Women's Day

Today, March 8th, is International Women's Day. I have shared, posted and tweeted about it on my work social media platforms. I have also commented on a couple of posts on my personal Facebook pages. This may turn out to be the most personal blog post I have ever written. Even though it may appear that I share some very personal information, I always write with awareness of what I am prepared to make public. I am also very careful not to be critical of people I know. As some of you know, I have three wonderful children. All three were born at home, two in Manchester and the youngest in Bakewell. My second husband is the father of my older two, and that marriage broke up when I met the father of my youngest, who also claimed to have had a vasectomy. I was incredibly fortunate to be able to arrange home births for all three, with fantastic care on the NHS. The midwives who looked after me before, during and after those births were thrilled and excited to be involved. Not everyone wants a home birth, but it was really important to me. I was especially lucky because I was considered an older mother at 30 when I had my first. I officially became a single parent just before my youngest child's third birthday. A few alarm bells, but no real warning signs. My oldest was just about to start secondary school. I had a part time job and worked as a homoeopath and reflexologist on a self employed basis. I had some child care arranged for my youngest, but not enough to cover my work commitments. I had to drop weekend and evening appointments, give up a practice room. I can remember feeling almost hysterical as he drove off, in my car, into the distance. It lasted about ten minutes and then I had to work things out. I know I cried a lot over the next couple of weeks, but that was the shock. My next door neighbour, a very good friend and my mother came and helped, taking it in turns to cover my part time working week. When I read criticism of single parents on benefits, or read about government schemes to get women back to work, I wish they knew what it was like to juggle home, work, children and the rest. It only takes one of the family to be ill or off colour and the whole careful balancing act tumbles. And then there are the school holidays. I found myself helping out friends in the holidays or after school because I had no choice but to be organised for all eventualities. Then my parents moved to Bakewell. Halcyon days. The older two got older. They were an enormous help. Then my parents got older. New worries and concerns. As the years went by I shifted what I did and how I did it to fit round my family commitments. I even did a part time MA. My younger sister took my youngest on holiday with her to give me a long weekend to write up my thesis. That's all it takes sometimes. Last month I went for an interview for a one year, lowly paid post. The interviewer,a woman, asked me if my varied CV indicated a lack of focus. I was too shocked by the question to respond as I would now. I started to explain about the shifts in child care and responsibilities that had taken me from part time and flexible self employed work, to full time but unsocial hours, back to part time and then full time again. What I should have said is that it showed that I was fully focused on balancing my responsibilities to my family and myself. I have had help from unexpected sources and a complete lack of support from some I would have expected it from. I never dreamt in my wildest nightmares that I would bring up a family in this way, with such single minded responsibility. It is a credit to my children that they made it the rewarding and fulfilling experience it has been. The friends and family who have helped along the way have also been a huge part of that. Like the fridge magnet says ' you can't scare me, I have children'.

A City Speaks

' A City Speaks' is the title of a film made in 1947, described as Manchester's Civic Film. Commissioned during the Second World War,it celebrates the achievements and the ambitions for the redevelopment of the city. Housing, health, leisure and culture are all represented. Documentary film maker Paul Rotha took over the production in 1944 and the film premiered at the Odeon in 1947. Every time I travel round Manchester, especially on the bus down through the Oxford Road corridor, past the Universities, or when I wait for the transpeak bus at Chorlton Street coach station, I am both thrilled and amazed at the diversity of the languages I hear. I try and identify the language from snatches of vocabulary. I can manage Italian, Spanish, Polish, German, Japanese, Chinese and of course French. Then there's Urdu and Arabic. I listen out for North African French because it reminds me of living in Morocco. I found myself following an excitable conversation in French last week and then realised that my satisfaction in being able to recognise what they were talking about meant that I was eavesdropping! There's such a mix of nationalities in the city. Some are passing through,students and post graduates.Others are born and brought up here, with Manchester accents and the ability to speak a family language fluently. I don't know why I worry about eavesdropping. People don't usually talk to one another on the bus, but they will have phone conversations about the most personal topics and seem oblivious to the fact that they are sharing those thoughts and feelings with a bus full of strangers! It's a great insight into what the city says.

