Ten Easy Pieces

Dear Chroniclers,

so who knows where time goes ... ?

It seems like just a few moments ago I was celebrating the arrival of my half-century, but so much has happened since then. Not for the electrofried's the slowing waters of middle-age - everything in our lives right now appears to have been turned upside down, and you find us spinning like some Pooh-sticked flotsam and jetsam well out from the left bank of humanity's torrid and ever-hurrying stream.

Downwardly Mobile

If it had been just one thing it would be taken in its stride, but no, change assaults us on all sides as loudly as the competing banshee wails of shop-soiled muzak that assailed our ears this very morn as we made our way though the market-stalls of Little Wittering in search of some new mobile-phonery for my dear mrs. electrofried.

Regrettably, the half-brick that occupied much of her hand-tooled marmoset embroidery bag these years past, had all but given up the ghost. We took teenygoth with us for protection. At least she was sufficiently proficient in the language of the street to interpret the strange guttural grunts and techno-speak that passes loosely for speech these days. Just what is a "mega-pixel" and why does every telephone appear to come ready-equipped with blue dental-wear? Life is just too darned confusing!

A Puzzling Affair

Much to teenygoth's mortification, mrs electrofried seized upon the spottiest of the spotty work-experience shop-assistants who staffed the cacophonous shop we ended up in. Meanwhile, I took up position on the side-lines, pointedly ignoring the entreaties of the strangely pneumatic lady manager who spotted me dawdling in the aisles.

"Can I help you, darling?",

is perhaps not the best of opening lines in life's endlessly amusing catalogue of sales-pitches. I turned the other way, and set to with my Sudoko whilst mrs electrofried and teenygoth merrily pressed buttons and compared memory capacities. Frankly, the whole thing was a complete mystery to me and I contented myself by pencilling in a few random jottings to the squared puzzle before me.

At length, the transaction was completed. Money exchanged hands and mrs electrofried emerged blinking into the daylight from the blackened abyss of "Phones'R'Us" clutching a carrier bag containing the spoils of her foraging.

The swirl of time

I mentioned life has become a spinnying eddy of late.

Family issues spring up like the gaily-coloured daffodils and tulips that currently adorn the grounds of the House. We've moved churches too, and become Methodists, though I've yet to summon up the courage to announce this to the Vintners of Little Wittering who depend so much upon us for their livelihood. The credit-crunch will appear little more than a minor book-keeping blot in the annals of their balance-sheets once the endless stream of alcohol-related orders from the House dries to no more than a trickle. And time in the horology factory is ticking slightly faster than the norm.

But even amongst all this chaos, there is hope. Teenygoth has taken to purchasing the NME at regular intervals and in a recent, unguarded moment confessed a passing interest in the contents of the electrofried music-library. At last, a scion of electrofried who may be fit to inherit her father's burgeoning collection! So tonight, as I sit in my bath-chair sipping a restorative glass of the finest triple-strength Chimay (yet another sin to be confessed come the morn) I've set my mind to ""Ten Easy Pieces", a short catalogue of electrofried's life to date, as set to music.

This posting is accordingly dedicated to my youngest ... and I shall await, with no little trepidation, to see if she deigns post a comment in response. Welcome then, darling teenygoth, to the music of your father - the rhythm that has restored, enthused and enthralled me through a half-century and more.

And so here it is "Pop-pickers"!

10. Fresh in at no. 10, the sound of Siouxsie and the Banshees live at the Tynemouth Plaza, on their very first UK tour. I won two tickets on a (non-mobile) phone-in by spelling, "Siouxsie" correctly - not a particularly difficult task given my infatuation with her kohl-stained cheek-bones. Your mother, no more than a teenager herself, was embraced tenderly to the cascading feedback of "Mittageisen"!

9. The theme to "Midnight Cowboy", a sound tracked memory of a film that even now reduces me to tears just thinking about it. Is the reverberating harmonica of life just a last post to a sad existence, or the turning point to a bright new future in the sun? Discuss. Alternatively, you could watch the DVD once you're old enough to satisfy the British Board of Film Censors.

8. "I'm only sleeping". There has to be a Beatles song in there, somewhere. And what could be more apposite for a somnambulant father whose cat-napped existence is punctuated by the most piercing of snores?!

7. A non-mover at no. 7, the chiming guitars of "The Byrds" with, "Chestnut Mare", a particular favourite of your mother.

6. When I was but a teenager myself, I stole on occasion into my elder brother's bedroom in search of a particular album that still thrills me to this day. As you practice guitar up in the East Wing of the House, dear teenygoth, reflect on the genius that is Jimi Hendrix, and his stunning debut, "Are You Experienced".

5. "T Rex", is, I'm afraid, yet another sound of my youth. My very first foray into the purchase of music involved an off-line transaction behind the school bicycle-sheds, in which money changed hands and your father acquired a second-hand copy of the inaugural album of the freshly abbreviated, "Tyrannosaurus Rex". I sense an imminent negotiation with Master Amazon to acquire this afresh once I've finished with my tawdry list of musicology.

4. Over the last few months you have borne stoically the depletion of an ever-dwindling inheritance as yet more Miles Davis box-sets have made their way to the tradesman's entrance of the House. When you are much older yourself, spin "Kind of Blue" in memory of your father, for he found much peace amongst the space of these crystalline modal forms.

3. David Bowie, much like Miles Davis, mastered many a transformation in his time. "Heroes" is, forever, a favourite of your mother and I.

