Ginger Says – Anyone can walk it for a while. Anyone can talk it for a while. Only the very special few can be it forever
By Ginger | August 14, 2000
Patience (a truly ridiculous concept).
And the Lord said something like, “if you hang about for ages, until whatever it was that was so important seems such a distant memory that its importance has become diluted to the point of ‘oh what the fuck, eh?’, then you shall get whatever it was you wanted in the first place.”
And you also learn the valuable lesson of having to sit on your bored duff like a piece of furniture, whilst having proved that boredom didn’t make you go out and murder someone or do your body weight in drugs, therefore you’ll get into the house of God without a bad rep to contest.
Patience has no natural place in the western world, where competition and social placing are the common denominator of the masses. To win, but how long the race? “Is it really that important to be great? Maybe if I’m just a little better than everyone I know, maybe I’ll look pretty fucking cooking then, huh?” Unfortunately the judge, in this particular competition of will, is you. And you’re judging yourself… shit, how do I cheat my ass out of this one?
Patience sucks. It sucks big cocks.
Patience is hanging out in a gym for a little bump on the upper arm, and for that ugly stomach to be a little less ugly. Patience is fishing. Patience is waiting for paint to dry. I hate patience. Patience is waiting for something that you are so sure of happening actually happening. Even if it means waiting for much longer than is classed as sanity. Even if it means suffering the shit and arrows of outrageous misinterpretation. Patience… I shit it.
Unless, of course, it pays off.
That is one motherfucker of a day to reckon with. It’s a large anticlimax when it eventually drags its ugly phizog round your pad, granted. But the only thing that matters is that you are going to live an awful long time, and to make that time more bearable you must figure out how to maximise it wisely. And usually on a strict time budget. ‘Cos, let’s be honest, wasting time rocks. It’s fun and takes zero discipline. And I’m young for shit’s sake… I’ll worry about not being able to walk when I’m too old to walk.
But no, this isn’t the way we live a life. This is the way we live a piece of our life and blow the rest in the inevitable event that our existence becomes so dull that we talk constantly about a ten year period like it will make up for wasting the other 40 or 50 years. Ouch! Anyone have a life plan to be the most boring fucker that they, or anyone else, knows? Didn’t think so… otherwise you’d be reading someone else’s ramblings. And they wouldn’t rock. And I do. Read on.
Patience is only the waiting time. The real deal is the idea from which you are prepared to invest this time. The pure germ. The nucleus that is inherently you and the only reason for being such a presumptuous prick as to expect your ideas to manifest themselves as anything other than giant excreta biscuits. Does the waiting scare you? Maybe your original idea stinks and you should start again? Stop the waiting? Try something more likely to succeed on a less demanding basis?
Y’know, underachievers are pretty dire, but mid-achievers still make the rent, right? Are you happy being grey? Of course you aren’t… you’re here to make something happen. And only because no one is doing it your way. Sure you wanna get a few pages of those history books to yourself, but that’s not the reason for doing it the hard way. Well, not the only reason.
In life there are doers and there are followers. Then there are the many that for whatever reason don’t get the recognition they deserve, thus leaving a legacy that no one would trust to be worth anything. In this day and age Leonardo Da Vinci wouldn’t have become the legendary morose genius that he did after death. He would have had his name scratched from the records on the grounds that there were American students selling paintings in greater numbers.
I was once foolish enough to believe that if you didn’t succeed in your early twenties you would have officially blown it in this business – not understanding, of course, that people buy records (OK, bloody CDs – I’m never gonna feel easy calling them that. It’s still ‘Hammersmith Odeon’, ‘London Town and Country Club’, ‘Marathon bars’ and ‘records’ for me) at all ages and therefore there is a fine living to be made for the rest of your life. And the longer the cooler.
A year ago I was frustratingly trying to put together a band to record and tour my record. Had I succeeded you would have been looking forward to me and a bunch of my mates playing some tiny clubs on our way to retirement at the edge of a darkened bar, somewhere you don’t know your way around after dark. The patience I learned when putting the sounds on tape (OK, OK… digital computer memory or whatever the fuck it’s called now) gave me time to think about the likelihood of being in a real band again and playing some BIG shows in BIG venues. The patience of sitting on this album until the right deal comes around for it means there will more than likely be a single and video out of one of the new songs (probably Walk Like A Motherfucker), songs that wouldn’t have been around if I hadn’t had the patience to find the right management company with cool ideas.
By the time the band have actually formed it will be a thing of great splendour with no holes in the armour for journalists to penetrate by means of dismissal within the first two years of our tenure. The musicians in the band will have also been waiting for a gig like this for some time. And with their patience having been paid off you can bet real money on this being an intense experience unlike anything in this genre of music before.
I do not want to be in a band as good as The Wildhearts. It will need to be better. Much better. In every way. Even down to the commitment and passion… and this is not an easy task. I have never in all my years met a band that could walk in the shadow of The Wildhearts when it came to sheer passion. Oh, I’ve met loads that thought they could (even some that were convinced they actually were), but those bands have since split up and now they don’t even speak to each other. It’s true that things like passion and conviction are judged on time and not mere words. In the end it all comes down to time. What you are / were / will be is all about who you are when your time is up. You will not see your true effect in this life… or at least not within the portion lead by ego and bravado.
Anyone can walk it for a while. Anyone can talk it for a while. Only the very special few can be it forever. Those are the guys that legends are made of. As anyone with children will know, the time it takes from conception to collection is one filled with fear, hope and endurance beyond anything they have ever known. And when the day of ‘the drop’ actually arrives every memory of the hardships is forgotten in favour of something bigger.
Being a musician (and at times a frustrated one) I can easily compare the patience needed for a successful and happy pregnancy with the same patience needed to succeed in this or any business. The demands, compromises, control and sense of the ‘bigger’ picture are all startlingly similar. Not everyone makes good parents and some people make real shitty rock stars / musicians. Divorcing oneself from oneself without losing one’s essence proves two things:
1) That the essence was still strong enough to shine through.
2) If you are that good, you can never forget about yourself no matter how hard you try, so you don’t lose out on anything!
