andrewcferguson

writer, performer, musician, wine drinker

Category Archives: progress reports

Songs in a Scottish Accent 4: the wrong kind of cricket

If you think of yourself as ‘alternative’ in any sort of way, there are sometimes moments when you realise just how far you’ve swum against the current and out of the mainstream. On such moment happened to me recently, when two art teachers, one of them wearing a maroon pork pie hat, called me ‘weird’ to my face. Here’s how it happened…

Some songs come to me with just the basic tune on acoustic guitar and keyboard. Others, usually late at night when I’m about to fall asleep and then forget them, are fully orchestrated – sometimes quite literally. Most are somewhere in the middle, and it’s a case of knowing what to put in and leave out instrumentally. Usually leave out, to be honest.

As soon as I had the basic riff and lyrical idea for ‘Prophets on Instagram,’ though, I knew the type of vibe I wanted on the track. And that included crickets. It was to be a bluesy, doomy kind of stomp, and the background noise of the Gryllidae family was part of that. Lanois used them on Dylan’s ‘Man in the Long Black Coat,’ on the album they did down in New Orleans (1), ‘Oh Mercy.’ Lucinda Williams, too, had them on some of the tracks on ‘Down Where the Spirit Meets the Bone.’ Probably partly through the movies, there’s a specific sound of crickets that conjures up a Southern Gothic night of humid, portent-filled dread for me. And I thought I had a means of getting it.

My go-to place for sound effects is Freesound, but I always prefer, if I can, to create noises of my own and load them up there for others to use. It’s a great sharing community, of the kind that the Net used to excel at. Whilst the Scottish Lowlands aren’t really natural habitat for crickets (or indeed cricket) I had, on recent visits to Pets At Home on our friendly neighbourhood retail park, heard them singing. We were there to restock the Redoubtable Mrs F’s aquarium (there’s a separate post to come some time on the tale of more-than-a-bit pregnant female guppy) but, on hearing the crickets, I conceived Plan A, which was to record them in situ.

Needless to say, next time I was there with my trusty Zoom H4n, not a chirrup was to be heard. While the RMF went to have her water tested (the aquarium’s that is, not hers) I went to look at the crickets. The crickets looked out at me, from their little plastic boxes containing little cardboard crenellations. I had come to understand on previous visits that nobody actually kept crickets as pets. Oh no: instead, people that keep reptiles as pets need them as a live feed for their little darlings. I was about to head up towards the fish again when I caught sight of the ‘reduced to clear’ section of cricket world, and wished I hadn’t.

It would appear that reptiles aren’t over fussy about just how live their food is: for a bargain price, the reptile lovers could take home a boxful of half dead, clinically dead, and dying crickets, grasshoppers, locusts and the like. Like all convenience foods, it seems, crickets and the rest have a shelf life. They waved their mandibles and antennae at me, pathetically, and I felt a twinge of sympathy for the wee critters. I mean, it’s not much of a choice, is it, getting snapped up by some bearded gecko or left to peg out under the unforgiving striplights of a retail shed?

Which partially explains why I ended up buying a full price box of brown crickets. ‘Oh,’ said the tall girl behind the till, ‘What is it you’ve got?’ Meaning of course, which reptile was awaiting a live dinner, its basilisk eyerevolving slowly in anticipation?

‘Err, nothing,’ I felt compelled to say, before launching into a probably over-detailed explanation of why I needed them. Just outside the store, we met two of the RMF’s work colleagues, the aforementioned art teachers. Again the explanation; this time, the reaction I described at the start. I considered a cheap rejoinder about the hat, but resisted.

Back home, the presence of a boxful of rustling insectoid life was considered less than welcome, really on any of our parts. The crickets went into the conservatory while I did a bit of reasearch. This revealed:

  1. Crickets can be fed on most vegetables, including parsley;
  2. They have an adult life span of a few weeks, so even without the intervention of the Lizard People, it wasn’t like they were a pet for life;
  3. Brown crickets are especially favoured amongst the keepers of reptiles, as they make virtually no sound.

Yup. Guess which kind I’d bought.

