January 2nd 2008

2008 already! I know…. I know! What the hell have I been up to? Well not writing diary entries that is for sure!

So much has occurred in the past few months that it's hard to know when to start. So here are some memories.

A social life????

Life, as I live it these days, seems rather devoid of a great deal of social interaction. I have a job that finds me locked in a sound-proofed space with no windows and the miracle of broadband means I have no need to actually meet people or work with them face to face!! Now, what on earth would be the point of that???

This is a situation that I'm not altogether happy about. Whilst my contemporaries bemoan the rigors of a touring life, I miss it like crazy. Oh, to play live with other people in front of a real audience. Oh well. As a consequence I treasure get-togethers with old pals all the more, on the rare occasions when they happen.

At the end of July two of my best pals, who just happen to play in the same band (Porcupine Tree), found themselves with a few weeks off from what has been an incredibly busy and successful year. I have known Gavin for nearly 25 years and we have worked together on many an occasion. Richard I met in Italy at the end of the 80's when both Gavin and myself were touring with Italian singer "Alice". We were promoting the album she had just made with Richard and Steve Jansen..

We had the whole of London with its many and varied restaurants to choose from, yet somewhat predictably, we ended up at Marine Ices in Chalk Farm. Joining us was Lyndon (Connah) who I have known since 1976.

There’s something terribly comforting about this area of London for me. So many significant things have happened here over the years.

The restaurant is opposite the Roundhouse, a venue where I saw a number of gigs and events as an impressionable teenager. Stomu Yamashta's Red Buddha Theatre, Hatfield and The north's first LP launch show with guests Robert Wyatt and the Northettes, to name but 2 influential shows from my youth.

When I became a member of the national Youth Theatre we rehearsed at the school just 50 yards from the restaurant at the bottom of Haverstock Hill. In 1975 at the tender age of 16 my first 'proper band' Soon After, a three piece that featured 2 screaming lead guitars and a trumpet, somehow managed to win several heats of the Melody Maker National Rock/Folk competition.

That summer we played at the final, just across the road at the Roundhouse. A few years later I was recording my first album at the Roundhouse studio and being managed by the Bronze organization in the offices above.

A couple of years after that I was singed to Chiswick records who were based just up the road near Camden Town tube, within a year of that I signed to Stiff records whose offices where a stone throws away from there. And where I first laid eyes upon the gorgeous Amanda Giles in all her back combed, high heeled, 80's glamorous splendour.

For many years I was signed to Carlin Music publishers, whose offices are still just to the right of the round house and with whom I am about to do an administration deal in the next couple of weeks.

I digress. This was an evening of old jokes and reminiscing in a place where I feel at home. It meant a great deal, just a meal with pals. One of who is soon to be a member of King Crimson, no less. I watched with interest and amusement the speculation of who the new 'Mystery' Crimso member will be on various forums. Gavin is one of the finest, creative and more complete musicians that I have ever had the pleasure of working with and is just the person to breathe new life into the old beast.

A week later and I found myself being driven, at some speed, to Robert’s house for another lunch by the fast car owning Mel Collins. A lovely afternoon it was too. In Robert’s diary it informs you that “Jakko did dialects” This refers to anecdotes I told about being a young voice over artist back in the late ‘70’s and early 80’s and Robert’s requests for some regional accents that I claimed were my forte at the time. “only Mel ate the salad” Roberts diary continues. Well that’s as maybe, but in my defence I would like to point out that I did eat the broccoli and Mel went one to devour a large cream cake! Robert is no mean anecdote teller himself, incidentally, some of which leant the afternoon a very surreal air. Lovely.

Buying a House part 507

Meanwhile our house in West London went back on the market. We fired our previous agents as we'd had enough of the arrogant, gelled haired racer boys that pass for estate agents these days, and employed the more up market version from nearby Chiswick. We were very impressed by the pitch of the well presented manager of the Turnham Green branch. However when initial details arrived we had to correct various inaccuracies.

Little did we know that this was just a sample of their incompetence. When the online details appeared there were even more errors. We were selling a large Victorian semi-detached freehold house. They, however, appeared to be selling a terraced house leasehold. In spite of frequent requests the incorrect details remained for weeks. Whilst looking for our house we had a list of criteria, which I imagine most prospective buyers do. We were looking for a detached property and consequently wouldn't bother looking at a semi.

I assume that anyone looking for a semi wouldn't be bothered looking at a terrace, indeed our house wouldn't come up on an online search. As this is the way people look for houses in this day and age, we began to assume that this was the cause of the paucity of viewings. Either that or the market was turning. The agents phoned explaining that they had placed a number of very classy adverts in various local magazines and that they were sending me a copy of one. It arrived in the post the next day. The ad was indeed very glossy and impressive.

The trouble is the house they were advertising was a lease hold property in Chiswick W4 and we were selling a free hold dwelling in Acton W3. I informed the girl at the end of the phone that I called as soon as I had received the magazine so that she could cancel and/or amend the copy for the other publications. She told me that it was too late. Within and hour the branch manager called to see if we could have a face-to-face meeting.

Three days later, on the Friday morning, she and her assistant arrived. As I opened the door the manager, rather dramatically, told me that this was the most uncomfortable meeting with a client that she had ever had, that they felt so bad about the mistakes and failings. That this was a complete aberration and not the usual service of their proud company.

She spent the next hour mending the broken bridges and assuring us of a change in approach. This was a damage limitation exercise as she assumed, quite rightly, that I was regretting employing them in the first place. We agreed to continue with a new vigour and attention to detail from the agents.