Patience equals cool. Cool will get you through times of no luck better than luck will get you through times of no cool. The bottom line is this: if you are going to get it you are going to get it. And if you aren’t you’ve got nothing to lose… it might still happen! Patience only works with the right tools, and only you know what tools suit your style.
Waiting rocks. Well, it’s a drag too. Anyone can get, but only the truly patient can plan on getting. And keeping. And doing it all again when they feel like it.
Here’s to waiting… but hopefully not for too much longer.
Ginger
Ginger Says – Whether trekking across the Himalayas, wrestling greased buffalo or completing a list impossible to complete in 24 hours, come midnight it’s Groundhog Night
By Ginger | July 14, 2000
Doing stuff (a modern ailment).
It’s 4.30 in the morning and I’ve gotta be up in a few hours. Not very rock ‘n roll, nor even all that outrageous considering the lengths and breadths I have often gone to to push my body into some experimental realm of consciousness just to see what it feels like. Oh, and drugs help too.
But here, sans any narcotic stronger than insomnia, I sit wondering why the fuck I can’t fall sleep without thinking ‘how does a person fall asleep?’, or ‘so what does happen in that last twilight moment between being awake and actually falling asleep… ah here it comes… AAAARRGGHHH, I thought myself awake again!’. You know the drill.
This morning I was awake at an ungodly hour in an attempt to do so much stuff with my day that I would be snoring before the jacket came off. But whether trekking across the Himalayas, wrestling greased buffalo or completing a list impossible to complete in 24 hours, come midnight it’s Groundhog Night. Any remedy that attempts to combat the effects of Being Awake Too Long Today Syndrome is as effective at curing this kind of insomnia as ice cream sunglasses.
The human is capable of pretty much anything he / she sets their mind to. And if it’s setting out to prove yourself wrong then you will succeed… but that means proving yourself right, of course. And therein lies the crux of this particular dilemma. How much is too much?
Conny came over to London to audition some bass players (did I say that was a load of fun? Nah, guess I didn’t) and generally ‘hang’. On getting the management into the fact that we were both top writers that would work great together given the chance, they called our bluff and booked us into a studio for a week to start this ‘writing’ shit. A week? No problem. Not only will we have five (natch) songs by then, but we’ll also record ’em in the same amount of time.
So in we go with nothing further planned than the directions to the pub, but we did it. Five songs written from scratch and completed, recorded and mixed. If we’d had a month we’d have come out with exactly the same amount of work… but we didn’t have a month. It had to be done, you see. Ironically one of the five (incidentally incredible) tracks is called More Is the Law, a song written about just this kind of approach to life. It’s an anthem to doing stuff. A lot of stuff. More than is necessarily needed. ‘Live by the sword, die by the sword’. Or, ‘careful what you wish for’, if you like.
So, back to my problem that I’m sure some of you are wondering stuff like ‘what’s his fuckin’ problem?’ about. Here it is: I have been cursed with the ability to do loads of stuff. But, like the first guy with a telephone, I’m kinda speaking a language that doesn’t compute with the most of the normal people that sleep, eat regular, watch TV and get tired.
I know people like me too, guys that do stuff. Two things happen to the guy that can do loads of stuff: 1) Most people around him let him do the stuff because they don’t want to do it, and figure that he enjoys it anyway. 2) He spends his waking hours thinking of extra stuff to do in fear of running out of stuff and getting BORED.
Just for the record, I would love to be bored. I mean, sitting in front of a bad movie or dull programme and just being bored. Like ‘phoning people because you’re bored’ kinda bored. I’ll never let myself get bored because I see boredom as the resting place for the low of imagination. But if it’s that simple then why am I jealous of people that want very little from life? Well, exactly that reason for starters. How great must it be not to care if nothing ever happens?
“Hey Ginger, what’s been happening with you?”
“Ah, nothing much.”
Or…
“How’s life?”
“Ah, mustn’t grumble.”
This sort of stuff used to drive me nuts. When I’d hear that someone had done nothing with their day / week / life and were “boooooored”, I’d be up in arms about why they were wasting time, blah blah blah. And now I’d give anything to be able to just close my eyes and think of nothing. To represent nothing. Sleep. So, how do people do that again?
It all comes down to what you represent. Do you represent? How are you going to be remembered? Do you want to be remembered? Do you care? I’m sure that if I knew ten people that were just as obsessed about doing stuff, I’d have a pretty tidy little army. That ten people would have the effect of 100 people. And they would never rest. But the sad truth of the matter, my attentive, maybe tired, sometimes bored, friends, is that if someone is getting away from doing anything strenuous or taxing, you can put your last slice of bread on the fact that there’ll be a crew of people wanting to work just as little as this guy too. After all, why should someone else get away with being a lazy bastard if I can’t? And I guess this is where I came in, right? The problem: not wanting to turn into a lazy bastard. The solution: doing stuff.
Although the symptoms may manifest themselves as frustration or anger, these symptoms are far less harmful, let’s face it, than complacency or sloth. Inside any man / woman is the basic ability to be as lazy as the next person, and in spotting this basic human failing we can counterbalance the work vs rest ratio to suit our own personal need and satisfaction that we are trying our best. The fact that our best is already good enough to compete is neither here nor there. Look at Oasis. Very little work put in for massive payback. The dream come true, right? A few years ago I would have loved to have been Oasis. They seemed to have it all. More cash, girls, fame and newspaper space than I could ever hope to garner in my whole life. And then BANG. Just like Tyson and the Berlin Wall and everything else in life can fall, so do Oasis. A lack of graft ethic and humility, and from the same spoon that fed came the famine that will see their careers fall and disintegrate long before I’ve tired of the buzz of making enough money to pay the rent.
The point? We are here for a very, very long time. I want to do too much. Not because anyone gives a shit – jeezus, Trent Reznor will still sell more records in this country than I will, and we all know how much he cares (“we’re in this together now”, right Trent?). No, the only reason for doing anything is for yourself. The only reason for not doing anything is for yourself. You do, or you do not. I do, therefore I exist. Breathing just isn’t good enough for me so I will push that extra mile. Who knows, maybe I’ll be reincarnated as someone who doesn’t mind representing nothing. That would be the dream. To be reborn as a lazy sod. Imagine the company… not exactly riveting, but plentiful.
