→ Listening to overly-emotive songs over and over again is not a new habit for me

→ Seriously, not a new habit

→ Fortunately, Fin has better taste

I mentioned that when Lucy was staying with us last weekend, she was sweet enough to take Fin and me on a mini love shoot, letting us see her amazing skills in action. What I neglected to mention was that said shoot took place outside. In a public place. In the middle of August. Next to three restaurants, a hotel and a bustling harbour. In other words, lots of people. Crrringe!

Of course Lucy, being the pro that she is, was quick to reassure us that nobody was looking at us. But seriously, what could be more conspicuous than a couple posing in front of a giant fancy camera, on a harbour wall, in the middle of summer?

I'll tell you what could be more conspicuous: a girl posing in front of a giant fancy camera, on a harbour wall, in the middle of spring, playing a cello. And wearing cream palazzo pants. Oh yes.

Remember ages ago when I got my hair cut, I posted a sneaky picture of me and my cello and promised that I'd be back with the full explanation the following week? Well, slightly (ahem) later than planned, here it is.

The images were taken by my talented friend Kristen of What Kristen Saw. Kristen is part of a photography group in her local area, and wanted something a bit different to share with her fellow photographers; specifically, she was after some pictures of a musician in action. She happened to be staying with the Hubster and me for the weekend, and it was just after she had sprung her lovely surprise on us, so I really had no choice but to volunteer my services. Well played, Kristen.

From the ages of 8 to 18, playing the cello was a huge part of my life. After I was deemed insufficiently musical by the school's violin teacher to be worthy of one of the three free spaces to learn the violin (HA! I showed her!! Not that I'm bitter about it), I was encouraged forced by my dad to take up the less cool and consequently less competitive alternative: the cello.

Thus I was doomed to endure a decade of back pain (those things are heavy), bad jokes ("Bet you wish you played the flute! Haha!" No, I don't. Please fuck off), callused fingers, endless rehearsals, the mind-numbing repetition of scale practice, exams, exams and more exams.

But in return, oh, the gifts I was given. From the tiny triumph of hitting a difficult note perfectly in tune, to the huge swelling of my heart as the first proper orchestra I played with struck up its spine-tingling opening chord. The prickles on my neck every time I listened to Elgar's cello concerto, and the heat in my cheeks when I found out the results of my Grade 8 exam (Readers, I aced it).

When I think back to those years, playing the cello was such an enormous influence on how I spent my time, who my friends were (Kristen played in the school orchestra too - clarinet, if you're interested), how I perceived myself, who I was, that it seemed impossible that things would ever change.

Then, life intervened. I went to university, where opportunities were fewer and the temptation of other, less cultured activities was irresistible. Playing the cello meant less time for studying and, more importantly, less time for partying and drinking and flirting with my future husband. Playing in orchestras meant auditions (scary) and walking alone into rooms full of complete strangers (scarier).

I did try, for a while. I even took my cello to France with me when I studied abroad, but a miserable experience in a small, dark French classroom with three violins, a flute and a tuba, accompanied by the unfortunate discovery that the notes have completely different names in French, was enough to consign the cello to a dusty corner of my room for the rest of year. And then it was finals, and then it was training, and then, and then, and then...

Nowadays, the cello is still sitting in a dusty corner of a room, silent and forgotten. The tips of my fingers are soft and smooth, their rosy plumpness untroubled by its sharp metal strings. Words that used to flow freely now sit lumpenly on my tongue - rosin, vibrato, harmonic, rallentando. But when Kristen asked if I would play it for her, what could I say but yes?

I will spare you the details of the hour it took us to construct a suitable outift from the random contents of my wardrobe (cream trousers? Really?). I won't tell you how horribly out of tune the poor instrument was when I finally removed it from its case, or how I managed to snap a G-string (not that kind, thank you) trying to wrestle it back in tune, or how I couldn't remember how to play anything, or how strangers stared at us, perplexed, as I sawed away making terrible noises while Kristen darted around me, snapping away.

I will tell you that I felt completely ridiculous. And I will tell you that, despite the indignity and the sad realisation that I was rustier than the crusted rings in the old harbour wall, playing again felt absolutely bloody brilliant.

But I haven't played since.

Life intervenes.



{Top image by me. All other images by What Kristen Saw}

Although this week is unashamedly dedicated to all things wedding-related, I haven't forgotten that we are also now less than three weeks away from Fringe by the Sea, and I still have more of my favourite acts to share with you from this year's programme. I had intended to run this post later in the week, but my lovely mum (who, in case you missed them, left some particularly brilliant comments here yesterday) is enduring yet another round of the dreaded scanxiety today, so as well as loading you up on wedding goodness and shamelessly promoting Fringe by the Sea, I also wanted to do a wee something special for her. Fortunately, I can kill three birds with one stone, thanks to the big bundle of folky awesomeness that is Kris Drever.

