Rocking

I’ve recently joined a rock and roll band. Every rocker’s dream, right? Actually it is pretty cool – I’m really enjoying it. I’m wondering why I waited this long.

It’s a bunch a guys from work, getting together for a bit of fun. The plan is to put on a fund-raising charity show sometime around Christmas. Some of us are experienced musicians, some of us not so much.

It’s a bit of an odd group, actually. We’ve got people in their twenties all the way through to their mid-forties. Our tastes, musical experiences, and skill levels differ wildly. We’ll not be making any records I don’t think, but there’s a certain safety element in such a configuration. We all work together, we all like music, and we’re trying to create a passable sound that might entertain for an evening. At best we’ll be an entertaining cover band. At worst it’ll be a decent team-building exercise.

This being a bunch of workmates, there are additional professional considerations to keep in mind: the singer can’t throw a temper tantrum and walk out in a huff; you can’t just fire the heroin-addled guitar player; and the drummer can’t die by choking on someone else’s vomit.

Groupies are probably out too, as half of us are married. This is a serious bummer. Likewise, extreme drunkenness is probably a bad idea, as are hard drugs. What are we left with? The glamour evaporates. Maybe I’ll just knock over my drum kit at the end of our final set – surely that’s allowed.

I’ve been practicing the same six songs for weeks now. That’s all we’ve managed – six songs. Our goal is two 45-minutes sets, so that’s probably 12 or 15 songs all told. We have a lot of work to do.

The bass player is tight, which makes my job a lot easier – now I just need to reciprocate. Actually I thought I was doing ok until I recorded my practice last night. My favourite song from our set – The Clash’s I Fought the Law – sounded a mess. I was all over the place. The heart was there, sure, but it was a train wreck. Well, maybe that’s ok, maybe even a bit Punk Rock. A train wreck with heart.

It’s fascinating to me, how seriously I’m taking this. I know it’s just a lark really, but I have this drive to excel with this project. Realistically, all I can hope for is competence.

Fear of failure is a constant companion on most of my adventures. Sometimes it’s an expectation of failure, which ends with us both rolling in the gutter, blaming each other, but usually the fear’s presence motivates me just enough so that I can do what I have to with a certain kind of flaky competence, rough around the edges but the heart in the right place. Put another way, I can get by with most things I put my mind to, but I’m not particularly talented in any one discipline.

So, for me, any attempt at excellence takes a full and continuous commitment that must be nurtured and constantly renewed. I’m not much good at it, but I’d sure like to be.

Such it is for the drumming. When I first started I would just play the songs I enjoyed playing, cranking up the walkman and getting my ya yas out. And I suppose that’s been pretty much the pattern for the last twenty years. (twenty?? Where do they go?) I’ve been just playing for pleasure, once in awhile practicing a new pattern because I liked its sound. Yet despite always having a drum kit around, I don’t even know if I’m holding my sticks properly. I’ve never practiced the rudiments. I’ve never played to a metronome. In short, I’ve never really practiced. It’s all been about fun rather than hard, focused work.

I do have a certain style on the drums, developed over years of listening and hacking about. But it’s a messy style, and I’ve had to rein it way in for these rehearsals. Tight over flash. My number one priority here (as it should be any drummer’s): rock solid timing.

I think it’s mostly going pretty well, but only a recording of the rehearsal will really tell for sure. It sure is a kick. As we progress from week to week I’m offering suggestions, getting excited, animated, last time even showing the guitar player how to do a Pete Townsend windmill. It’s a weird layout, too… the drummer is at the back, but everyone sets up across the room in a wee semicircle, facing me. It’s cool. I’m the man. By the end of the session I’m energized, sweating all over like good sex in South Carolina, and near deaf.

Rock on, dude.

Lost in MaryHill

I got lost in MaryHill the other night. Well, maybe lost is the wrong word. I knew where I was, I just couldn’t find where I was going. Not that that’s anything new – I get lost all the time in Glasgow. And Edinburgh. And Sterling – any UK city really.

Part of the problem is the strange signage they use here, or lack thereof. There’s no norm, no pattern you can depend upon. Sometimes you’ll see a street name on the corner building, sometimes on a low sign on a little brick wall. But no standard signpost with one sign showing the road you’re on, and the other showing the crossing road. And even if you somehow find out the road you’re driving, its name changes every few blocks.

Roundabouts are worse. At least with the intersection you have a chance of finding a street sign, but on roundabouts all you get is either a numbered roadway (B707; A81) or the neighbourhood which lies beyond. If you take the neighbourhood sign, there’s no further sign to let you know you’ve arrived there. Just another inevitable roundabout giving you entirely new names, which means either you’ve just gone through it or you’re lost again. (Or both, which is my usual).

