Rong radio.

Rong radio.

Loved this. Scooched over a precariously ambitious serving of curry after circuits tonight, cloyed sweat still matted to me like mango chutney to a naan, FourDocs played out an award-winning Three Minute Wonder. Hip poet Benjamin Zephaniah doing a sterling performance to a cam in a cab:

Great stuff. We’ve all been listening to the Rong Radio, Benjy. We’ve known it for years, of course, but we don’t seem to be doing much with the knowledge. In fact, I do rather think I’m getting comfortable with my status anxiety. After twenty years of idly enjoying myself, I still have no idea how to make much of a difference to anything, of course, and am still clinging to the vain hope that something, some day, will make its mind up to happen for me. So I won’t have the on going agony of having to choose.

Attaboy – make a difference. It’s rather beginning to seem that my values are degrading as I get older; too much rong radio. Fatness grows in the head, as well as the tee shirt, I think.

But, while I’m killing time in my thickening womb tank of apathy, if there’s one immaturity I am fairly stubbornly happy to have carried from the beginning, it’s weirdly introspective joy of making music and daydreaming about the Next Album Project. And, by jingo, it’s happening. After six years.

Had an impromptu dinner at the revamped Spyglass the other night, to celebrate Caroline’s handing in of the latest epic installment of diploma work. Mark and Sarah joined us round the table, as part of their Real Blummen’ Actual Week Off celebrations and as the evening lengthened we found our table rounded by a whole number of folk.

Tim Colthup and I spent the whole night talking music. He’s back into it – finishing a long-awaited album in the same freakin’ apartment we locked ourselves into twenty summers ago to go music creative mad. We’re both as excited now as we were then. Nothing’s moved on and I couldn’t have been happier than right then, jabbering with grins in the old Ocean. Why do we lose ourselves in it so?

All thirteen tracks I’ve decided on for my own new collection are up and spinning together here in the studio – around Actual Paid Work – and I’m just loving being in the right place again. That’s just what it still feels like. However stupendously pointless that right place has always always appeared to be.

No, don’t be nice. You’ve not heard the rubbish I’m recording yet.

It’s never going to get on the radio, that’s for damn sure.

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