Let's go crazy

Some readers of this blog will have realised that I got to see Prince at the weekend. Some of my friends hadn't realised that I had such respect for Prince as an artist. Back in 1992, when he had already been around for some years, I was cleaning a shop that we had just rented in Sheffield. Radio One was on and there was a Paul Gambaccini special about Prince and his music. I'd always liked his songs, but I didn't really get where he had come from and what he was doing. It was a revelation. I never expected to see him. I certainly never imagined seeing him in a small venue in Manchester. I was quite content with my plan to see the Strypes with Mel Smith. When we left Academy 2 there was a new queue outside in the rain. There was the chance of getting in to Prince's late show, or at least to see part of the performance underway. Mel had her bank card. Neither of us had any cash. When we got to the ticket desk we were told cash only. Massive disappointment. Then the couple behind us said they'd lend us the cash and we could meet them and pay them back after the show. Such excitement, such goodwill. We got into a packed Academy One to hear Raspberry Beret. There were four or five further songs in the encore, and then they left the stage. No one knew what was going on, not even the security men, who we knew were booked to work till 3.30am because one who had chosen to work on the Strypes concert told us. Usually the Academy is cleared within minutes of the house lights going up. We must have hung around for over an hour. There was a queue round the building. Word had gone out on twitter that the late show was happening. But it didn't. We managed to find the generous couple, who had put in a complaint before leaving. There was talk of refunds if we got in touch with the box office on Saturday morning. By Saturday morning the Manchester Evening News was announcing that tickets for the late show would be honoured for Saturday night. I went down to the students' union box office to check and it still wasn't official. Eventually it was confirmed. Plans were changed and plans were made. About 150 of us had bought late show tickets for half price. We were invited to join our own special queue. Very welcome as the other queues snaked round the block in both directions. People had been there since early morning, both ticket holders and hopefuls. It was amazing. He was incredible and his band were fantastic. I also got to write a review for Louder Than War which you can read on the LTW website. There are a few more things I'd like to say about the whole experience. I realise that when I review I am interested in how the music and performance makes me feel, what memories and associations it sparks. I'm no good at set lists and the technical stuff. When we were waiting in our exclusive queue a woman commented that everyone there would be over 40, as that was his era. She was wrong. There were people of all ages there. She had missed the point that Prince is still current, still creating, still influencing a young generation of artists who are playing with their creative output and their image and persona.This wasn't about nostalgia, in spite of the youngsters dressed in Purple Rain fashions and in spite of the fact that we all knew the lyrics well enough to sing along, testify, play a part. I would never have wanted to go and see him in an arena. To be up near the stage, so close that you felt that you could catch his eye, or kid yourself he had caught yours, was perfect. He reminds me of those who have gone. Michael Jackson who worked that soulful falsetto. Jimi Hendrix who played rock guitar. Shades of Funkadelic, Norman Whitfield's production, the Undisputed Truth. I'd love to hear him and 3rdeyegirl do 'Smiling Faces'. He can be mocked and misunderstood. His Purpleness, his diminutive size. Size really doesn't matter. He's both sexy and androgynous, a Jehovah's witness who writes sexually charged lyrics in the best tradition of the blues and rock'n'roll. He connects and shares. He's a trickster and a tease, flirting outrageously with the crowd. I have a theory that musicians are our shamans. Not just the Princes and the Patti Smiths, but even the commercially manipulated girl or boy bands who play such a part in rites of passage in our society. Was Saturday night's shared experience physical or spiritual, sex or communion ? It was like the best kind of one night stand. You know it will never happen again but it's everything you desire at the time. And I got to be there twice!

Rock Royalty

The Manchester Histories twitter feed reminded me that earlier this week was the anniversary of Wings' appearance at Salford University. In 1972 the entourage and band turned up at Manchester University's student union building offering to play for free. The social secretary turned them down, so they headed across the border to Salford. My friends and I used to drink in the Cross Keys in Eccles. Someone came in and told us they were playing, so we jumped in my friend's mini and headed over there. The fact that it was a free concert was neither here nor there, as in those days I got in free to most venues as one of Allan Prior's hippy dance troupe. My childish crush on Paul Macartney had waned with the Beatles, but I liked Wings and it was a great show. How strange that this week brings another member of rock royalty to Manchester. There were rumours and counter rumours earlier in the week about the venue and ticket prices for Prince. In the end it came down to two nights at the Academy next to the Students' Union building, at £77 a ticket. Both Friday and Saturday nights sold out in minutes. Fans were already queuing outside when I went past on my way to work at 8.30am. Word of mouth for Wings, twitter and social media frenzy for Prince. Free of charge for Wings. A hefty ticket price by any standards for Prince. I'm sure it will be worth every penny if you are there. I'll be next door reviewing a young Irish R and B band called the Strypes. It's going to be great. Perhaps they'll put Prince on their guest list. Somewhere in their pasts are the same musical influences.

Bus stop, wet day

My weekday commute to work takes me on a bus along what is now known as the Oxford Road corridor. It's the route the students use to come into the universities. I get on at Platt Fields, just opposite where I am living during the week. There's usually a choice of buses,all vying for passengers. It's a familiar journey into the city centre. Something strange happens every morning when the bus gets to All Saints. My unconscious mind says ' this is where I get off'. There's a lurch of recognition, a kind of muscle memory, maybe a kind of this life regression. Then I relax and remember that I don't work at 8th Day or Manchester Studies any more. It's not a journey I did for more than a couple of years when I was working at either of those two places. It's not as if it's been a lifetime habit. I loved both jobs, they were emotionally intense times in terms of relationships and friendships and I did a lot of growing up when I was there. All Saints will always be part of my emotional landscape but it's thirty years since I was based there. Strong links.

