What's Up Me Old China?

The shocking news has been revealed that the great ceramic glass conglomerate Wedgewood Waterford, also makers of Royal Doulton, is under the hands of receivers. Apparently around 2,700 jobs are risk if the whole box and dice goes under, but
"Politicians on both sides of the Irish Sea warned that the collapse of the company had severe implications for communities where china and glass have been manufactured for generations. The mayor of Waterford said it would be a "national disaster" for Ireland if production at the crystal factory ceased."
These Iconic brands and the centuries of fine artisanship can't be lost in a pile of debts and cheap glassware from the developing world can they?

Old Josiah Wedgewood (pictured) started knocking out pottery in 1759 and Waterford crystal kicked off in 1783, such history predates moments in time like The French Revolution, The First Irish Rebellion and the invasion of Australia by the British Fleet which not surprisingly was carrying Irish Rebels and other poor, wretched refuse they couldn't send to America since they got kicked out in the War of Independance, somewhere in there as well was the creation of the first batch of Guinness Ale, that surely ranks as one of THE defining points in the 18th century, actually some historians would tell you that in fact the Irish Rebellion was a Guinness fuelled pub fight that got a bit serious, hey don't quote me but Donnybrook is a suburb of Dublin, so the English Lords should have expected a fight one day.

Anyway, I didn't establish a great connection to Wedgewood until I met my wife, who "embraced the temporary madness" (her words), when she started buying Wedgewood dinner sets and canteens of cutlery (yes they make them as well) and I really got a taste of the finer things in life or at least I got what good plates and knives were all about.
Another memory from my childhood was my Nanna's collection of Royal Doulton figurines and her particular love of the Persian poet Omar Khayyam, who looked really profound sitting around as a 6-inch porcelain.

What might he have said about this great modern tragedy, perhaps something like,
"For in the Market-place, one Dusk of Day,
I watch'd the Potter thumping his wet Clay,
And with its all obliterated Tongue
It murmur'd, Gently, Brother, gently, pray!'

The Yanks have just pitched a Waterford Crystal ball — 12 feet in diameter, weighing nearly 12,000 pounds, and covered with 2,668 Waterford Crystal triangles, in Times Square, surely they couldn't let such an institution as this fall prey to market conditions that they themselves created, oh no, Omar forbid!

So stand by, and picture this, production of quality china going back to the Chinese ... who'd have thought that possible after the Opium Wars, not this student of history, but then "Top Gun" Tom has just released another woeful Nazi biopic, so anything is possible in this current climate.

It's Fierce - Gigs Reports 2002

The Fierce Festival - London, June 2.

Aussie rock ain't dead and buried just yet, how about the platform of the Queens Golden Jubilee to show the Empire what the Commonwealth is good for.

A procession of quality rock and roll to put it all into perspective.

I've had so many misses with so many live gigs in recent times that I thought I was doomed to the CD dust heap forever.

Bring on the Oils, old stagers granted, but with so much pedigree in their back-catalogue, the only rock monarchs to sit on the headliners throne.
A London day goes about its schizophrenic way, the rain clouds duly parted by the declining sun, a sprinkle of rain to rest upon our brows as the current anthem is transplanted to our brains, the hearts on sleeves and the slightest of slight refrains as President Garrett sets a blistering set upon its way, Hirst on skins pounding away, Messer’s Rotsey and Moginie having their say and Gifford back again to have another day.

The sound so precariously bounced off the dial, sinking into our bones, bringing on a collective smile, if you needed to stage a republican revolution you could crush the monarchy with these familiar tones.

There's not a great deal more I can say, this has to be one of the finest moments in the musical lexicon of our blessed continent.
Even if you weren't there to be part of the crowd, rest assured that what they did there in the home of our colonial ancestry more than did us proud.


Milltown Malbay, County Clare, Ireland, 8 -13 July, 2002.

An idyllic setting on the Atlantic West Coast for Irelands premier traditional music festival just down the road from the old Cliffs of Moher and somewhere in the realm of the ancestors of Moy extraction on nannas grandmothers side.

Camped in a front yard no more than a hop from the action and a series of excursions around the rugged but aesthetically forgiving country-side, finally a taste of a charmed country with the heart upon its musical sleeve.

A week of mighty sessions in a string of pubs in the town where some fine musos come together to belt out the standards and improvise their asses off for the amusement of the assembled masses.
A gathering of the legacy and the future of Irish music, some crackin' old players and some kiddies with a bright light in front of them, the future of Irish music is assured as the quality of the craic smacks you in the face with fiddles and squeeze boxes and drums and whistles and flutes and other strings, a sentimental voice here and there to set the scene of musical history stretching back into the pain and the struggles of the dark ages and coming out with an intense but uncomplicated smile on every face and a pint filtering through pursed lips and day after day the streets are awash with the joy of the occasion and here Irishness seems to have no better expression than this.
Where else can Barry Moore (Christy's brother) a.k.a. Luka Bloom walk into the pub in front of you and get denied a seat to play 'cause they reckon he just might take up too much of their time, or John Prine (sure he's done a bit) wandering around looking for another drink, never could track 'em down anywhere, they say some of best gigs often happen in peoples kitchens over breakfast, just gotta be lucky I s'pose.

