all right, I s’pose.” Ginger keeps saying tonight that it’s because of the fervour of the fans that this thing’s taking flight. But, as we all know, it’s because of his songs – those tunes that weld themselves to our hearts, twisting our innards into strange shapes, and reminding us that, despite the daily crap, life really is special – that that fervour keeps on growing.
Waking up the next morning after a three-hour journey home to south London (don’t ask) and far too little sleep, I pull open the curtains to be greeted with a burst of sunshine and the bluest sky I’ve seen for months. There isn’t a cloud in sight. After weeks of floods and hurricanes, this is… weird.
But oh, so damned right.
Thanks to Clay for the photos (used with permission) – to see more of Clay’s Scala pix visit http://www.lyvmusic.co.uk/
Ginger Says – It’s show time!!!
By Ginger | October 28, 2000
It’s been some time in preparation and the past few months have been torn between public opinions from “can they pull this thing off live?” to “will they be a disappointment compared to The Wildhearts?” and “I hope to God it’s as good as I hope it’s gonna be”.
The proof of this particular pudding is in the playing, so we went to Japan to try it out in front of some of the most loyal and hardened of fans. This thing was going to either sink or swim when placed in front of an audience. Either way we had to find out quick. Before we could convince the world that we were the shit we had to convince ourselves. And there is no bigger critic.
Japan, as usual, welcomed us with open arms and flowing alcohol. Our tour manager, Johnnie Allen, took us to his favorite Osaka bar (the RockRock – check it out and tell ’em Ginger sent you) that became our new home and family. A huge amount of respect to Seiji, Nov, Waka and Yoko for the wonderful (Suteki) times.
Random Jon Poole surpassed his earlier attempts at appearing to be the most bizarre human being on the planet, and proceeded to amaze the Japanese with off-stage antics never before seen in this or any other country. A night out with Jon Poole is unlike any evening out with anyone else. This guy is a one man entertainment system that does not tire. From dancing on every shelf / table / level space in the bar (amid rapturous cheers from the patrons), to automatic-stream-of-consciousness ramblings, the show doesn’t stop when Jon comes off stage. In all the years I or any of the crew have been involved with musicians (ie, NiteBob, guitars, who has seem them all come and go since the sixties), no one has ever been around someone like Jon Poole. Not many people have for that matter, outside the confines of a padded hotel anyway.
Then there’s Tom Broman (drums) who is easily the most extreme person on this bus. The most extremely quiet person when sober, the most extremely extreme psychotic nutcase when pissed. Put another way, Tom had a fight before he had a gig. Conny and I have talked at length in the past about the perfect drummer being slightly unhinged, or wired up wrong in the attic. Careful for what you wish for.
And then there’s Conny, the gypsy, the guy that makes every Japanese girl blush when introduced to him. Conny is a dying breed of guitar hero where cool and talent share equal billing. Sometimes you just know that someone is going to be special but can never be truly convinced until you actually see it live. Conny is special.
The first night started out as the most shambolic mess of nerves and pre-gig anticipation, only to transform itself into a slick, professional and confident show when the lights went out. It had been so long since I had this much to prove… and we pissed it! Easy! Osaka rocks. It rocks like fuck.
Nagoya, the next show, wasn’t so great. One good gig down and it was time to have one dodgy one. Well, not so much dodgy as uneven. Two guys loved it, two guys hated it. The result? A band that weren’t communicating. Shit, I know we were only two shows into our new life but like I said we are our biggest critics.
Following the most amazing / disturbing / hilarious ride on the bullet train to Tokyo, we had just enough time to drop off our bags at the hotel and run to the gig… just in time to be really average again. Just as two guys had a bad show yesterday, today the other two guys had one! Of the two nights in Tokyo, the first night barely passed the standards board of excellence… still, there’s always the Lexington Queen to retreat to and sink our misery. Check it out when in Tokyo, guys.