Or maybe I’m destined to give a fuck.
There’s a Rainmakers lyric that goes: “Give a man free food and he’ll figure out a way to steal more than he can eat, because he doesn’t have to pay.” There’s a Nine Inch Nails lyric that goes: “You and me, we’re in this together now.” It’s all nonsense and may the best man win. This year’s trend will dictate what ‘best’ means this year. There are no markings, there are no rules. There are no guarantees. There are no awards. Everything must fall.
Represent.
Represent.
Represent.
Represent.
Represent.
Idle hands do the Devil’s work.
Ginger
Ginger Says – Oh, I have seen some sights lately. Bobbing heads, guitar straps the length of the average necklace and enough static stage presence to make Noel Gallagher look like Angus frigging bastard Young
By Ginger | June 8, 2000
The entries have been charging through my front door at a fair old rate of knots. Those slices of joy that reek of domineering young men that demand the chance to shine – to seas of fans around the many stretchmarks of the world. The newest Rock God to hit the magazine racks. The freshest face, the craziest character, the coolest haircut, the snazziest stage gear, the best moves, the wildest ambitions… the bass player that’s going to refill my dwindling supplies of patience in what has to be the ugliest, most character-free country of musicians on this planet, and that is including Pugnatia.
Ever been flat-hunting? You know that first couple of days when it seems like fun? Where the advice that “it won’t be easy” falls on deaf and optimistic ears? Imagine the exasperation of flat-hunting combined with the biggest hangover you ever had… and then give yourself the flu on top of that, and you are still nowhere near the sickness that fills my gut at how miserable the bass-playing entries have been so far.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Far be it from me to call anyone ugly. Or tell you that you look like your mother dressed you… fucking last week. I mean, by the looks of it you’d all get a chance to jam with Paul Weller, Travis or even Oasis. Happy? Put it this way, if there was a chance to join a troupe of green-haired midgets that speak fluent Greek, I wouldn’t have got the job. I’d be wrong, you understand? I wouldn’t be surprised when they said “oh no mate, you’re far too tall, with the wrong coloured hair, and your Greek stinks”, etc, etc. Do you see my point, or at least the looming spectre of the point that I’m about to make?
Now, there have been exceptions to the rule that all bass players must look like ‘bass players’ (you know, the guy that gets stuck at the back in pictures – Ken, that’s usually his name). There have been a few amazing characters… and they have nearly ALL BEEN FROM FUCKING A-M-E-R-I-C-A. Or Scandinavia. I mean, I’m English, and I’d like to think that we were pulling our weight as far as rockers go. Keef is from here and so is Jimmy Page, Sid Vicious and even Geri bloody Halliwell. We do have characters in this country, albeit the most reluctant characters ever to avoid standing out in a crowd. Oh, I have seen some sights lately. Bobbing heads, guitar straps the length of the average necklace and enough static stage presence to make Noel Gallagher look like Angus frigging bastard Young. I’m talking world domination and some of you are talking Bull and Gate, with a view to maybe headlining one day.
Call me heartless, shameless or just fucking bassist-less, but I didn’t get a single chance in life from trying to be average. Or ‘giving it a bit less because that’s what everyone else does’. Yes yes yes, I’m fully aware that not everyone wants to stand out in a crowd, or try out a few moves in front of an entertainment-starved audience, and that’s just fine and dandy-o-grande. OK? Good.
Now, I’m not going to buy a ticket to see a band that resembles a retirement home at bedtime, but just look at how well bands like Travis (great band, don’t get me wrong – great but very boring) are doing. It doesn’t take extreme people to make millions. There is a good, healthy market for humble, average-looking guys with that ‘earthy vibe’ that always sells in this country when ideas are scarce. Look at Cast, Ocean Colour Scene, Stereophonics, and the many, many bands that have neatly filled a gap when extrovert behaviour has been thin on the menu. Good luck to you all and I hope you have a good laugh at the business that is making you rich. Come on guys, this music isn’t designed to sell in the millions, which is why the bands are all pretty surprised at their success. And humble. And dressed in denim. Good guys do get paid after all. Especially in this country. Which is why we fill in the fucking lottery every week, and that’s why we dress to blend.
But my problem is this: where did it say on this web site that I was looking for ‘average-looking players with very limited stage presence and no decent clothes’? (Or indeed green-haired dwarves, of which there were more to choose from, I swear.) Is this what is seen as ‘having it’ these days? Has every band from America (that’s sold over a million, dresses in sports gear and the latest haircuts – i.e, that short one that takes about half an hour to get the ‘just woken up’ look going) really influenced our sense of style to the point that no one has any any more? Or is it the fact that Oasis made millions utilising the image of ‘dressing down so you don’t get into too much trouble when out on a Friday night’? Or is it even the ‘Travis are the latest thing and I want to look like them because I really believe the next new thing is going to look just like the last new thing for just this once in the whole of history’ syndrome?
Don’t get me wrong, I love you all. And when I get through having this baby I want to have lots more with all of you. But I’m struck dumb with disbelief that there is not ONE person from this country that is getting an audition for this band. I really wanted (or still want) a British bass player, but we have huge stages booked in Japan and if you aren’t dancing substantially more than your guitar stand you ain’t even in the running, mate.
Would you pay to see you?
Angus does what he does because it sells and people love it. Dregen doesn’t have to move more than the rest of his band. These people know that if you look good you get places. Image, man, image. What are we so fucking afraid of? Looking like a fool? Does Angus feel like a fool? He’s still up there rocking; still raking in the millions and getting the girls. Or does everyone want to be the guy in their local that used to be in a band? Who’s the fool here? You are only getting ONE chance at this. And if you get to 40 without doing anything… YOU. HAVE. BLOWN. IT. You can’t go back and sort out that haircut. You can’t pull on those tight leathers, the ones that the guys used to laugh at but you always got laid in. You can’t go and see the world in a tour bus, because someone young will have your job. AND THEY WILL FUCKING LOOK GOOD.