But first, I need to backtrack a little. As you know by now, the Hubster is really into music. Specifically, new music. Aside from a handful of beloved favourites (Morrissey and Bruce Springsteen are with him - and, by default, me - for life), few artists will outlast his limited attention span. He will happily wipe half the albums from his iPod and replace them without a second thought.

I, on the other hand, suffer from the unfortunate and somewhat self-defeating belief that if I don't know it, then I won't like it. I find new music exhausting; you have to listen to a new song sooo many times before it actually starts to mean something. Frankly, if I can't sing along to it, I fail to see the point. But once a song has worked its way into my consciousness, once its comforting melody has settled over me like a soft blanket, once its lyrics trip effortlessly off my tongue... well. Then it is mine for life.

Songs, for me, are memories. As soon as the first familiar chord trembles across the airwaves, I am instantly transported to a different place, a distant moment. There is one song in particular that is relatively new to me, but which in the last eighteen months or so (that counts as new, right?) has rocketed to the top of my charts and become inextricably linked in my mind with our wedding, with family, with simple pleasures. And, fortunately for me, the man who performs it the best is appearing at Fringe by the Sea. Squeeeeeal!

I'm not normally a fan of music in blogs; I'm yet to be convinced that the written word and the sung one sit comfortably together, at least not when you're *ahem* reading them at work (autoplay is the enemy of surreptitiousness). However, in the case of the lovely Kris Drever and one of my favourite songs, Shining Star, I will make an exception, because I want to share with you not only the song that I love but the memories that abide with it, the reasons why I love it. This little ditty means a lot not only to me, but also to Fin, and to my family. It immediately fills me with images of a waltz. A long drive home. A wedding. Joy.

It has been a long day. A day of words written in the sand, a lone balloon waving in the breeze, one sandy knee, and a question. The question. An old ring on a new finger, champagne popping, hugs and grins and long-distance phone calls. It's my birthday, but that's not why we've been celebrating.

Mum can waltz! Mum, teach us, please, go on. Mum, we need your help.

Perhaps it's the peculiar mix of excitement and terror that I'm experiencing. Perhaps it's the gentle one-two-three-one-two-three of the song that's playing. Perhaps it's just the bubbles. But when Fin declines to dance, I bounce up and my mother and I begin to waltz. Round and round, socks slipping on the carpet, avoiding the couch and the Christmas tree, laughing with the sheer silly joy of it all.

Some weeks later, and a long drive home. Ugh. My calves ache, my thighs ache, my shoulders ache, my arms ache, even my eyeballs ache. Such are the perils of skiing in Scotland. Fin and my dad are both snoozing in the back of the car as we rumble towards home, eerily similar in their salopettes, sleepy little snuffs and puffles occasionally escaping their mouths. My mum navigates the long road south as I recline in the front seat, weary and content.

For as long as I can remember, my mum and I have sung in the car together. From The Beatles to The Lion King, Guys 'n' Dolls to Diana Ross; if it's got a chorus, we'll be warbling away. I have even been known to bust out a few harmonies. Just call me Liesl Von Trapp.

Kris Drever is doing his best, bless him, but he is no match for my mother and me. We hit our stride and the familiar chorus rises to meet us. Side by side we sing, joyful and unembarrassed, as the men sleep on.

The gravelly rush of our tyres on the road quickly fades as we pass by. Around us the wild hills are silent. In this moment, all is well with the world.

And finally. A wedding.

That is why I love this song.

Yes, that's right. Today's Summer Love-In post is brought to you by none other than the Hubster himself. I'll give you a moment to absorb this exciting news.

...

Absorbed? Ok? Good.

When I first introduced Fin to this blog a few months ago, I mentioned that he was really into music and that, if you were very lucky, he might come back and give you some hot picks one day. Well, my friends, that day has finally come.

Fin is actually a big part of why I started blogging. Not because he is a loving, supportive husband who saw that I was crying out for a creative outlet and encouraged me to give voice to my inner turmoil through the medium of blogging. No, it was because he started a blog first, and I was damned if I was going to let him get away with THAT.

However, while Fin might be comfortable sharing his views on the Italian Gallo horror film movement of the 70s and 80s (erm, what?), he was not so confident about baring his soul to my discerning readers. I assured him that he could just share a few tracks, no pressure, but oh, he went so much further than that. I won't deny that I felt a little teary the first time I read this. A few of you have commented on the relationship I am lucky enough to have with my mum; here, in all its messy, heart-wrenching glory, is the relationship Fin has with his dad. The other side of my coin. 