And suddenly, within ten days of leaving London Heathrow, we were backstage at the Akasaka Blitz waiting to go on for the biggest concert of out short lived lives. A 2000 capacity venue and every important person we know in Japan had turned up. Even Seiji from Guitar Wolf (whom I had met properly the day before – the absolute coolest person alive in Japan, and the biggest beer drinker!) was there, as well as five beautiful young ladies who had won a competition to dress up as schoolgirls and sing onstage with us. Promoters ran around officially. The wait was endless. Too much time to think. Too much thinking to rock. Almost too much rock to warrant for a brand new band.
Man, the nerve of this band. If we pulled this off we could all look forward to taking London apart limb by limb in November. If not, we’d better start worrying about the reality of selling out our first headline show in a 1000 capacity venue, to a homegrown audience. Without an album having yet been released. Without any advertising, promotion or press. Man, this could backfire and blow us straight into an embarrassing retirement!
… ALRIGHT TOKYO…
Lights went down, NiteBob introduced the band and the crowd went ballistic. Like The Wildhearts all those years ago we were welcomed like returning sons fresh from battle. The band played like we’d been touring together for ages. The sound was fucking loud, but as clear as Michael Jackson’s criminal record. The girls sang like birds leading the dawn chorus. Guitars were smashed. Explosions the size of Godzilla’s hangovers were ignited. The light show looked like Kiss and Queen had both pooled together to make us look bitchin’ and dazzled the crowd into submission.
The show was pure magic and all thoughts strayed to London, November 9th, where we would do this again in front of our British friends and fans. Only bigger, better and with a more extreme stage show.
To attempt something as large as this, with a relatively unknown band, takes an awful lot of balls, and not many people would even bother. And I can perfectly understand why. If something like this failed you’d be better off having your parachute fail – at least you wouldn’t have to face public humiliation for the rest of your life. Staging something this ambitious has massive risks involved and these are not only financial. But in the gamble that is this business the odds are high that no one else is going to be trying this same trick. If it works we’ve pretty much got the monopoly on big, stupid rock! None bigger… none more stupid!!!
I don’t want to talk specifically about the stage show – for that, you’ll have to buy a ticket. But suffice to say that if I ever mentioned anything about “how much you lot are going to enjoy the Scala show”, I was off by miles. Many, many miles. Venus is closer. The Scala will be rubble on November 10th. All shows so far this year will vanish from memory. Your life will be altered and your standards will be heightened. From now on bands will have to measure up to your new level of expectation.
My only regret is that I won’t be in the audience while we are playing. (Or maybe I will?) Having said that, the stage may well be the safest place in the room come show time! Intrigued? Curious? Well, you’d better get down early. AntiProduct are going on first, and Alex is as on the edge of sanity as I have ever seen a man. Things can only get crazy… there can be no other way.
We’ve been talking about this for a very long time. Sooner or later it had to come, and here it is. It should by all counts be a bit of an anticlimax, shouldn’t it? C’mon, in this age of angry young men, complaining about having the right to complain, this shouldn’t really work. Good-time-core anyone? By rights it should suck large quantities of pink piping, right?
Hahahahaha.
God… this feels good. Wonder what the rest of London will be doing on Thursday November 9th? Tell you what they’ll be doing… they’ll be saying “WHAT’S THAT FUCKING NOISE?” Kings Cross? The last thing to happen to mankind of this magnitude involved a cross too, and guy with long hair.
There. Official. SilverGinger 5 are louder than Jesus.
Repeat after me… SHAKE, SHAKE, SHAKE!
See you there.
Ginger
Ginger Says – A band, a boy, and breakdown in communication…
By Ginger | October 3, 2000
So, now there’s a band in place and the songs sound great… but something is missing. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is, either. Mind if I just throw some thoughts your way? If any of them stick then maybe we’ll have made some use of this time together, ‘cos chances are my little baby boy is gonna start the dawn chorus any second now and we’ll be back to where we came in. So, for now, just me and you… let’s just talk.