I can’t stress enough how important it is to use every day of your life like it’s your last. Make every hour count. And never, ever (ever ever ever ever ever) regret not getting something because you didn’t give it your best shot. Because that, ladies and gentlemen, will kill you just as sure as an Exocet missile to the back of the head. Except it will take longer and will be much more painful. Yes, the bass players that came bravely forward were not really hoping to get the job as the wildest man in the world and so they didn’t.
I also need a drummer. Please let me find him in Great Britain. Email us here and we’ll tell you where to send a video. And please remember to read the small print:
DRUMMER WANTED. MUST BE GREAT. DOUBLE BASS A PLUS. MUST BE A FULL-ON ROCK PIG. MUST BE SCARY. MUST HAVE LONG HAIR (AS IN LONG, NOT SHORT… BUT LONG). MUST WANT TO SEE THE WORLD. MUST WANT TO DRINK THE BARS OF THE WORLD UNDER THE TABLE. MUST WANT TO GET INTO LOTS OF TROUBLE AND NOT GIVE THE SLIGHTEST SHIT ABOUT WHAT ANYONE THINKS OF HIM. THINK BONHAM, THINK KEITH MOON. THEN STOP THINKING, YOU’RE A DRUMMER FOR GOD’S SAKE, AND YOU HAVE A TRADITION TO UPHOLD.
Looks are not important, so if you ain’t pretty you have a better chance of getting the gig. I swear there’s a promise of good times and more girls (or boys if that’s what floats your ice cream) than you can kick out of a tour bus. Parties and good times are included in the deal. This band will do exactly what it says on the packet.
So whaddya say? Does the meanest, ugliest, dumbest, biggest, wildest, toughest, craziest drummer in the world come from Britain? Or is it America? Again?
Hurt me.
Ginger
Hi Ho Silver Shining
By Kris | June 1, 2000
Silver Ginger 5 – Black Leather Mojo · Record review by Darren Stockford
There’s a scene in the 1988 movie John Lennon: Imagine in which a reporter from the New York Times takes to task the greatest songwriter of his generation for trying to do something more with his life than just twist and shout.
“I’m someone who used to admire you very much when you were in The Beatles,” she says, insinuating that was all he was worth.
“Well,” says Lennon, not missing a beat, “I’m sorry if you liked the old moptops, dear, and you thought I was very satirical and liked A Hard Day’s Night, but I’ve grown up and you obviously haven’t.”
For Ginger, ex of The Wildhearts, lest we forget, there have probably been more than a few moments like this over the past few years, moments when he’s felt like telling some of his more vocal detractors to get a life. Whichever way he turns, there’s always someone blocking his exit with a big sign reading: “When are The Wildhearts getting back together?”. To his credit, he hasn’t flipped out (a few well-aimed retorts don’t count). Instead, he’s calmly but forcefully walked his own path, penning some songs for his friends Backyard Babies, knocking several shades of shite out of greasy rock ‘n’ roll with Super$hit 666, and hooking up with Alex Kane, the original American psycho, for some ‘White Album’-style fun with Clam Abuse. For just under two years’ work, it’s not bad going.
And then, there’s SilverGinger 5.
Black Leather Mojo signals Ginger’s “proper” rebirth. This ain’t no side project, this is the real deal, the record that’s going to kick open doors he never even knew existed. At least that’s the plan. The music industry’s a funny old thing, so I’ve no idea where this album’s actually going to take him, but at the very least it’s going to knock the rock scene for six. I’m confident of that because Black Leather Mojo demonstrates perfectly how bland and unemotional 95 per cent of rock music actually is.
Believe it or not, there was a time when commercial rock ‘n’ roll wasn’t a filthy phrase but a reason to be genuinely excited. Think AC/DC. Think Cheap Trick. Think Mott The Hoople, Slade, the Raspberries. Think big guitars with even bigger tunes. It’s this period in musical history – when rock and pop happily shared the same bed and no one even noticed because it was so damned natural – from which BLM seems to take a lot of its inspiration. Sure, there are glimpses of other influences – Anyway But Maybe and I Wanna Be New mix their Trickisms with some catchy-as-hell, classic Metallica-style riffing – but the overall effect is a record that could quite happily be performed on Top Of The Pops (circa 1974) in its entirety. And it’d probably manage to get those guys in the tank tops dancing real good too.
You wanna party? Try on Girls Are Better Than Boys for size. Echoing the feelgood stomp of The Yo-Yo’s’ You Got Me Out Of My Mind, this raunchy, Slade-style rocker features some cutely observant lyrics. Basically a list of reasons why girls outrank boys (“they give you sleepless nights and their breath smells good in the morning / And they look better than you when they dress in your favourite gear”), it’s the fun rock ‘n’ roll side of John Lennon’s Woman (it’s true – I bet even Yoko “don’t piss on the seat of the toilet”). And it’d make a cracking first single.
Heck, there are potential singles galore here. From the riffmongous Divine Imperfection, with its AC/DC meets Exile era Stones vibe (hard rockin’ riffs, parpin’ horns and gospel singers, plus a scorchin’ lead geetar break, the likes of which I’ve not heard in many a long year), to (Whatever Happened To) Rock ‘N’ Roll Girls, with its camp, showy opening and Cheap Trick-like descending melody, or even the southern fried Inside Out (country radio here we come?), there are songs here for everyone. And all of ’em produced to divine (im)perfection.
Sound-wise, BLM delivers in buckets. In a word? Try ‘widescreen’. If this was a movie, it’d be 2001: A Space Odyssey (minus the men in monkey suits, natch). It’s a cathedral of sound, both dense and vast – at times there’s so much going on in the arrangements you have to wonder if Phil Spector didn’t sneak into the studio while producer Tim Smith was in the loo and have a bit of a twiddle. It’s also as warm as a pair of knitted underpants.
One of the joys of Ginger’s music, for me, is its ability to press all the right emotional buttons. I’ve always thought that his comments about Stop Thinking being a “comedy record” belittled the emotional core of that album. The Chicken Song is a comedy record. There’s Always Someone More Fucked Up Than You is five weeks’ worth of therapy, and I appreciate it.