Please, please, give Fin a warm welcome in the comments; this was scary biscuits for hum, but I think he's done himself proud. Oh, and there are some top tunes too. Enjoy.

Most of my favourite memories of my dad involve music. My parents divorced when I was 9 or 10 and as result I moved back to the UK with my mum. Every summer, I visited my dad in the US for the eight weeks of the school holidays. Music permeated those long warm summers with my dad and if I think back to when I was most happy, it was often sitting alongside my father as we drove somewhere listening to Springsteen, Ian Dury, Robert Johnstone, Belle and Sebastian or any number of amazing bands and artists that my unschooled, youthful ears had never heard. A large part of my enjoyment was hearing these new sounds, but an equal if not more important part of the experience was just shooting the breeze with my dad. 

I have often heard that people growing up as teenagers are at some point embarrassed by their fathers - I have never had that. I always thought my dad was the coolest guy in the world (and kind of still do). When my dad was at work, I would leaf through his huge tape and then later CD collection [Edit: right this second, Fin is listening to his dad's iPod. Plus ça change.]. During those warm, lazy days I remember listening for the first time to legendary albums like The Clash's London Calling, Joy Division's Closer, Talking Heads' Speaking In Tongues and tons more. To me, it was a brave new world, and my dad was even cooler in my mind for having discovered this world first. 

As I grew, I developed my own tastes and with my friends fell in love with bands that weren't in my dad's collection - The Cure, The Chameleons, The Dead Kennedys and many more – until, when I was 17, a year before I met Kirsty, I fell head-over-heels in love with the other love of my life: Morrissey. 

Maybe it's sign of me approaching 30, or simply because it's true, but I cannot help but feel that pop and indie music are in terminal decline. It seems like nobody has any ideas anymore and the love and passion inspired by the great bands my father introduced me to, and the ones I discovered as a teenager, is impossible in this over-stimulated, confused world of ours. Maybe its just because I'm an adult and the world doesn't shine like it used to. 

But whenever I speak to my dad on the phone, one of the first things we ask each other is, “What are you listening to?”. Perhaps because of him, and because of the memory of being 17 and hearing How Soon Is Now for the first time, I still trawl the internet and music magazines looking for the new Moz or Strummer. So when Kirst asked me to write a blog post for her summer lovin thing [It's the SUMMER LOVE-IN DAMMIT!!] I knew it had to be about music. So, I thought I would introduce for you a few of the bands I think are worth a listen.

THE TWILIGHT SAD

I thought I would start with a couple of Scottish bands, just to represent a little. The Twilight Sad have been working away for a few years now without really breaking through. They are about to release their third studio album and are really worth a listen. The band use the everyday experiences of growing up and small-town Scottish life, and combine this with a frantic rhythm section, overdriven guitars and the sentimental but enigmatic storytelling of lead singer James Graham to create something pretty powerful.

GLASVEGAS

Another Scottish band, and one that has had a pretty dramatic last couple of years, taking in high critical praise for their first album, the mental breakdown of their frontman and the backlash associated with being hailed the best band in the universe ever by the now totally discredited NME. However, Glasvegas is a band that deserves more attention than many of the bands championed by the NME (The Vaccinces, anyone?), most of which soon disappear into the pit of mediocrity from whence they came. 

Hailing from the deprived east end of Glasgow, the lead singer James Allan represents an older form of working class British identity that rejects the swaggering, lager-swilling, masculine idiocy and arrogance represented by Oasis and their underclass-inspired spawn like Hard Fi, Kasabian and The View, and instead harks back to the days of working class pride and solidarity. 

James Allan is a charismatic, enigmatic frontman who, at his best, is the one of the finest songwriters around. Songs like Daddy's Gone and Lots Sometimes are truly excellent; this songwriting, combined with the Roy Orbison-inspired 50s vibe and the Phil Spector wall of sound, makes an amazing racket. Glasvegas are often criticised by hipsters for being over-emotive, but when everyone else seems to be falling over themselves to prove how little they care, Glasvegas are a refreshing change. Finally, a band you can believe in again.

[Kirsty: This song contains some of my favourite lyrics ever. Example: "I wish you were here with me nocturnally". Love.]

BEACH HOUSE

Beach House have quietly been improving their craft over three studio albums but it is in their latest album Teen Dreams that they really hit their peak. Teen Dreams is one of my favourite albums of the last ten years. Beach House make Kirsty anxious, or what she describes as "the opposite of relaxed", and while I disagree I kind of understand what she means - they make woozy, dreamy pop. In some ways you have to be in a Beach House kind of mood to listen to them, but if you are in that type of mood then no one can touch them. Victoria Legrand's plaintive vocals work perfectly with droning keyboards and guitar to create a truly distinctive sound.