Y’see, I’m the kind of guy that loves music. With me, it never had to have any chart reference. In fact, that sad shower of faceless poodles always reminded me of those old shooting galleries where the ducks would appear for a few seconds, only to trundle on by and be replaced by a different piece of tin, maybe with slightly less bullet holes. I think they made Space Invaders from that design too. And I heard someone on TV the other day saying that Space Invaders was the originator of shooting games?!?! I guess time renders everything historical but this comes with no guarantee of value. It just gets old, right?
Anyway, where was I?
See, I tend to do that sometimes these days. Parental sleep deprivation they call it. I think it’s bullshit myself. If that were the case, then how come there aren’t more interesting parents? Don’t get me started on that bag of cats. What is it with people and babies? The cool people you know don’t change at all, but the other people – y’know, the ones that you always knew wouldn’t be there for you anyway (y’know how you just know that?) – those guys just get indifferent to you. What’s that all about? It couldn’t be that they’re jealous of the fact that all your parts are all working and they harbour some fear that theirs might not be? Naaah! That can’t be it. I prefer to think that they were just that shallow all along. It’s just that, until having a kid, it didn’t bother you too much. Nowadays you don’t want those kind of people around your baby, so the radar is a little more sensitive. But how about those good friends, though? Didn’t you start loving your real friends more than your family?
Fatherhood is weird, man. It’s kinda like ‘out with the old and in with the new’, except no one tells you what’s old and what’s new. It just kinda presents itself. You’ve gotta improvise. Back to that guarantee of value again, right? Old just seems old these days. I always thought that I’d feel older somehow after having a kid. D’ya think maybe that’s just an excuse not to have ’em? ‘Cos I feel more into life than I ever did with nothing to do on a weekend. Hangovers don’t really piss me off any more because there isn’t enough time in the day to think of myself any more. Wallowing seems to definitely be a thing of the past. Man, sometimes I want to tell everyone to have kids – y’know, maybe it’ll lighten them all up. It sure did me.
And there ain’t half some miserable, self-absorbed, motherfuckers out there. They could use a lift. A loss of self. That’s what I always thought wisdom was anyway, loss of self. Accepting things without judgement. Action without premeditated thought. That way you can’t ever be scared of anything… except for your kids being brought up around a bunch of morons, that is! Man, if those people made my lad stupid I would personally kill them all. See? That’s another thing that comes with kids – the ability to kill. Man, I wouldn’t even think for a second about it, those fuckers would die. End.
So I’m getting too heavy, right? Well, there’s nothing wrong with getting heavy now and again… as long as it’s only now and again. So anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, music.
What is it with music these days anyway? No one seems to be looking forward to much any more. OK, I know the Scala show is gonna be pretty spectacular, but people sure are quick to dismiss something nowadays. Take, for instance, the first day of sales for that show. Those tickets went out quick! HOT, HOT, HOT! And boy did everyone think they were working with Bon Jovi for a second! Then the tickets dried up because there hadn’t been enough supplied for demand. Well, you can guess what happened then can’t you? The sales slowed down and all the suits decided it was just a flash in the pan – y’know, no need to get too excited. For a second there I thought everyone was really into it, but they aren’t are they? They’re into looking good, and fast sales make other suits stand up and notice. Imagine if everyone worked as hard as they want to be admired… man, this business would look like the golden age of Hollywood! When, in reality, it looks more like Blackpool on a Wednesday night. But those suits, man, they can sure talk themselves excited when they want to. I think it’s nearly sold out now. Don’t really matter somehow… it didn’t sell out in a day!
Good job we’re still together, though. I wish I didn’t want to make money, y’know? Life would be so easy. Just stick out a record every now and then and play in front of your friends, now that would be cool. I guess I’d have to be much, much, meaner than I am to do that, what with a kid ‘n’ all. Still, if there’s any comfort in this shallow business then it’s that no matter where you go in the world people are all the same… but your friends are different!