As an aside, it was amazing how much information on crickets in fact came from sites dedicated to reptile aficionados. Apparently, depending on how many scaly things you keep, you might need entire roomfuls of crickets just to maintain a food supply for them. Hence the desire for quiet ones. It seemed to me a bit ironic that the main sites I was consulting to keep my crickets alive, were in fact dedicated to seeing they were funnelled towards certain death. It gave me another twinge of fellow feeling for the little chaps.

However, after a day or so of watching mounds of home-grown parsley disappear in the box, and not a single sound beyond that infernal scrabbling, I decided enough was enough. It was time for my brown crickets to roam free across the Fife countryside, taking their chances in the local ecosystem – and, I hoped, not mucking it up in the process.

Walking nonchalantly out of the house and past the window of my ever-vigilant neighbours, I took the crickets to the closed off road at the side of our housing estate and had a quick glance left and right to ensure no dog walkers were about.

I looked down at the little fellers, crowded now at the front of their box. They stared back at me, mutely. I appreciated that I was probably sending them to certain death – Scotland in May is probably not within their recommended temperature range – and yet, somehow, I felt I was doing the best I could for them. In fact, I felt like some kind-hearted First World War general about to send his brave boys over the top, knowing that the German machine guns were, as likely as not, still operational.

As such, I felt some sort of pep talk was necessary. ‘Well, boys,’ I said, in a non-gender specific way, ‘I’ve done what I can for you. It’s down to you, now.’

Predictably, the crickets said nothing in reply as they scrambled into the undergrowth.

So there you are. Cricket, the sport: absolutely marvellous. Only game worth a tinker’s curse, imho. Crickets, the insect: best sampled via Freesound.

 

 

 

(1) I feel compelled to tell one of my favourite Dylan stories, which concerns that particular song.

Interviewer:’When you say in the lyric, “people don’t live or die, people just float,” what did you have in mind?’

Dylan: ‘I needed something to rhyme with “coat.”‘

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Coming Soon

I’ve been neglecting the blog of late, dear reader(s). There’s a few reasons for that, but I hope to raise my game a bit over the coming weeks. Next up, a translation of a Mexican review of Kula Shaker’s new album, K 2.0.

You’ll Be Hearing From Me (quite a bit, actually)

Sunday, 29th November 2015

Regular readers of this blog (if such creatures do exist) will know that it’s a bit, well, irregular. I could just use everyone else’s excuse that I’m incredibly busy, but actually, it’s also that I pretty much decided at the get go that I would only put something up when I felt I had something to say. And, as I gaze out on an increasingly soggy Fife landscape this morning (later: snowy), I reflect that I have quite a bit to say at the moment, actually.

The last five years have been a bit up and down for me on a personal basis: a brief tickle from the Grim Reaper (I had a melanoma successfully removed from my arm in 2011) and losing both my parents, my Mum in 2011 after a long struggle with Alzheimer’s, and my Dad, much more unexpectedly, in January last year. At the same time, I’ve seen Daughter and Heiress grow up, and I thank my lucky stars I’ve been in a job that entails me being around most of the time to see her do it.

The latest D & H news, in case there’s anyone on the planet who doesn’t know, is that she’s had an unconditional acceptance for Napier University to do English – her second choice, but a strong one, I think. She seems to want to do journalism: the little blighter can write, certainly. No idea who she gets that from. Actually, I do – her grandfathers, both of whom have published books. And her uncle, for that matter.

As anyone who’s lost their parents will know, your world changes afterwards: celebrating big moments like Heather’s exam successes and her uni acceptance, as well as the excitement of buying and doing up a run down flat in Edinburgh (of which more in a separate blog) will always have the sepia edge of regret that you can’t share the news with the ones who’ve gone. I miss them more than I can put into words, as I do friends and colleagues like my buddy Stuart Crosbie, taken far too early by that modern epidemic (so it seems) of cancer.