So here I was in MaryHill, my Google printout having directed me to an abandoned lot in the middle of a council housing estate. I was looking for our new rehearsal space. The rest of the band was waiting. I was already 15 minutes late.

MaryHill is not the worst place to be lost in Glasgow, but I can think of better. It’s a sad, run-down section of town, full of litter, boarded-up council houses, closed shops, and zombies. As I tucked my Google map printout back in my pocket, I noticed a mother with a buggy walking towards me. Well, sort of shuffling actually. She had this pinched, weathered look, as if her life thus far had been hard. Maybe I could ask her… but I thought better of it. It’s not that I didn’t think she could help – it was more selfish than that. I didn’t want her to confirm the rapid (and quite possibly unfair) judgment I’d already made of her.

So I tucked the map back in, zipped up my pocket, put on my gloves, and got going again. A tank bag with map pocket sure would help me now. But that’s just more kit you’ve got to secure…

I knew the place was close, I just couldn’t find the street. Up and down the side streets, creeping up on past the traffic at stoplights, frustrated at the interminable waits (this is a problem in the UK, the long red lights due to the separate pedestrian cycle), going up the same street again, down the other one, around and around, U-turns and everywhere the traffic.

Now, I did have their number with me just in case, so I headed back down to the high street in search of a pay phone. More stop and go, but finally, now miles away from where I think the place might be, a phone booth! But traffic is heavy, can’t get across, gotta keep focused – this is the worst time to get frustrated. I visualize what would happen if I lost my situational awareness. Drive enough on two wheels and this morbid visualization process becomes quite graphic. I see three tonnes of metal hurtling into the space that should be empty but is now occupied by me and my bike. I have made a mistake. Here comes the hurt.

I managed to keep my cool and got my bike up onto the sidewalk to park. More time wasted as I take off my gloves to hunt for the phone number and a handful of change. Pen might help – but fuck, it’s in my trousers, under my motorcycle trousers, so I gotta stand there in full view of everyone and unzip myself to get to it. There’s two rough-looking pubs just across the street with a bunch of MaryHill types standing outside smoking, making no pretence about studying my plight. Fuck you. Into the phone box. Wait – the helmet’s probably gonna have to come off… where to put it… Sometimes driving a bike can be a big pain in the arse.

The phone doesn’t work – says credit only. Good! Just what I needed. Ok, there’s another one right next to it, let’s try again. Prop up the helmet, put the change on top, get the pen and paper out for directions, and start again. Nope. This one looks like it’s working but the coins go right through it and the dial tone changes to a shrieking feedback loop. Nice.

Fuck it. Gather my stuff, back in the pockets, close the zips, helmet and gloves back on, find the key for the bike, back to play in the traffic again.

The next phone booth has its coin slot glued closed. Nice neighbourhood. That’s enough – I’ve given up on the phones. I asked a few people but no-one really knew anything or wanted to talk, except for the drunk I tried to avoid: "Whashe go at?" Ah, damn. I don’t want to be rude, so I say, "yeah, she goes pretty quick right enough." Not good enough, he wants to keep at it: "Shagood’un – washe top out at?"

I told him I gotta go, and I did.

It occurred to me that a mobile phone could really save the day here. All sorts of normal people have them, but I long ago swore an oath to remain mobile-free. They’re too annoying. Or rather, their users are. They can be entirely nice, interesting people, but armed with their gadgets they become selfish, rude, and obnoxious. I guess I could give in and buy one, but that would go against my principles. I guess I just like to make life difficult for myself.

By now it was starting to rain, though the sun was shining and what I could see of the sky was blue. The rain is actually falling from clouds several miles away, but the Scottish squalls send it far and wide, resulting in a thoroughly unpleasant horizontal assault. The top of my helmet remains dry; the rest of me is soaked within seconds. Just then there’s a rainbow…

Finally, I was given solid intel from a gas-meter guy in another wrong street. I still managed to fuck it up a few times, but finally, there it was: a shithole of an industrial complex called GLASGOW NORTH. I had found it, and I was only an hour late.

I grabbed my drumsticks and headed in to rock.

Attack mode

Motorcycling is always a highly enjoyable and rewarding activity, but you never really know what the next ride will bring. I tend to be a moody person, and this extends somewhat to my riding. My motorcycling moods depend (among other things) on the weather outside, the weather inside, the general state and health of the bike, and, of course, how recently I’ve had sex.

Sometimes I just tool along, going with the flow, not causing any ripples. Maybe a little faster than the official speed limit*, and perhaps an easy overtake here and there, but mostly just hanging back, daydreaming a little, letting the robot do most of the work. Sitting on the surfboard and letting the waves take me in.