Speaking of friends, did I tell you about the band yet? Oh man, we make a great noise! Sounds like we’ve known each other for years. Remember asking me “how are you gonna do the harmonies live?” a while back? Just wait until you hear this shit! People are telling me that there’s a lot of competition these days. What’s that, a threat? Then fucking bring it on!
Great music always takes people by surprise these days. That’s my secret weapon, I guess, the element of surprise. Thank fuck no one thinks much these days, or I’d be out of a job! I’ve never been in a band with a real-life guitar hero before either! Never needed to be, I can always pull something out the bag myself. But having Conny around has been a real ear-opener. Man, those guitar heroes… now they can shred! Conny is too cool, man! It’s handy him being a singer ‘n’ all that too. Makes those ‘difficult’ close harmonies seem like maths homework – y’know, something that used to be a problem. And I’ve always been a little scared of third part harmonies because if they aren’t right they’re just about the most wrong thing in the world. I’m a country and western fan so I love harmonies. But in the way that a good chef loves food, I hate bad harmonies.
Man, that Jon Poole can sing too! Jon is the guy that played bass on the album, but he never sang. I mean, I knew he was talented but, fuck, man, that guy can’t do things wrong. OK, I take that back. Musically speaking, he’s as solid as the pavement, but he ain’t called ‘Random Jon Poole’ for nothing. From fucking in the toilets, to sticking chewing tobacco on his dick, to having what can only be described as ‘fits’ when The Who come on the pub jukebox, to consistently coming out with the most abstract conversation I’ve ever heard… there’s no mystery to why this guy is in the Cardiacs.
There is, however, a mystery to the Cardiacs.
And I have never played with a rhythm section as tight as Jon and Tom. Oh yeah, Tom Broman. He’s this Swedish guy that learned the album in three days by tapping on his legs and playing air drums to it! The guy is ridiculous, man. Used to play with a band called Send No Flowers. Does all the showman stuff everyone’s too self-conscious to do these days (but are all sat in their room practicing!) and plays double bass drums like a machine gun through a PA stack. Takes a guys face off when he goes. Astounding! Yeah, I’m more than happy with the guys. No bitching, no moaning, no pussies, no problems.
Well one little problem.
I really don’t like this business I’m in. It really is too empty. Too easy to deceive. I could cut off my hair and play acoustic numbers with a boyish grin on my face, and I know I could sucker all those other suckers into thinking I was the next real deal. Can’t do it. Not for me, not for Jake, and not for you. Of course I’ll keep going, it’s what I do. And how else am I gonna get to see the best stage show in the world? No one else is going to do it, are they? They’re all too busy making suits happy. Me? Let’s just say I don’t get nervous about music. It’s my gift and no one can take that away from me.
Ah, there goes little Jake now. Guess I’ll have to drink up and split. But, hey, I’m glad we can have these little chats. It’s good to talk, right? And you’re a good listener, man. Thanks for being there and I’ll see you again real soon. Maybe at the Scala? Oh, and bring a crash helmet. I’ll be armed that night!
Love ya, man.
Ginger
Ginger Says – Nature kicks ass!
By Ginger | September 13, 2000
And there was me thinking I’d seen some interesting stuff. I must have asked God for an interesting life somewhere along the line, and in the true tradition of being careful what you wish for, I certainly got one. Witnessing your baby arriving into this world is pretty spectacular on any level, let alone when it gets as traumatic and as scary as this shit.
I’ve got a baby! I’m a dad! That ambassador of all things violent and cowardly in my life as a small child. That paragon by which all things are measured in the transition they call manhood. I didn’t have a dad until I was too old to really have a use for one, and there I was sitting in waiting for my turn to add to the list of possible embarrassments to the term fatherhood.
Meeting God in a dentist’s waiting room is a pretty accurate description of the amount of trepidation I felt. It’s a feeling of hopelessness beyond anything you could have nightmares about. After settling into the long labour, and thinking this was an ass that could be made mincemeat of, the real world kicked in with a force as familiar as any sudden dread ever previously felt. The pain that the brave mother (aren’t they all? Damn right they are!) had to endure became too unbearable to continue the ‘natural’ approach to deliverance, resulting in an epidural (a tube inserted into the spine – one scary fucking procedure guys. Do not watch). And as the waiting started to feel like it would go on forever and ever and ever, little Jake decided this would be a cool time to suddenly sneak up on everyone and show up. Bang!!! From boredom to birthing in seconds. Or at least that’s how it felt.
