Ignorant Ornithology: The Moth.

I believe this to be a moth:

Moonlighting.

As a consequence of attending the Littlehampton Uke Jam I met Jim:

Jim is on the left of this picture.

Jim is on a mission to revive the Calypso music of the 1930s-40s.

Jim has a band named The Bamboo Band which spearhead Jim's mission.

There's John and Dave:

If I had a drum machine that sounded anywhere near what these two blokes do with a djembe and a set of claves I'd marry it.

The Bamboo Band membership is quite fluid, but Jim, John, Dave, Jan seem to be the core of it all.

Jim given me an open invitation to sit in with the band whenever they play.

An invitation I take up anytime I can.

Before meeting The Bamboo Band I had a vague idea of what Calypso was.

I knew it was related to the Ska and Blue Beat music I love, but I wasn't sure exactly, outside of geographical location, how.

I'm still not sure and Jim took the trouble of explaining it very carefully to me.

With BeHeld every nth degree of any performance is dissected and debated and on and on and on...

Things are somewhat different in The Bamboo Band.

With The Bamboo Band Jim will email me to tell me where they're playing.

Jim doesn't work with a set list as such, but uses his extensive knowledge of the genre to assemble a collection of post-it notes with various song titles and an indication of the key it's played in written on them.

The post-its, stuck in a note book, are in no particular order, Jim decides the running order on stage during the performance.

I've had 3 or 4 rehearsals with The Bamboos yet still have no idea what I'm doing, at all, in the slightest I just throw myself in with reckless abandon of it all and hope nobody notices I don't know what I'm  doing.

The Bamboo Band are playing at the LOVE LITTLEHAMPTON ARTS FESTIVAL organised by The Littlehampton Organisation of Contemporary Arts:

HELLO LITTLEHAMPTON!!

Of course the seemingly endless sunny weather (about two weeks now) has completely disappeared.

What the Hell, I came to raise the, errr, roof, so to speak.

I have decided to go electric for this gig.

Here's my massive rig:

One of the stage crew gave me a crate to stand it on to make it look even more impressive.

This amp is not as daft a choice for this open-air gig as it might seem at first glance.

My uke works in the upper frequencies of the overall sound picture and, much like a tambourine, can usually cut through anything.

We were originally booked to play for about half an hour, but the Portuguese Folk Song and Dance Group have pulled out so we get to play for an extra quarter of an hour.

And away we go:

Jim brings the joy of Calypso to the masses.

As I'm not familiar with all the songs on the post-it notes, plus the occasional songs like 'Yellow Bird' Jim decides to drop in, I decided to play my uke in a kind of cascading arpeggio style which is my pale imitation of African bands like The Four Brothers.
This means I can usually twangle my way round any given chord sequence and fake it if I'm not entirely sure what it is.

We rattle along, I twang my uke and jig about wearing a completely inappropriate solar toupee until a gust of wind removes it from my head.

Playing with the Bamboos is like nappy-free playtime.

I love it.

Despite the distance from the stage to the audience they seem quite enthusiastic, but unwilling to get any closer or, God forbid, dance.

The 'Green Room' was a blue tent filled with fizzy pop and crisps ('Murican's note: Fizzy Pop = Soda. Crisps = potato chips)

After the gig I hung out and had a couple of tins of Fanta which is an orange flavoured solution of several different chemicals and leftover toxic waste invented for NAZIs to drink because they couldn't get Coca Cola syrup during the war.

I wandered round the festival site and fell in love with an owl:

I have Fanta induced infatuation with you natural born killer.

I didn't manage to get this owl's eyes in the picture.

They were astonishing and filled with a  completely predatory raptor focus.

I found a sad example of the decline of the Bumble Bee:

A dead bee.

One last word of thanks to Stacy MQ who, I think, organised it and features in OnAPlate 201 actually holding the plate.
Stacy is a 'crazy Americano' and seems very, well, exotic I suppose, but then again I don't get out much so most people in Littlehampton seem exotic to me.

Ignorant Ornithology: For Every Sparrow Fallen.

This week I've been trying to record some demo pieces for a uke project that involves Wukulele's erstwhile leadereen Harriet B.

I've been continually thwarted in the attempt by the incessant chirping of a sparrow that sits on the guttering of the flat.

I was standing under the hatch to the attic and was surprised that the chipping seemed to be coming from above the hatch.

On opening the hatch I found this:

I won't go into the prolonged and frustrating capture procedure, but eventually I ended up with a bird in my hand:

I then realised that the bird on the guttering was one of the chick's frantic parents calling to their missing offspring.

I took the chick out and put it on one of the Cordyline's in the front garden:

From where it promptly descended to the middle of the road.

I picked it up again and tried to put it close to a bush across the road where it's parents were fluttering about.

The chick dived into a tangle of ivy in a six inch gap between a wall and a wooden fence.