On Sunday afternoon, a mere 48 hours after our estate agent summit, there was a knock on the door. A young, and obviously pregnant, woman stood there. Slightly flustered she explained that she and her husband where desperate to see the house. That they were on holiday the following morning and were keen to view before they left.

That she had called our estate agents the previous day on 4 separate occasions and was promised a return call each time. By end of play Saturday she had received no such call. Hence her arrival on our door step. I invited her in and showed her round. She asked if she could call her mother. Half an hour later she viewed it again. She explained that she'd driven up the road a couple of times looking for a terraced house, but assumed it had to be ours because of the agents board (which we'd only had put up when I requested one). She also asked me how long the lease was.

Later that day the doorbell rang as we were about to bath the kids, she had picked up her husband from the airport and brought him straight round. They offered the asking price.

On Monday morning the girl at the agents called to tell me that we had been offered that asking price, I told her that I already knew this. I then asked her what she knew about the buyers. What were their plans, their financial position? She didn't know anything, so I told her. I also explained that if she wanted to know anything else about them to just ask me.

I suggested that her agency might like to review the amount they were charging us in view of how we sold the house and their meeting with us just a couple of days before. She laughed uncomfortably.

So we made the decision to sell the house no matter what this time. We would find a house for rent in the area so Django could stay at the same school. I would rent studio space at either Chris Porter’s place or Mark Angelo's nearby. We would take our time looking for the right property, by which time we would be cash buyers.

Then one day Amanda found an old bungalow sat in a large plot surrounded by fields in very near to an old market town in Hertfordshire.

I've always liked this town. There’s a great old looking high street packed with very nice restaurants and bars and shops. Wander down any of the side streets and you could be in a Dickensian costume drama. Plus a number of old pals live in and around the town and all our other pals are pretty near at hand. We viewed the property on a rainy Sunday afternoon. The house, an extended bungalow, was a mess. The woman who owned it was 100 years old and had just moved out. It was clear that her vision, sense of smell and personal hygiene were not what they once were, still the plot was lovely and it was a great location. I was somewhat put off by the sound of the nearby, but unseen, A41. Amanda was taking Django down to Bournemouth the following day, so we didn't rush into a decision. Two days later it went under offer with someone else.

Some weeks later we went to see a house in the village of Marsworth, set in a gorgeous spot just up from the canal. The house was going to tender and had a lot of problems which included vast cracks in the walls due to the proximity of a couple of large and thirsty weeping willows. No to mention the water supply from an underground stream. We spent a week or so considering an offer and what the cost of fixing all the faults would be. On the Friday before the offers were due Amanda suggested that I call about the other house. I frankly couldn't see the point. The sale must surely have progress by now. Indeed I kept putting off the call till late afternoon.
'How weird that you called!" said the agent when I finally phoned them, our buyer just pulled out of the purchase 30 minutes ago? By the time we made an offer on Monday morning they had had 3 others. We had to keep upping ours till we secured it, albeit 70 grand more than we would have got it for all those weeks earlier.

We moved, after some drama (like our buyers pulling out 3 days before exchange and then changing their minds 24 hours later. And being threatened with legal action by the estate agents when I refused to pay them the full amount on completion, due to their terrible service. Oh how I laughed at the solicitor’s letters that claimed our meeting with the manager never took place! ) On October 25th. A relatively stress free day due, in large part, to the wonderful friends we have. The great Phil Smee and his lovely wife Angela looked after the kids on the day and night of our move and my old pals Nick and Liz took them out for the day the following morning. Giving Amanda and myself a couple of days to get the place habitable.



I have no family left, save for my sister in Arkansas and some half brothers that I never speak to, and the only bit of Amanda's family that we do see are based in Bournemouth. Geography dictates a limited amount of contact and anyway, their priorities have, understandably, been else where these past few years.

The other side of her family we never ever see or speak to anymore. We were fully excommunicated the day before my father died in 2003. Amanda still has no idea what it is that she is meant to have done. I certainly know what I’ve been accused of. But the truth and reality of that situation do not appear to be of any use in resolving the whole affair. This is a great shame for the children, I think, but who knows what goes on in people’s heads when they’ve convinced themselves of something. The experience has often made me think that there are positive advantages to being adopted. So we are blessed with the friends that we do have. Of late they have been amazing. The kids now have several honorary grandparents. They are all kind, generous to a fault and the kids absolutely love them all.

Since the move we have settled in nicely. Our nearest neighbours to our right are about 300 yards away and they have all been very welcoming. Our nearest neighbours to our left are 1/2 a mile away and there are just fields as far as you can see behind and in front of us.

Django has slotted in to his new school very well and easily. His new teacher is Miss Axe and her assistant a Mr Rock. Comedy “rock musicians childrens teachers names” .that a sitcom writer would reject as too unlikely. And Amber is happy at her new nursery, which is only a minute’s drive from home.



The builders have been in and the new studio is but weeks from completion. In the meantime I commute to west London where I rent a space from Mark Angelo’s. This drive, which is at times of no determined length is frankly no fun and I look forward to not having to do this. It’s funny how the old area looks now that we don’t have to live there anymore.

Work

The wacky world of advertising is alive and sick as ever. I have a number of jobs lined up for the start of the New Year, which is always a good start. I recorded the music for the latest VW ad, which was a recreation of the sound track to a Chaplain Movie from the 30's. I did part of this with Chris Porter at his studio. There was also a nice piece for the Carbon Trust and various pieces for the NHS. So if you find yourself in casualty looking up at the screens in the waiting room that could well be me you are listening to. Unlikely to cheer you up when your arm's hanging off I grant you.