Dilating like a mothermother, and speeding downstairs in a lift seemingly a century older than the hospital it operated in, this child seemed intent on doing things his way even before his arrival. The chances of your first baby landing on the predicted due date is, by all accounts, pretty slim. But this guy obviously plans to use rules like toys, so he arrived bang on time. Delivery wasn’t helped by a fever that Angie was going through in the later stages, setting the baby’s heart rate racing out of normal rhythm… still, all’s well so far.
OK, so the looks of derision from the delivery staff when the father turned up with dreads poking out of the top of his regulation hospital-green paper hat bordered on shock. Rock ‘n roll births aren’t as common as they used to be apparently. The doctor in charge of containing the ensuing panic was a man called Dr Teo (of St Mary’s Hospital, Lindo wing, Paddington, WC2, should anyone need the best at any time… hey, send him a card if you’re touched!), who ranks as my number one most impressive man in the history of awe (knocking Keef Richards from the top spot after a run of 35 years, no less). Dr Teo rapidly realised that the baby wasn’t coming out, even with the aid of the most brutal looking ‘plunger’ device seen since the illegalisation of burning witches, and the heart rate was plummeting rapidly. When the baby retreated back into the womb, twisting around and tangling itself in the umbilical cord, the decision to perform an emergency Caesarean operation was swift and unavoidable. And a truly harrowing experience, even from my side of the experiencing… and thank fuck for that epidural.
To see your girl sliced across the lower stomach and a doctor reach right inside and pull out your baby is something that there are no words to describe. Shock doesn’t even skim the brim of the surface. Wonder usually describes something that you take photographs of to show your mates. Even joy merely explains a bundle of emotions that you feel. But this feeling isn’t even expected, let alone digested, and leaves the observer in a state not unlike an out-of-body experience. On acid.
Jake arrived armed with an un-wrinkled face (one of the few cool side products of a ‘Caesar’, as well as what someone charmingly called ‘honeymoon freshness’ – you figure it out!) and a heavy mass of black hair. Very blue and very weak, but very much happening. Unlike the scene going on behind me where a young girl was losing half her body’s worth of blood as claret sprayed in every direction and a bunch of bags and tubing, designed to be on the inside, lay sprawled out upon her stomach… for around 50 minutes while the womb became healthy enough to have the various organs placed back inside and arranged in their proper order.
Saving Private Ryan was anaemic in comparison.
And then the sewing started. Man, those doctors don’t know the meaning of fear and deserve medals every time they do this shit. Stretching, stitching and stapling, and then back upstairs to the relative sanity of our room where the true miracle of this whole thing came full circle and baby took to breast. Man, this sight beats anything. Seeing God, boarding a UFO, awards ceremonies, giving awards to people that deserve ’em… nothing is this gratifying. It proves that Nature has it all under control and anything that seems unfair in Nature’s world is all part of one grand design. Nature kicks ass.
Well, little Jake is fantastic, Angie is doing better than a girl with a bellyful of embroidery should be expected to fare. And me? I’m convinced that no matter how bad it gets, it can always improve. And if it can improve, it can be fantastic. And if it can get fantastic, there’s a very great chance that it’ll get so good that you’ll sometimes have a hard time believing that it’s you living it. And you’ll get a little pang of guilt that’ll last for a second or two, until you realise that you deserve it; you deserve everything that’s coming your way.
Stay in there, kids, this ride is a lot crazier than you could ever guess. Life man, life. Everything else is stupid! It may be be hard sometimes (and sometimes really hard), but bravery in the face of adversity sure pays back good.
Yours… proving it over and over again.
Ginger