Linda came out with her secateurs and cut the ivy back until I could reach the chick.

I scooped it up again and placed it in the branches of a tree somewhere close to where I assumed it's nest to be.

By this time it's parents had disappeared.

I wish it well but, considering the cat population of this area, I feel it's doomed.

I can't cry for every sparrow fallen, but I may shed a tear or two over this poor mite.

My Father was right, I'm bloody useless.

The New Fish Tank.

The fish have needed a new home for much, much to long.
Their habitat infested with green goo that the filter couldn't cope with.

Linda saw a new and exciting fish life-stlye product called the Ultra-Bowl.
(I can't remember if it's the 450 or the 500).

There is scope for a good deal of trauma transferring the fish from their fetid green soup environment to their new space-age habitat.
Not least for the fish.

Linda began to fret a little about the procedure.
I, as ever, have a plan.

I get out of bed before Linda, fill the washing up bowl to about half-way with water from the green fetid soup tank, attempt to scoop a one of the fish into the tiny little net that came with the Ultra-Bowl.
This proves to be quite difficult.
Fish are tricky an' no mistake.

Some time passed...

Having caught Big Fish I lift him from the tank and pop the en-netted fish into the washing up bowl, stride, with purpose, toward the new bowl, and introduce the fish.

I did this three times and was about to transfer tiny fish when Linda got out of bed to find out what I was up to.
She insisted on moving tiny fish.

Some time passed...

All's well that ends well:

The water is clearing up nicely and the fish seem right at home.

There was one other thing:

Birdsong on The Roundle. Felpham.

More Obsessional Origami.

I discovered that our memo pad is just the right size for making small orange crows:

I folded a water-bomb cube from my precious William Morris Print paper and sat an orange crow on it:

I'm now working on the leaf fold:

The Murder In The Horse Mausoleum.

Field Recording of Bird Song-Rectory Gardens-Felpham.

Recorded 13th January 2013.

Netball Goal Attack Death Stare.

Last night was very cold and the moon was one sunrise past fat.
Linda wanted to get the extra blankets from the box under the telly so there'd be a reduced risk of waking up to find out we'd become frozen corpses.

There was an accident:

Linda's favourite vase (which qualifies as a "collectable") was broken.

That was the straw that broke the camel's back.

(No, I'm not suggesting Linda is in any way, shape, or form as unto a camel).

Linda is very cross.

The kind of cross that is evident only in the eyes of an otherwise outwardly calm and still person.

Bit like a coiled spring perhaps?

I imagine the chimney companies representatives sat in their respective homes, watching T.V. or maybe  having a spot of dinner, relaxed, comfortable, and completely unaware that someone with a chainsaw handling certificate was thinking very dark thoughts about them.

Thankfully the drama didn't unfold into a bloodstained crisis 

(again).

Linda spoke quietly to the chimney companies representatives explaining to them that she considered their surveyor to be at fault for not noticing the two chimneys were connected:

I haven't seen the chimney companies representatives for sometime now.

I can hear something that sounds like "FOR GOD"S SAKE HELP US!!!" coming over from Longbrook Park.

Last time I saw Linda she said she was taking a friend out to lunch:

Welcome To The Modern Cloak-Room Attendant Team!

I have absolutely no idea who these people are, they were just here when I arrived.

I wish I had an exciting job like Linda:

Angry Birds.

Icarus Fallen Set (Updated)

Icarus Fallen, a set on Flickr.

(Text Removed by OSM)

Field Recordings of an Ignorant Ornithologist.

N.B. a 'Swanee Whistle' was also utilised during this recording, but I'd misplaced it when the time came to photograph the instruments used to realise the piece. 

Outa-Spaceman's Happy Sunshine Garden.

That Time of Year Again.

It's the time of year when our little pond in the garden becomes a scene of seething Lovecraftian horror:

There are at least 3 frogs in the pond but, no matter how silently I creep toward them, they always manage to hide themselves away in a writhing tangle of legs, flippers and bulging eyeballs before I can get a clear photo of them.

Crocuses and daffodils are starting to flower and the honeysuckle has started to sprout leaves.
So much for all the doom-mongers who constantly tell me the world is going to rack and ruin in a hand-cart.


(Miserable bastards.)

Julian Date. Poet

Whilst doing the rounds of my favourite blogs I was introduced to the poetry of Julian Date by Mr. Webster at The Pavilion of Innocent Pastimes.
(A blog any right-thinking person should visit on a regular basis if only to encourage Mr. Webster to post more often.)

Here are Mr. Date's musings on the Skylark:

THE SKYLARK

As I wandered through our park,
I chanced upon a lone skylark.
It flew straight up into the sky
(Though I have no notion why),
And burst into a sombre song,
Which seemed to go on far too long.

Boy, that hits the nail on the head and no mistake.