Taking the plunge.
I have, it seems. And only six weeks late.
Now, now – don’t come over all Kevin McCloud on me; what’s a few more days of going quietly demented in a cluttered upstairs room? Mr Rochester’s misses did it happily for years without anyone finding out. I’m confident I had a good fortnight left in me before I’d set fire to myself in the attic.
But ring out the damp towels and perhaps a few bells, for I am in no need of being hosed down – I have taken the above mentioned plunge and am writing this from the glorious and modest new environs of Momo 2.0, with the first fresh cafetiere duely decanted.
The Momo Grados, the durbek I haggled for very ineffectually in Cairo and the old Illy tin of pens are all symbolically in place around the new working space – and I’ve played the first musical sounds through the studio speakers. I chose a little Horrace Silver, to make the place sound instantly cool and chic and sophisticated. In the forlorn hope that this will all one day rub off on the puttering boob swinging around in his chair in the middle of all this pre-ambling ambience.
Yep, the old desks will need replacing and we have yet to install the ordered chaos of a wall of shelves, to say nothing of anywhere for you to sit were you to drop in, or of any of the half ton of creative crap still strewn around the surprisingly large new bedroom upstairs. But still, like Flynn, I am in. And typin’.
If I don’t shatter something expensive and somehow irreplaceable on this very sophisticated slate floor within the week, I shall ask someone high up somewhere for some sort of certificate of unbelievableness. And also for a few smart rugs, while I’m asking.
And I have yet to test the fortitude of the sound restrictive technology built into this little music fortress for the sake of the neighbours – tootling jazz tunes don’t really push the bottom end. But here on a Sunday morning, I haven’t the courage to take Deadmau5 out of the safe sonic confines of the little CD radio player we’ve had him in during decorating; the big monitors will have to wait for a dead Tuesday afternoon or something before being warmed up any.
Still, all this fussing and fuddling about aside, I shall be coming to work tomorrow morning for the first time in eight and a half years to a working environment that looks half way professional.
I do, yes, miss the bright orange room I played in for a decade. But don’t kid yourself any more than I will be that this very slightly more grown-up-looking space will not be a glorified play room. On the contrary – stand back, this is what I do.
First bit of work won’t be musical, however. If I can relocate my missing director from his lengthy travels around the globe, I believe we have a signature tune to finish for our new travel series, but otherwise the next important thing on the Momo:tempo agenda is… a new album.
Yes. Believe it, giddy fan. Have a sit down.
And yes. I. Am. Excited.
But… Before making a sonic start on all that, I suspect there is a bit more notebook-carrying & scribbling to do, as well as a spot of new-software-installation-nightmaring to do.
And besides, today I am modestly attempting to develop a proposal document for an entire arts festival.
I tease with this, of course. And yes, of course, it’s an idea with such sizeable practical ramifications that the chances of I and the fledgling team gathering around it blanching at the delivery schedule of it at some point early on are very high indeed.
Yet. Sometimes you feel compelled to give up a few weekends to build an ark in the garden.
Nope. No bloody antelope usually turn up, I know. Which is usually a good thing if alligators and the entire arachnid family also follow suit.
Then again, whether it’s been raining a lot lately or not, there is simply a time occasionally to take the plunge and dive right in. The time for piddling in the shallow end is over. It is time to jump over the side.
..Now. If someone would like to tell me what all this means, you shall find me in the kitchen making some more coffee and choosing background music.
Welcome to the future, gang.