What I hadn’t expected was the effect all of this would have on my creative life. Back in 2010, I would have called myself a writer, first and foremost: around this time that year, I had finished the first draft of my novel, Buddha Belly (which may now be published as The Wrong Box – you’ll be hearing from me on that presently, too) and Writers’ Bloc was still going full steam. If my memory serves me well, our Unbound appearance at the Book Festival that year had been one featuring words and music. Andrew J Wilson’s contribution featured one Kenny Mackay on guitar, and Charlotte Halton on sax, whilst my own had Mark Allan and myself on guitar, Charlotte on sax, and Kelly Brooks singing.

Looking back, that now feels like a turning point. Kelly and I had started working together on the Venus Carmichael material in 2008, but that feeling of being in a bigger band – however briefly for one night only – reminded me even more forcefully what a blast making music with others was.

How things have changed in those five years. As I explained recently, I’m now in two bands – Tribute to Venus Carmichael and Isaac Brutal and the Trailer Trash Express; my output this year has consisted exclusively of songwriting: my last gig had me impersonating Leonard Cohen, backed by the Brutal Acoustic Division, and my next one will be another musical one, Tribute to Venus Carmichael sharing a bill with Norman Lamont and the Heaven Sent!

It is strange how the loss of my parents seems to have coincided with this. After my Mum went, I stopped writing short stories almost completely, and turned to poetry – for the first time since I was a teenager, more or less. When my Dad died, all desire to write went altogether, for months. My traditional solace of trying to make sense of the world through writing things down just didn’t seem to work any more. What came back, gradually, was music.

I’ve been exceptionally lucky in acquiring, along the way, some really talented people to help and encourage me in a musical direction. Gavin Inglis has always been a close collaborator from the inception of Writers’ Bloc and before: but he was the one that introduced me to the idea that, with a couple of extra bits of kit and some software, you could become your own record producer. His introducing me to Kelly was critical to the existence of Venus Carmichael – a great singer who enunciates every word of my precious lyrics perfectly, she’s also a tough critic of the new material, which ensures you only get to hear the good stuff, once it’s shaped into transmissible form.

Similarly Craig Harkness, known almost universally as Harky, has helped me a huge deal with music production, sound engineering, and just about everything else as I’ve gone on this journey (to use the dreaded phrase). Mark and Kenny are always a pleasure to work with on musical projects involving Brutal and beyond, and now people like Graham Crawford, Norman Lamont, and Martin McGroarty fill out my musical family of fellow travellers, collaborators, and general good chaps with a good ear.

I’ve not given up on writing completely. Writing friends like Gav, Halsted Bernard, Bram Gieben, Jane Mckie, and Kirsti Wishart stay in touch. The aforementioned novel is due out next year. Besides, this blog  doesn’t write itself. Another post coming up arises out of a talk I did recently to some poor souls at Liberton High about songwriting: I did a slide which kind of sums up what I’ve learned about writing generally, and I thought I might work that up.

And so, as I clatter towards Christmas like a carthorse carrying a load of donkey jackets on an untreated surface, I have plans. Before the Venus gig on the 17th, more blog entries, and more solo-project music and spoken word. In the meantime, I suppose all of the above goes some way to explaining why the first of the new Soundcloud tracks below is pretty dark, and the other one a bit slushy and sentimental (well, as sentimental as I get these days). I have something else up my sleeve which might be ready in a week or so if I get the time. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy these. As ever, any feedback gratefully received.

You’ll Be Hearing From Me (Again)

So I have two bits of news. Firstly, my novel of lawyers behaving very badly indeed, which may or may not now be called Buddha Belly, is to be published by Thunderpoint. I received the preliminary edits back from Seonaid yesterday, none of which look too scary. I’m actually looking forward to nailing down the final version.

What’s it about? Property lawyer Simon English has been detailed to look after a client, Jimmy Ahmed, during a night on the town. All seems to have gone well until he wakes up hungover, with a blurred memory of the night before, and Jimmy dead, naked, and in the bath. With his toe stuck up the tap.