Thankfully, BLM doesn’t come equipped with its own get-out clause. And it feels all the better for it. The highs are higher than anything Ginger’s ever recorded before. He’s always had a knack for knowing exactly when to change key, when to let rip with another chorus, when to take the song in another direction. There’s never any wastage, and everything is maximum impact.
You can almost see the emotion being wrung out of these songs as they’re performed. As the guitar solo kicks in on Church Of The Broken Hearted, I can feel my stomach rise up toward my chest. It’s like riding the best damned rollercoaster in the world. Rock ‘N’ Roll Girls has a key change towards the end that gives me a head rush so joyous I have difficulty staying upright. And the lyrical rawness of The Monkey Zoo touches places only Ian Hunter’s Michael Picasso has managed to touch in recent years. Constructed around three verses, beginning “sex”, “death” and “life”, this lush, powerfully arranged ballad aches with 35 years of human experience. It hurts. Like life, it’s meant to.
Aw, the fact is, I could enthuse about this album ’til the sky falls in, but none of it means anything. As Nick Kent never said, writing about music is like dancing about architecture. Words are completely meaningless because you can never accurately describe what an orgasm feels like. The best way to find out is to have yourself some sex. (Ooh, I love it when I talk dirty.)
Back in black. With his mojo working. The past was great but the future’s gonna be even greater.
Trust me. It’s better with leather.
Ginger Says – And there was me denying that love existed
By Ginger | May 5, 2000
And so it is done. The album is finished, mastered and completed. The artwork is done. After nine months of serious work, the end has finally arrived.
When I started this album there were a whole host of differences in my life. I was living in America. I was reliant on drugs. I was single. I was unhappy. I was confused. I was desperate. I lacked confidence. I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my future. I hated the world. I wasn’t expecting to be a father… ever. I wanted to die. I was a year younger. I didn’t have a dog.
Since then I’ve found that the love of a good woman is pound for pound better value than that of a thousand wrong ‘uns. And there was me denying that love existed. I still don’t believe in all that Mills & Boon crap, but I do appreciate the whole point of companionship. Guess I stopped being so hard, and in its place came something to truly die for.
I stopped needing drugs as a tool of motivation and have become much more confident in what I’m able to achieve. There are still cases from my past where friends are killing themselves, and their careers and friendships, due to dependence on drugs. I honestly thought that I could not exist without a daily fix / hit / cop-out, and really believed it was a clinical addiction. All addiction is in the mind. That’s where it starts and, if you want it to, that’s where it ends. The world is much wider without drugs. And, although I can’t deny that it is slightly more boring being clean, the thrill of not knowing what crazy shit is going to happen in my future, but knowing that I’m going to be there to experience it, is a huge buzz in itself.
I don’t hate myself to the point of self destruction any more. Yeah, sure, sometimes life gets to be a bit of an uphill struggle that isn’t always apparently worth the climb, but those moments fly by these days. I guess the whole ‘boredom threshold’ thing has taken a different shape. Life seems to go slower, and is therefore less chaotic. Things just make a little more sense.
I’m still an impatient bastard though. And now I’m on the threshold of a new band, career, life experience, and it’s all down to hard work and good company. I’m going to be a father to a baby boy in September. I have a dog (well, Angie has a dog and it also has me) that everyone in the world seems to be in love with. And I also have a life with a great woman to look forward to.
In my endless search for the perfect partner over the years, I came to the conclusion that I was one of the most stupid people in the world. I know there are many, many stupid people – so many in fact that it’s easy to become inconspicuous in the crowd – but when you are faced with your own stupidity it kinda hurts. The reason for this is that I thought I was going to find someone to share my life with, and they weren’t going to notice that I wanted to kill the world and rid it of love, peace and sober thought. What a catch I must have seemed!
You don’t just love, you are love. You must radiate a warmth and kindness, otherwise all you are going to attract are the ugly, cold people. And, believe it, ugliness is all inside. And now I must carry a certain confidence in who I am that attracts enough attention from ladies that I would have been honoured to attract. (And, secretly, still am.) It’s nice to go home and know that you just ‘connected’ with someone without having to desperately try to ‘conquer’ them. I see old friends trying for a different girl / boy every night, and I listen while they constantly complain about not having found a Mr / Miss Right yet. Just plenty of Mr / Miss Right Nows. How could they? They still need a different sexual partner each time to convince themselves that they’re still attractive. Now that’s ugly.
Times change and stuff gets done, and nothing means that much. At times I still would like to die. At times I still get lonely for no reason. At times I still want to kill / get high / fuck a stranger… y’know, all that common human shit that we all think is really individual and unique. Sometimes being a human being is a fucking drag. But only the weak fall.
Still standing…
Ginger
Ginger Says – You can never give up – it’s not in a rocker’s nature
By Ginger | April 20, 2000
The album is finished. Finished as in done, dusted and rarin’ to rock. Six months of intense rehearsing, recording and mixing and suddenly it’s over. The sadness I had anticipated didn’t arrive as planned. The final day was a blast of activity that negated any emotional involvement. Champagne was uncorked and congratulations were passed around, but in a strangely muted workmanlike manner that was completely out of character with the sessions.
Ending things always brings with it a numbing sensation that signifies the beginning of something else. The day you leave your holiday, job or relationship is the day you get the overwhelming urge to taste the unknown and savour its strange delights. The new beginning. New beginnings are what it’s all about. All it’s all about. When nervous apprehension makes way for confident new steps. This is the business they call music.
I’ve never been too good with goodbyes and this was no exception. Roger Tebbitt, the engineer, has become such a familiar face in my day to day workings that to say I’m not gonna miss him would be blasphemous. And Tim Smith, producer and legend, has become family. I’ve fallen in love with Tim. He is just about the greatest living musician, and to be able to place him in the ever-growing list of ‘people I’d like to work with and have’ is both an honour and a life-enhancing experience. And now I’m alone again. Only for a short time, until the next stage of world domination commences, but enough to feel confused and elated at the same time.