Reviewing the Kaiser Chiefs

I have just written my first review for Louder Than War, thanks to Mel Smith of Mudkiss Photography. She was one of the founders of the wonderful Mudkiss website,and has recently stepped away from that to concentrate on photography. She's talented, motivated, keeps up a demanding day job and passionate about what she does.An essential combination in the world of the music business. The snow fell for the first time this winter in Manchester last night. Just when we thought spring was on its way. I had to walk from Fallowfield into the city centre as an accident had disrupted bus services. Plenty of time to think about what I was expecting from the gig. The Kaiser Chiefs at Gorilla. My attitude to the Kaiser Chiefs has been ambivalent until now. I came across them at about the same time as Franz Ferdinand came on the scene. All that First World War association. A lot of history. A lot to live up to. I couldn't quite reconcile the Kaiser Chiefs pop persona with their political lyrics. Ricky Wilson looked like a naughty schoolboy, an impression reinforced by the fact that one of my friends had been at school with him in Leeds. Then Ricky Wilson turned up as a coach on the Voice. Looking slimmer, very confident, holding his own with very experienced fellow coaches. When I knew I would be reviewing this gig, I did some homework. The Kaiser Chiefs have been around a surprisingly long time. They have built a strong following. They have survived being dropped by their first record label. They have coped with one of the founder members leaving. Most of the band have known one another since school. That's a long time and a lot of growing up together. Ricky Wilson's decision to do the Voice could have been seen as a career move on a par with going on some celebrity reality show. And then the venue. In Manchester at Gorilla. Gorilla is probably the closest to a stripped down old style club you could find. Underneath the arches of Oxford Road station, it has a great atmosphere. It's set me off analysing words. The band's lyrics - take alook at their album titles and songs. It's all fighting talk, referencing war, disaffection and conflict without being unpleasantly aggressive . So we have Gorilla with its link to Guerilla. A sold out gig - there are two meanings there. Over the top can be taken two ways. Even their new album Education, Education, Education and War references Tony Blair's 2005 speech. Angry Mob, I Predict a Riot, Cannons, Coming Home, ' we the people created equal'. There are some powerful messages there. They played old favourites and new songs. The audience were there to have a great time - a golden ticket for a fan. A band full of confidence and experience playing a small venue. Someone on the bus remarked that it was a step down from arenas. Quite the reverse. It was a chance to break down the barricades. Ricky Wilson worked the room, moving through the crowd to climb the scaffolding to the balcony, sharing beer and phone photos.He's a fantastic front man. I have never seen a band apologise for getting too comfortable. He talked about getting the hunger back. He certainly has a lean and hungry look nowadays and it suits him. Even the security man was impressed. I am working with stories from the First World War every day at the moment. I had a vision of them as a band of Pals, surviving and thriving, looking out for one another, taking their inspiration from past conflicts and present tensions. I'm a new fan. And it seems fitting that my first review for Louder Than War is this band. Music as instrument for change. http://louderthanwar.com/ http://www.mudkissphotography.co.uk/#/ http://www.mudkiss.com/ http://www.kaiserchiefs.com/

Tales of the Unexpected

In the last couple of weeks I have reconnected with a few old friends. Much of the experience of returning to Manchester has involved friendships old and new, as those of you have followed my blog posts will know. As the weeks fly by, accelerating to the end of my one year contract, I had thought that the coincidences and connections were tailing off. However at a birthday celebration I met someone who was a friend of mine when I was in my late teens.She and her beautiful children came to my first wedding. We stayed in touch for a while, but life intervened and we lost touch. It was wonderful to meet up so unexpectedly after nearly forty years! The following week another friend came to visit, passing through Manchester. We were friends in our teens, wrote to one another from our respective boarding schools, and I was devastated to be told he had died of an overdose when he was about 18. Except he hadn't. About six years ago my sister was wondering if his brother was related to one of the parents at her son's school. They shared an unusual surname. I googled the brothers and found my late lamented friend, alive and well, with a work email address! Our parents worked in the Far East and through him I have been in touch with others from those far off Sarawak days. The strange thing is that our paths had crossed but we hadn't met. We'd even been at the same concerts. I just never expected to see him. Would I have thought he was a ghost? Last weekend I went to a one day course on folk song in England at Sheffield University, organised by the English Folk Dance and Song Society. I had booked my place last August. There were a few familiar faces there. One of my lecturers from my MA, ten years ago now. A friend from the commuter train and somenone else from the singing class I used to go to. At the lunch break a woman who had looked familiar, but who I couldn't place, called me by name. Amazingly she is another friend from our teenage years, with links to 8th Day. We have kept in touch recently on Facebook, thanks to a significant 8th Day anniversary a few years ago, but neither of us had announced our weekend plans for the course in Sheffield on social media. It was fantastic to see her. One of my friends reminded me of the saying ' Friends for a season. Friends for a reason. Friends for life.' Some of these connections are so deeply embedded in my past, it's difficult to take in these reconnections. It's a magical experience, a fairy tale.