HARD MIX

Hard Mix is the pseudonym of Noah Smith, who can kind of be described as "Moby, but not totally crap". Smith takes a variety of old recordings ranging from old soul songs to dialogue from Disney films and mixes it with interesting and diverse electro beats to create a fuzzy and emotive sound. His first album was released a few months ago and is worth checking out. It is not a perfect album by any means, but with Smith's young age this is to be expected. Its high points, however - Now Her, Memories and number of other moments - are an exciting basis for Smith to build on. Hard Mix has the potential to make a truly great dance album.

I don't know how this has happened. You know I'm hopeless at listening to any new music. We've established I've never even been dumped. Yet somehow I have become utterly obsessed with Adele's current album 21.

I realise I'm late to the party on this one. That's just how I roll. I have to hear a song on the radio twenty times before 'll even consider purchasing it (or asking my husband to illegally download it for me. Ahem). With Adele, the crunch moment came when I caught her performance at this year's Brits. Crammed in amongst all the pyrotechnics and profanities, the obnoxious dance routines and rampant auto-tuning, she took to the stage in a simple black dress, a pianist her only accompaniment, and held that auditorium captive for a full five minutes with nothing but the force of sheer, raw talent. Spellbinding. I wanted to high five my TV.

I generally don't really "do" albums, so when I say I'm obsessed with her album, what I mean is I'm obsessed with two songs on the album, which I play constantly on repeat for weeks until I'm so sick of them I never want to hear them again as long as I live.

The weird thing is, the songs that I become obsessed with are never the fun, perky ones. They're always the morose, melancholy, cant-believe-you-dumped-me-you-bastert ones. What's that all about? Shouldn't I, as a loved-up newlywed, be listening to songs of joy, and wonder, and everlasting love? So how come it's songs of heartache that infiltrate my thoughts so slyly, so deeply, that it's only when I start getting funny looks from my fellow passengers that I realise I'm quietly singing them on the bus? (Yes. I am that weirdo.)

I think it all comes back to my adoration of sad films, sad books, sad TV adverts - let's add sad bastard songs to that list, shall we? There is just something so cleansing, revitalising, in imbibing someone else's pain and heartbreak in neat little 3-minute chunks. Instead of making me weep for my imaginary lost loves, it makes me wistfully content (if such a state exists) and grateful to have found someone like Fin, who would never, ever, knowingly do something that would make me write an album like this.



(He did, however, describe Adele as "mum soul". When I logically pointed out that *I* like her, and I'm not a mum, he respond, "yeah, but you're in the mum genre". I'm sorry, what? First of all, what exactly is this "mum genre"? And secondly, if I take it to mean what I think he thinks it means, SINCE WHEN AM I IN IT? Aren't I in the cool young hipster genre? No? Anyone...?)

Bastert.

I LOVE Dolly Parton. She is up there with Bette Midler as one of my all-time favourite sassy songstresses - not because of her music, particularly (although have you listened to Jolene recently? Soooo good!), but because she is just all-round fabulous.

It's easy to look at Ms Parton, with her hair, her nails, her enormous... assets, and assume she's just some fluffy bit of nonsense, a joke. But underestimate her at your peril - she might look like an older version of Heidi Montag or (*shudder*) Katie Price, but the similarities end there. This is the woman who said, "I`m not offended by dumb blonde jokes because I know that I`m not dumb. I also know I`m not blonde." Smart, talented AND funny. I love.

What, you may wonder, has prompted this little love note to Dolly? Well, just this week the queen of country's Imagination Library project has been rolled out across Scotland. The scheme will give children who are living in care a free age-appropriate book every month until their fifth birthday. That's potentially a library of 60 books for each and every child.

I can't even begin to tell you how happy this makes me. As a child, I was a total book worm. When Fin and I recently popped in to visit my old childhood next-door neighbour, she regaled him with stories about how all the other children would play in the street while I would be sitting in the house with my nose stuck in a book. This was (a) embarrassing and (b) only partially true, but still, there's no denying I love a book.

On Saturday night, as part of World Book Night, I was lucky enough to be given a free novel as I was sitting in the pub. I was ridiculously over-excited about it. Can you imagine being a child in care, with all the complex emotional and social baggage that this entails, and being given the simple gift of a new book every single month? Reading has always been one of the greatest pleasures in my life and I can only hope it will bring these children all the excitement, adventure, terror and joy that it has brought me.

So that, people, is why I heart Dolly. That, and her craaaazy bazookas.


Top image: source unknown. Bottom image: chotda on flickr. Hat tip to Peacock Feathers and Diamond Rings for the article.