The new chapter will see me putting together the band that will make this idea flesh. The musicians are starting to show up, and auditioning is taking the shape of meeting people recommended by fellow musicians that I have particular respect for. The idea of sitting in a room full of hundreds of hopefuls depresses me beyond endurance. Been there, as they say, and fucking well done it. Never again. Not in this lifetime. No way. Putting a group together that does not mirror any of the inherent flaws that marred the progress of The Wildhearts is not an easy task. But then neither is rehearsing for an album that is months away from release.
The patience that one must endure in such matters is easily the hardest thing about this business. The temptation to say “that’ll do” and suffer from reckless ambition over suss is incredibly hard to fight. Even though one knows that careful thought and planning will always win out in the end, it’s so tempting to just go with the first idea and take a risk that it’ll all be OK.
After months of painstaking work, finding the band to play this shit live is by far the most crucial task in making this dream a reality. Time passes so slowly at points like these that one can be forgiven for thinking that nothing is happening. There are names, management companies, record companies and fantastic ideas that cannot be mentioned until legally possible… so, no news to report there I’m afraid. You’ve been very patient so far. I’m desperate to spill the beans, but have to stay focused on what really needs to be done. And this is where I came in.
The album is finished (more news on that in the news section – go see) and it sounds absolutely amazing. And I want you to hear it more than anything in the world. But to do this properly means that I have to do things properly. I will stand back and suffer the mind-bending pains of patience and discipline. And you, my loyal friends, will have to do the same. Life is a bit like that I’m afraid. But ponder this…
I’m going to be a father in September.
Thought that would shock you!
Ginger
Ginger Says – We’ve got a full tank of petrol and we’re wearing sunglasses
By Ginger | February 17, 2000
Rock is here, and I won’t say I told you so.
Well it happened, and is happening, after all this time. It’s coming home. It’s back big time. It’s gonna be big. It’s gonna be wild. And it’s gonna be loud.
When I was a kid me and my mates thought nothing of buying a ticket for a band we didn’t know much about, because you were guaranteed a massive show with bombs, volume and rock stars. For far too long kids have been buying tickets to see bands dressed just like them, looking for all intents and purposes like they’re bored and a bit lost on a big stage.
Where have all the performers been? Well, they’ve been hiding out until they can show off their goods to an appreciative crowd. A few years ago they would have been laughed at and seen as being old-fashioned.
Who am I talking about? The ROCK STARS, that’s who: the people that live the lifestyle you want to live; the people that make you want to get yourself in a band because real life is just too depressing. Showing off is this year’s misery. On they shall come. Marching to the tune of a thousand hand-claps like a baying rally of hungry animals, frothing at the mouth and ready for some mayhem, the likes of which have not been seen since the Romans started wearing trousers. The army of the living.
Saturday night will never be the same again. On every block around Great Britain there will be bands playing that hire in extra PA and lights. They’ll do it because if they don’t they’ll look puny next to the band who did just that the night before. The hair will be long and the solos will be short. Good times are around the corner, and the only difference between the rock of old and the rock of new will be that the rock of new will be better, louder, wilder and much, much more exciting.
We have suffered from personal complexes ever since Kurt Cobain hit the shops. Nothing against old Kurt there, but come on… he’s dead and we are alive. We don’t want to hear how fucked up musicians are. We’ve heard it before – from the likes of The Wildhearts, amongst many others – and it was OK as a distraction. It was better to hear about real rock ‘n’ roll casualties than sit listening to some grunge sob story. But the furthest anyone can go on the ‘fucked-up-ometer’ is blowing their head off with a shotgun. Kurt Cobain was much cooler when he was alive. Now we have to put up with rubbish like <insert band of choice here> because it’s OK to suck a little. He’s got a lot to answer for, that boy.
People are still fascinated by Richey Manic’s disappearance. Richey was a great guy, but wouldn’t he be of more use here making some entertainment? The art of being willfully absent as a form of entertainment must surely be dead. Unless someone starts putting the ‘boom’ into ‘a wop bop a lula a wop bam boom’ then we are going to Hell in a Ford Fiesta. And that, my little savage rock demons, is a bad thing. Punishable for eternity as a memory. Memories suck compared to the real thing. The past sucks. The only good thing about the past is that it’s a gauge by which to make things better. But it’s gone, and good riddance.
We are here now, and doesn’t it feel fucking electric?
Clothing stores like Top Shop are turning onto the new rock thing. And if someone doesn’t get their lazy rock arses in to some tight-fitting leather jeans they are gonna leave us behind and we will become followers. Followers of our own creation.
Britpop / Britrock is dead. If you own a guitar and are into breathing as more than a chore, you owe it to your country to Rock. Rock mighty. Rock proud. If you do not heed this message you will miss the best time of your life. The bus is leaving. There will be passengers and there will be drivers, but the bus will most definitely be leaving. All aboard who’s coming aboard. Destination? You decide. We’ve got a full tank of petrol and we’re wearing sunglasses. It’s the year 2000 and it’s gonna rock like a motherfucker. Is that not cool? Does that not ROCK?
It’s a glorious time. We are very lucky. And we deserve it for listening to so much crap for so long. Our ears are offended and in need of refreshment. Go out. Form a band. If you’re good I’ll get you a deal. That’s all you have to do… NOT SUCK. Let’s sort out the suckers from the fuckers. No prisoners, only glory. That is the future.
ROCK OR DIE.
Ginger
Ginger Says – Being tough is being gentle when everyone around you is getting off on acting like a movie character
By Ginger | January 10, 2000
Happiness exists… it’s official.
2000 started on the roof of a skyscraper, watching scenes of firework mayhem and millennial excitement. Together with some great mates and a wonderful girl, I took a quiet moment alone to think… which normally, inevitably, leads to over-thinking and worry. And I could not for the life of me figure out where things were going to go wrong. And then it hit me… I’m in love.
I’m in love with life and the amazing chaos of chance and mystery. I’m in love with the sheer power of music and its many positive effects. I’m in love with being alive. I’m in love with me.