Crustys and business joes tucked up in town, a truly egalitarian musical road-train.


Iggy Pop: Olympia Theatre, Dublin, 15 july, 2002.

Welcome to a night out with Iggy's Rock ' n ' Roll nostalgia trip.

The Setting: one of Dublin's most beautiful old theatres, proscenium arch and ornate ceilings, a sort of compact Civic theatre.

The Support: a six-piece that sounded like early-Pink Floyd meets Kraftwerk versus Fuzzy distorted Who meets Oasis with the dial cranked up hard, had a few moments.

The Man: anticipation, addrenalin building with only half a cup of coffee in the system, a drawn out change-over and then down with the house and up with the crowds cheers to welcome his punkness, accompanied by a simple three-piece.
Enter MR POP, unshirted, levis rolled on and bursting at the seams, he holds a pose, an almost meditative stance, legs bolted upright to the floor, his torso bent over to perpendicular, head shot up to surmise the crowd, a prehistoric figure of some ravenous beast who barely manages to keep in his energetic rage, long strands of hair hanging down the face, the muscles cut in ripples, the flesh displays the scars of a self-abusive war.
Crank up the band, fuck-me if it's not a go-ahead rock'n'roll band, power riffs and bulging bass runs, the drummer pounds the skins and metal like he's crashing through a wall, and there's your man in the middle of it all, his words are flat and hard, consumed by the hardest, fattest sound the crowd could have heard in ages.
He's belting out a bunch of words, some familiar, some are new, he never seems released from the grip of this voluminous grind.
We came to see the man, half-knowing what we'd get, the energy's intact, the sweat, the performance was all there, but he's into reinvention so it seems, just a player with the band, he doesn't have to work as hard to fill our heads with wonder.
How the Fuck did he survive the years, it looks like Iggy's found some inner peace.

It's over before it began, I'm suitably impressed just to have sweated in the same room, my ears are ringing and my senses are on a high.
This man I've just seen knows how to put on a show wthout the burden that he's got anything to prove.
Put him in the Cambo and he'd really make you feel at home.

The Godfather has stood upon his pulpit and decreed, that he knows best so pick up your game all you pretenders to the crown, with baggy clothes, tats and shit in your face, keep it simple, go back to basics, that's where the truth lies.

MR POP, I salute your time spent digging in your Zen garden.


Take care one and all,

As ever take it easy,

Love,

The Wookiee.

From the High Country to the Craic in the Glass

From the High Country to the Craic in the Glass

Hello one, hello all,

I see in the crystal that everyone is well; the pint glass never lies [especially when it's masquerading as a row of empty soldiers].

Hasn't the world changed recently?
Is it just me or is there irony in the fact that Bushy keeps using God as his witness?

Let me get this one in early, Go you Bloody Knights, kicked the arse of those slimy eels all over the place and perhaps it's time that they dedicated the BHP site to the men of steel, on my return I'd like to be having a beer on top of the number 4 blast furnace with salubrious views of the city and hop on the roller coaster at the adjoining Knight world amusement park where each and every player from the past is dedicated on the walk of fame with their own blackies anvil. End exclamation.

Got myself out of the madness of festival city Edinburgh and up to the highlands of Scotland, a sightly neck of the woods with plenty a mount and a Loch.
Stopped in on some travelling acquaintances and by chance the last Highland games fling of the season was on at the time. Oh to see those big blokes throwing stuff around a paddock, the weather a mix of bright sunshine overcoming rain clouds, a wee dram of whiskey to warm the intestines and the eerie din of the pipes as they kick in as the afternoons soundtrack.
The biggest day of the towns year and long night of celebration leading into the next day when I took on the local Ben at days dawning just see the look on the towns face.
No sign of the Monster at Loch Ness but everyone knows it's there anyway.

Scotland: where the water meets the mountains and the people you meet in the pubs [Perhaps I can sell this on to Tourism Scotland].
When up Ben Nevis they say is the highest point in the UK and the views never lie up high as you look out over the place and realise that now might be a good time to move on to the Irish craic.

Hopped on a bus, crossed on a boat to Belfast and into to Old Dublin town where the realities of work have hit me again as I do a bit of work on the Festival and contemplate the next move.

Yes, the Guinness is the best it's true, although on top of the Guinness brewery where gods’ water comes straight from the source, the taste of the pint was topped by the view of the town as the sun slowly sets in my mind.

Got on the devils hotline with one of these infernal handsets, so I s'pose that means I'll be around this way for a while, who knows where.
Feel free to drop me one of those insidious text things and be assured of a lumbering but appropriate response.

Take it easy as always,

Love The Wookiee, [preparing his winter coat for the onset of the cold, but for today anyway the town is bathed in sunlight.]