But most of the time I’m more involved, engaging with the experience: frequent overtaking, looking for the good line, finding the best patterns through the traffic. This is my default riding mode. It calms me down yet keeps me awake and alive. I’m not taking any unnecessary risks, but I’m not bored either. It’s a happy compromise: a skilful and enjoyable ride with just a touch of danger.

But there’s this other mood that hits me, without warning, from time to time. It’s what I call attack mode.

Something happens in the centre of my driving cortex that shuts down the robot and leaves me fully in charge. I become aggressive, competitive even, driving like a man possessed. Everything is fair game – dry corners, wet corners, gravel, cow shit – the road surface doesn’t matter, as I’m now playing with a full deck. I am driving at my best and getting better throughout the entire run.

I can’t predict when this mood will take me, but it’s most often in the mornings. (Evenings, on the way home from work, my head is often full and my brain is tired. Computers do that – they take it out of you.) But some mornings I’m all bushy-tailed and ready to roar. It happens slowly at first, as I notice myself passing 20 cars in a row. Then the first roundabout comes up empty and I find myself having my way with it. Sometimes it will just stay at this level – a little more interested in the corners, maybe allowing the engine to breathe a little – but in full attack mode, things quickly begin to elevate.

I am soon riding at an entirely different level. All thought is focused on my dance with the bike as we keep pushing each other. Yeah? You like that? Let’s do it again, harder this time. Attack the apex, like last time, but more. Redline it, and again, as I pass a couple of cars on that long straight past the farm. Do you have any idea what redlining an FZ1 is like, in both second and third? Attack mode is like an ever-heightening crescendo. And instead of tiring me out, I just get thirsty for more.

There’s a feeling of not wanting to let the engine mellow out, or let the tires lose any heat. The bike is digging it and giving back beautifully so I just push it harder. This engine loves being revved, and the tires are now so hot and well-scrubbed that I can push it even further, so I do. There’s no slowing down at this point. We’ve reached ultimate attack mode, and every corner, every opportunity for red-line acceleration is grasped with my whole being, leaving me near-hysterical with a giggling, adrenalin-fuelled feeling of excellence.

All extraneous thoughts are blocked and sent back. It’s an interesting state of mind, as there’s no time for random thoughts to form and fragment and layer upon each other. It’s like some kind of turbo-mindfulness, where every part of the mind and body are focused on the series of events that unravel as we rapidly approach the next corner. Traffic, road surface, junctions, sight lines, body position. The eyes are everywhere but the mind is hyper-calm. We are impeccable.

In this mode, the attack-mode, there is only one voice, with a single purpose. Its directive is simple: More. Faster; harder; push.

Performing well at such an intense level brings a deep satisfaction. And every time I do it (which isn’t as often as I’d like), I become a better rider.

Hard braking, the front end compressing, feeling the road surface and the tires’ grip through my feet, hands, shoulders, and backside. Then on the power again, the front end rising as the back end squats, feeling the vibration and the screaming glory of 12,500 RPMs. And I am truly happy, fulfilled, even amused. Scared? Yes, a little, for fear keeps the rubber side down.

By the time I pull into work the engine is purring like a besotted kitten. The brakes are glowing; the tires are almost melting. And me, I’ve got a big silly smile on my face. I didn’t see that attack wave coming, but boy, I rode it as well as I could.

I used to ride like this all the time. Things were simpler then. I was out there for that reason only – to attack, to push everything as far as it would go. In my maturity I’ve (perhaps unfortunately) developed this annoying tendency for restraint, even safety. How boring!

But I’m still here, and once in awhile, when the mood strikes, I manage a good proper ride. And for me, that’s what motorcycling is all about.

*No laws were broken in the writing of this post.

Driving in Canada and the UK

Yeah, so, Canada, eh? This summer we all took a three week holiday to the Great White North. It was brill. (Hurts, doesn’t it? Even worse than “fab”. But, seeing as how we’re no longer in Canada, one must attempt to fit in, adapt, keep low one’s centre of gravity.)

Yeah, so it was good –  I hadn’t been back in ten years. It felt great. I was home. But it’s different in Canada. Have you noticed? Way different.

It was Ottawa’s road manners that struck me first. The drivers are all lunatics, speeding and swerving and tail-gaiting like crazed dervishes on too much coffee. It doesn’t matter which province you’re in, but Quebec is the most astounding. People careen across five lanes of heavy traffic, zipping off that last minute exit so suddenly it’s hard to tell if it really just happened.

Yet people are generally tolerant, as most of them drive with the same zeal. Witnessing driver reactions here in Britain is comedic in contrast. A guy changes lanes without signalling and everyone is beside themselves with indignation. Did you see that? That idiot just changed lanes without indicating!