Happiness starts from within, and that’s often a pretty ugly place to begin panning for gold. The human has a strange need to know everything it can. And if it doesn’t know, it will improvise. Of course, improvisation is by its very nature chaotic, and from chaos comes both good and bad, right and wrong. It’s knowing the difference that really hurts. Being happy means debasing yourself; becoming a child again; holding your hands up and saying to yourself, “y’know, you think you’re pretty smart doncha? Well, you don’t know shit.”
Learning is a painful and humbling process in which one must graciously accept failure, never the most natural of states for a human. People don’t like to be wrong, and therefore stay locked in an eternal bubble of denial. Alcohol will give you good reason to complain instead of repair. Drugs will give you good reason to need instead of belong. The greatest gift, and the sole purpose of our existence, is others. Our effect on them, their effect on us. Everything else is denial, and denial is a drug – present only for the safety in ignorance and the assurance that because the weatherman says it’s raining we figure we don’t like the rain.
The news is it’s all good.
At the start of December I fell in love with Henry Rollins’ nihilistic and educated views on why life sucks. Late December I fell in love with Kris Needs’ desire to push the body towards Hell just to see if burning really hurts that much. Early January I fell in love with Boy George’s vaudeville-sized self-obsession. And now I’m in love with my way. I’m not Henry, Kris or George, and for some reason that never really connected before. We can get so wrapped up in other people’s ideas that we mistake recognition for agreement.
And there begins the downward spiral of self-destruction: the eradication of oneself and the repairs made using the hang-ups of others. I’ve got my own hang-ups, thank you very much. We are all important and we all have a story to tell, and usually that story isn’t too pretty. But the most important story is the one that is reluctant to be told.
In this world, belonging is everything. So much so, in fact, that people sometimes mistake the reality of the weak- and bitter-minded as a real existence. It is, of course, avoiding real existence. The true reality is staring you in the face, and it doesn’t matter how long one denies the truth, it can never be truly ignored. One day it’s going to have to be dealt with.
We know who we are, we just don’t always want anyone else to. Or rather everyone else to. But fuck it. Fuck fear. Fuck fucking around. And fucking fuck.
Tell the world! Tell the world that you aren’t really so tough. That takes guts. Tell the world that life scares the shit out of you. They’re too scared to. Tell them all that you love the fact that you are kind and gentle and forgiving and generous, and before you know it you will be. And they’ll want to be too.
It takes broad shoulders to carry a burden for life, but lifting it off takes a whole upper body workout. Who is the strongest person you know? If the answer is not you, then you just answered wrong. Be great. Be kind. Spread the word and do something nice for someone every day of your life.
If someone tries to fuck with you, answer it with good. The need to react violently and aggressively is natural. It is not tough. Anyone can do it, and it will always come back to you badly. Being tough is being gentle when everyone around you is getting off on acting like a movie character or, worse still, the supposed personality of a hardened musician that probably goes to bed early with a cold drink and a warm lover.
Don’t be fooled, everyone wants to be good. They just ain’t got the guts. Hey, try it out. Give it six weeks of biting your tongue when you want to shout. Try resisting the urge to break someone’s neck, and accept that that is just the way that they are. Let’s try it together, because this shit’s new to me too. And if we come through and can influence a bunch of people along the way then it looks like it’s gonna be a great year. Let me know how you get on, I’ll keep you informed too.
Being good… it’s the new punk!
Ginger
Ginger Says – How much fun can you have? All of it!
By Ginger | December 11, 1999
The album is finished. And like a proud father I’m standing back, taking a breath of fresh air and gloating. Yes, gloating – one of the more unsightly faces of arrogance.
Ever felt that you were doing something beyond you? Something that fits so perfectly with everything that’s missing from people’s lives? No? Me neither! ‘Til now. It’s a feeling of weightlessness that’s not dissimilar to the first rush of a drug buzz, albeit a cheaper and longer lasting high. Every move I’ve made, every mistake I’ve lived through – it’s all a dirt road behind me leading to the point at which I find myself now.
If mistakes are there as lessons, then I’m about to pass my final examination. No more messing about. I know what I have to do. It’s all there in full colour, 3D cinemascope with Dolby quadraphonic sound. I’ve begun the true test of my faith in myself, and it’s starting to feel good. Very scary and very good.
I am to let myself go with the mission I was put onto this Earth to do. I was born with a talent that I have sometimes squandered. I was not put on this Earth to become another dead rock star. I was not put on this Earth to out-drink and out-drug the world. I was put here to rock. To entertain. To give exactly what is expected of me, with a few extra bits thrown in for gluttony.
I read magazines and see faceless musicians at the top of the charts. I listen to the radio and hear polite, introspective music that sings to no one but the writers. I don’t see anyone being me. Where are the rock stars that want bright lights and stage shows that stick in your hearts for the rest of your life? Where is the passion that involves ‘being’ the music. For fuck’s sake… WHERE ARE THE SONGS?
I want you all to hear this new album so badly. I’ve just bought you the best present in the world and I want you to open it before Christmas Day. But patience is how I’m going to make this work, and patience is the first thing I’ve got to get crossed off my new year’s resolution list.
I’m going to make you, the trusty fans, so fucking proud to have stayed with me for so long. I’m going to treat you to sights so awe-inspiring that they’ll burn an everlasting impression into your retinas; sounds that will see you and your children through times of melody drought. And I can promise all this and more because I’ve become possessed with this new goal. I am in love with music again.
I’ve done things in the past, set out for me by my own sadistic nature, that I’ve considered impossible. I’m a big enough man to know my limitations and work on them. But I will say, with hand on heart, that next year I will be very famous indeed; successful beyond anything that I’ve ever done before. I will not be able to do it without the constant assurance that you are still there, and I send out advance thanks to each and every one of you. My payback will be to make you all very glad that you bet on this particular horse.
2000 will be a massive year, with the reintroduction of old-style entertainment values. I will not put on a show that I wouldn’t pay to see myself. I would, and probably will, buy my new album because it is that good. I’m going to entertain you beyond the parameters of what is expected in rock music today. You will, in short, be glad to see me back. We’re in this together, and together we’ll make them stand up and take notice. We’ll make them see that we were right all along.