2. Sometimes life has shades of darkness, and in "Joy Division's", "Love will tear us apart", there is no finer.

1. But, as always, there is hope too! I think it unlikely you will ever chance upon the full King Tubby extended mix of this glittering jewel, but you will find the original version of "Love is a Treasure" on a Pressure Sounds' Carlton Patterson compilation called, "Psalms of Drums". It's secreted deep within the electrofried music library - enjoy, for love is indeed a treasure ...

... and much love to you, darly teenygoth!


as ever,

electrofried (mr)

p.s. mrs electrofried has passed by briefly to view my random jottings en route to the bed chamber and a relaxing infusion of Horlicks. Ears have been soundly boxed concerning the omission of anything by the Doors, the Clash and many others besides. Anyone for an extended electrofried Top Twenty?

Why don't we do it in the road?

Dear Chroniclers,

this evening sees me stationed uncomfortably at the Remington Noiseless - propped up in the electrofried bath-chair, a hot-water bottle strapped to my nether-regions and nursing an aching back. I blame it all on Miles Davis ...

In a Silent Way

Regular visitors to the House of electrofried will be aware of my advancing years. As a man begins to face the inevitable truth of middle-age, so his thoughts turn inexorably to thoughts of mortality, tartan blankets, carpet-slippers and a little light jazz. And so it was for yours truly just a month ago.

Whilst browsing the shelves of Little Wittering's finest CD'n'vinyl record emporium I heard the stentorian roar of a trumpet issue forth from the massed boom-boxes mounted overhead. It struck me at once as a thing of beauty, a richly silvered thread of notes shining out from a dark abyss of floppy-haired X-Factored rejects and general pop-frippery. It was music for the soul.

With my meagre weekly allowance from mrs electrofried clutched in my sweaty palm I strode manfully to the counter and enquired as to the origin of this delightful muse.

"Err, dunno mate ..."

was the initial, mumbled reply, but on further examination a sparkling new CD case was duly produced. Moments later I left the emporium, a smile on my face, clutching a copy of "Filles de Kilimanjaro" by the inestimable, Miles Davis.

And so, I was hooked.

Spend,Spend, Spend!

How I wish I had never hot-wired the Remington Noiseless to the interweb!

For many a year I laboured under the sad misapprehension "broadband" was something to do with the rapidly accelerating girth of the electrofried underpants collection, but now I find myself the very image of post-modernity, a pinkie-finger poised tremulously above the "Send" button as I contemplate the purchase of yet another Miles Davis box-set.

You see, the man has an absolutely gargantuan back-catalogue. The fact he departed this mortal coil on 28th September 1991 seems largely to have by-passed his musical publishers. Scarce a month goes by without another addition to his legendary canon - and being a sad, lonely anorak, how can I resist the temptation? And so the pinkie finger descends once more as yet another on-line purchase is made.

You may be forgiven for believing the latest financial crisis gripping the world's investment markets has it origins in the collapse of the American sub-prime mortgage sector. The truth of the matter, however, is to be found far closer to home. I lie awake at night, gripped in a cold sweat as I contemplate the imminent arrival of the electrofried credit-card statement.

Things are getting so bad I've entrusted the card in question to Fetlock the Butler, our Slovenian man-servant. He's under the strictest of instructions not to return the wretched thing to me until the current spending fever in which I am gripped has loosened its wicked hold.

Under My Wheels

It's not just the credit-card that's taken a bashing of late. Twice a day, heavily-laden pantechnicons pull up the unadopted road that bounds the electrofried estate to disgorge the latest delivery of Miles Davis box-sets from Master Amazon and his market-place chums. Needless to say, their burdensome wheels have wreaked havoc on the sub-structure of this historic, but flimsy, highway.

The road, which is bumpy at the best of times, has begun to resemble a derelict Army Assault Course replete with a capacious bunker-system of sufficient size and depth to swallow an average family hatch-back whole. Chroniclers, we talk not of mere pot-holes, these things are veritable caverns.

But praise be, for today has seen community action at Little Wittering on a scale that brings to mind halcyon memories of the war-time spirit.

Hit the Road, Jack

It started at crack of dawn this morning when a delivery lorry emptied its contents into three neat, black piles - one at each end of the road and one in the middle. You see, a jolly burgher who lives but a stones-throw from the electrofried estate had spotted a bulk-order of hardcore going cheap on eBay, sale or return.

The villagers turned out en masse, eschewing the opportunity to linger "en lit". With shovels duly shouldered they formed ranks and began the arduous task of spreading the three piles across the pot-hole strewn remains of the road.

Teas were made, wheel-barrows wheeled and sundry small children extracted from the worst of the triurnal hardcore dust-bowls. And of course, yours truly strode out, clad in his best gardening spats, to supervise affairs.

Beast of Burden

As I look longingly from the Tower window I see below me a freshly restored road, the black spine of hardcore now sewn neatly down its central pull. What a communal effort, but what a price to pay! My back aches, and not even regular infusions of the blessed elixir, Horlicks can assuage the pain.

Worse still, the moment the repairs to the road were completed a cheery red postal-van arrived outside the gates to the House, bearing with it the long dreaded credit-card statement. Mrs electrofried was not amused.

Not only had the purchase of sundry Davis box-sets depleted the already meagre piggy-bank set aside for our Christmas turkey, the last debit was for a monthly subscription to a dubious web-site that goes by the name of "Wanton Wenches of Western Slovenia.com". Fetlock the Butler occupies the Tower cell next to mine as the strains of mrs electrofried's extensive collection of Perry Como Cd's play out on the trusty Victrola.

Spare a thought for us both as we complete our miserable penance "forte et dure".

yours achingly,

electofried (mr)