Canada, it’s every man for himself. Only near-death experiences are commented upon (unless you’re my brother, who sees the whole activity as shout-therapy); the rest are just expected cross-lane orbit re-adjustments that neither surprise nor are worth comment.

Most drivers in the UK are sensible, respectful, and courteous. But there is one type that annoys me to no end. If you live here, you know the type: the text book driver, driving like he’s doing his test. He’s driven exactly like this for 30 years, without change. During that time he’s neither learned anything new nor has he come to enjoy driving. Does his faultless and anal execution of his driving tasks make him happy? Not in the way Canadians understand the word. To this guy, self-satisfaction trumps happiness. It’s obvious to see, and it’s infuriating.

These are the guys that put their handbrake on every time the car is stopped, even for what will obviously be a couple of seconds. And once they start going again, their only aim is to get that gutless and annoyingly spotless car into fourth gear as soon as humanly possible. This is at 30 miles an hour. Nothing gives them more pleasure, but it’s a distinctly English kind of pleasure – even in Scotland. A grim, joyless pleasure at being correct in a miserable morass of human untidiness.

Mirrors, signal, manoeuvre. Never, never over 29 mph in town or 45 in a national speed limit zone. He’s taking his driving test, day after day, and anyone else on the road who isn’t doing the same is an outright menace.

Of course, all British drivers are guilty of this obsessive behaviour to some extent. And that makes for good drivers. The traffic here is orderly and predictable, with a distinct lack of chaos. People actually watch where they’re going and pay attention to the road. There are exceptions of course, but it’s the rule here. And British people like rules. They thrive on them.

Canada-side, things work a bit differently. Any yahoo straight off the boat can get a license. What you end up with is a bunch of raving loonies trying to kill each other. It’s remarkable how different the roads felt over there – people cutting in, then across a lane or two, maybe coming back in again, all just to gain a few seconds. Then, when it’s no longer even possible to make their turn, they bully back through and make it anyways. Playing the game (and the game must be played, or you won’t make it off your own street) requires a heavy foot on both the accelerator and brake.

Here, driving is an exercise in correctness and lawful conformity. It’s the English way. In Canada, it’s a race.

There’s more to it than that, of course. The car culture in Canada is less Vauxhall and more Trans-Am. We North Americans like cars – real cars, and they are a big part of our coming of age. In Canada a young man has the real possibility of acquiring his first car on a minimum wage job. Things are different over here. Fuel is twice the price, there’s yearly MOT inspections (hence no beaters on the roads, and face it, the only car you’re going to afford as a youngster is a beater), there’s yearly road tax, there’s the steep cost of insurance, and then there’s the interminable driving lessons and tests, which take years and cost a small fortune. A kid would have to be seriously well-off to be driving here.

In Canada, you can legally drive after taking a basic written test. And that’s you – all you need now is a rust-bucket death-trap beater with functioning lights and a valid license sticker. No yearly inspections, no road tax, no ridiculous fuel tax.

Merging traffic over there is a wild free for all. Here it’s all orderly flow, people giving way, each car letting in another, high beams flashing you in, hazards thanking in return. Back home that kind of behaviour would just add to the general confusion. You want in, you just force yourself in. And that person you just antagonized just keeps going at the same speed, right on your bumper for awhile, until everything slowly separates again. People are used to this kind of aggressive driving, and their rage quickly subsides as they pull the same asshole manoeuvre on the next guy.

In the UK, roundabouts are a gorgeous choreography, man and vehicle at their best: all logic and subdued emotion, resulting in an eerie, satisfying fluidity. It’s not always so; but it happens more often than not. And then one gets greedy for it, wants it all the time, being able to approach without brakes or sudden movement, predicting the patterns well in advance. But you do see the paranoid nellies who don’t quite get roundabouts: they’ll brake hard at the last second, for no reason, actually stopping at the entrance, even with no-one coming round. This ruins it for me. But there’s usually a rhythm, such that all the way home – through Highways, A-roads, B-roads, and a dozen roundabouts  – everything turns out in my favour. The exact right gap opens up at the required moment. Those in front drive like they’re supposed to and I get through without braking and ire.

There are, however, a few welcome traffic conventions that North America does better. Right-on-red is both logical and awesome; so is the simultaneous green for both vehicles and pedestrians. Oh, and speaking of pedestrians, that’s another angle we’ve got going for us: the pedestrian always has the right of way. When I first began my pedestrian activities in Glasgow I was about dead.

Maybe we should cross-pollinate, with a view to creating a traffic utopia. Take the best of both, throw in a little Cairo chaos for good measure, and away we go.