“Who are ‘they’?” I hear you ask. They are not us. Watch the press turn on a penny over this ‘new’ musical force, and be proud that you always knew. They will be many, but we few are where the ball starts rolling from. We built this city. Rock ‘n roll is a sharing experience. Let’s share it with them. They’ll soon be us.
Question: How much fun can you have?
Answer: All of it.
Please have patience and very soon life will be back to normal again. There will be reason again to get excited. You deserve it as much as I do.
Have a happy Christmas. Start the new year with the same passion that you mean to carry on with. And take this trade secret with you… 2000 ROCKS.
I LOVE YOU…
Ginger
Pieces Of Silver
By Kris | November 26, 1999
In the studio with Ginger · 26th November 1999 · Words by Darren Stockford
Ginger strikes a match.
“Stop doggin’ meeeeeee…..”
The final note of his vocal goes on forever. Babies are conceived, born and reach school age; governments rise and fall; continents drift. And… relax.
Ginger lights a fag with what’s left of the match.
“Aw, he’s too cool, isn’t he?” says a smiling Roger, the engineer for the SilverGinger sessions. I can see his point.
The lights in the recording area are dimmed (for atmosphere, I presume). Ginger’s standing alone in front of a mic. He’s been there for about an hour now, “doing the bastards,” as he puts it – recording high harmony vocal lines for a song called Doggin’, a bonus track for the Japanese version of the album and a possible single B-side. It’s not a task that Ginger has been particularly looking forward to, hence the decision to hold it back until the rest of the album’s vocals had been completed.
“Never again,” jokes Ginger between takes. “It’s a blues album, the next one!”
Tim, the producer, keeps saying “and one more,” and Ginger keeps obliging. There are an awful lot of these harmony lines to record. Thankfully, almost every take is faultless. Or as faultless as rock ‘n’ roll should be.
“There are slight imperfections in there,” says Tim after one take. “But that’s quite nice.”
“I quite like that,” says Ginger through the mic. “Otherwise it’ll be Pink Floyd.”
Back in the control room, Ginger ponders this afternoon’s work.
“I expect people’ll listen to this and say, ‘that’s a nice effect he’s put on there’…”
Believe it, kids. This is no special effect. Ginger’s manager, Gigs, does a quick calculation in his head, and announces that by the time the track’s finished, with all the harmony vocals in place, Ginger will have sang the line “stop doggin’ me” a tonsil-tinglin’ 351 times. That’s some coffee he’s been drinking.
Actually, having sampled the studio coffee myself, I’m convinced that this potent brew is partially responsible for the hot rockin’ sound of Girls Are Better Than Boys, one of the shiniest things Ginger’s ever recorded (this song does indeed “sound silver”). Halfway through playback, Ginger starts doing the classic Tiger Feet dance (a twist of the shoulders a slight bang of the head). “It’s glamtastic!” he says, proudly. And it is. Echoes of Slade, AC/DC and Mott The Hoople bounce around the studio’s walls. The chorus (“I like girls ‘cos girls are better than boys!”) is so catchy that it’s still buzzin’ round my bonce the next morning.
All the tracks we hear today are in fact rough mixes. There are plans to add to the arrangements with saxophones, gospel choirs, female vocals and, knowing Ginger, a gaggle of stilt-walking geese playing banjos. Expect a rock ‘n’ roll record of mammoth proportions. This could very well be Ginger’s Exile On Main Street, though without the drugs (he’s currently running on nothing stronger than that highly delicious coffee).
Speaking of the Stones, one of the nicest surprises I get this afternoon is the countrified Inside Out. The track, originally aired at last year’s 12-Bar Club gig, has moved on from its acoustic beginnings and now resembles a close family friend of The Wildhearts’ Bad Time To Be Having A Bad Time. Listen out for the ’29 x The Pain-ish’ lyrical nugget “my old friend the blues”, the title of one of Ginger’s all-time favourite songs (it’s by Steve Earle and can be found on his Guitar Town album from 1986). “We play country and western,” drawls Ginger as the final note fades away.
Sonic Shake, meanwhile, has been sonically beefed up, and now includes some extra vocal lines in the pre-chorus. The incredibly passionate vocals from the Japanese girls bring to mind the kids’ chants from Pissjoy. Would make a cracking single, though with lyrics like “party girl, she fucked so much she screwed herself to the ground,” it’s not exactly daytime radio fodder.
If bobbing your head violently up and down ’til blood starts trickling out of your ears is your thing, get a load of Divine Imperfection. Boasting a rollicking AC/DC-style riff, stabbing drum patterns and a guitar solo from Hell (not to mention the timeless lyric “shakin’ all over!”), this track can only be described as ROCK. Which is why I write ‘ROCK GEETAR’ in big, bold capitals in my notebook. And just for good measure scribble a smaller ‘rock’ underneath. I underline it a few times for extra emphasis. When the track finishes, everyone is silent for a few seconds. And then a lone voice (I’m not sure who – I’m still feeling dazed) pipes up “ROCK!”.
I like being right. (Even when it’s obvious.)
The big centrepiece of the album could very well be something entirely different, though. “It’s a mystery how we keep on seeing it through… here at the Monkey Zoo.” I know that, on a computer screen, those words have no emotional effect whatsoever. But this poppy, dreamy mid-tempo ballad gives me goosebumps today. As it begins, Ginger wanders over and tells us that he’s hoping to get Robin Zander to sing on it (he also wants Nikki Sixx to play bass on it). The melody is very Cheap Trick, and even in this unfinished form, the arrangement is jaw-flooringly detailed. I close my eyes and try to climb inside the song…
Ginger still can’t quite believe what a fantastic time he’s been having these past couple of months.
“Every day I’m impressed to the point of fandom,” he says. “I’m going to miss this time in my life so much when it’s over. I know my focus will neatly shift onto something else, but this is just so much fun I’m sort of dreading it ending. I’m in love with this session. I’ve never said that before!”
Tim says that they’ve set themselves a deadline of 10 December to finish the recording. After that, they’ll decamp to another studio for mixing. And then begins phase two of the SilverGinger plan to take over the rock ‘n’ roll world.
For now, though, it’s back to “doing the bastards.”
More coffee, anyone?