To solve the mystery of what happened that night, he has to work with Karen Clamp, a conspiracy theorist from a run-down Edinburgh scheme, who has her own reasons for solving the mystery; cope with his senior partner, aka The Rottweiler; decide which authorities you call, exactly, when your client’s dead with his toe stuck up the tap, and whether you can trust them when you arrive. It’s full of sex, swearing, and Sir Walter Scott references, and I reckon you’ll love it.

I had a foretaste of the kind of star author treatment I can expect (the book’s due out next year some time) last Thursday, when I went to the lovely Suzanne D’Corsay‘s launch of The Bonnie Road, from the same publisher, at Waterstone’s, St Andrews (hence the earlier post about driving home far too fast to the music of Foals, in case you hadn’t worked out the location.) Suzanne and her family, as well as Seonaid, made me feel very welcome: her book is an intriguing tale of witchcraft in late Seventies St Andrews, and I can’t wait to read it.

The second bit of news is, at least for me, just as exciting: meet the new keyboard/harmonica player for the legendary Isaac Brutal band! I’ve known Mark and Kenny, in particular, for a few years now, and collaborated with them on a few music and spoken word projects, but it feels like the next level altogether to be asked to join the band … incidentally, Tribute to Venus Carmichael fans, don’t worry – you’ll be hearing more from her too, soon I hope.

In many ways, it feels like full circle for me. I played in bands at university (not very successful ones, mind) and it was partly an accident of geography – not much in the way of a music scene in central Fife, I’m afraid – that cut me off from doing anything more ambitious than living room guitar for many years, and shoved me sideways towards writing. It was only through the spoken word scene that I began to reconnect with music again, first through the Venus Carmichael project with Kelly, and then other stuff with Mark, Kenny and others. I’m gutted to be missing their next gig by being in Spain – more details soon – but, in the meantime, have dialled in my first stab at a keyboard track for their forthcoming album. The rough mixes are sounding good…

Next up, news of a forthcoming Leonard Cohen tribute night, which will feature Isaac Brutal Acoustic.

 

 

 

 

 

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Andrew C Ferguson’s Virtual Fringe: Leaving the Party Early

I had my bout of post-Fringe tristesse early this year, on Tuesday night. As has often been the case, it was exiting a show in the Jura Unbound series at the Book Festival, in the late evening, and walking along a deserted Melville Street to where I’d left the car, preparing for the 50 minute or so drive home.

It wasn’t that the performance – Illicit Ink’s show, featuring the excellent Halsted Bernard – had brought me down any. Nor was it the fact that, instead of being part of the performance (as I have been at Unbound before, both with the self-same Illicit Ink and Writers’ Bloc) I was an audience member. In fact, quite the opposite: it has been a pleasure this year to sit back and watch my friends perform the hell out of stuff, when all I had to do was sit and watch.

It was the sense I had of leaving the party early: it was a school night; I was driving back over for non Fringe-related matters the next night; those were the main two excuses. But to be honest, I’ve had the same emotion after performing at the Spiegelbar too. Part of it, I think, is just how lonely that west side of the New Town is at that time, even during the Festival: you go in less than five minutes from the creatively spinning carousel that is the Book Festival at night to a place of solitude and parked cars, gearing up for the long drive back to central Fife.

I think it’s the feeling that, no matter how long you stayed up and how many shows you went to – or were a part of – you would always still be leaving the party early. There have been exceptions, of course. Like the year I was staying at Gavin Inglis’s flat, your man being something of a night owl at the best of times. I never knew a breakfast of Eggs Benedict could actually literally bring you back from the dead, but I found that out the next morning. Or it could’ve been the triple strength Americano. But my money’s on the Hollandaise sauce.

Anyways, mustn’t grumble. This year, as regular readers will know, your blog has been doing up a flat in Blackford, and two shows at Summerhall have been followed by a pleasant stroll down the hill to bed, instead of picking up speed past the Cramond Brig (or Miller and Carter Steakhouse, as it now is) feeling like I’m going in the wrong direction.

Plus I have musical plans for the rest of the year, lots of them. First up is the Venus Carmichael gig on 19th September, which I’ll start promoting next week when all this Fringe hoo-ha dies down. I had come hotfoot from a rehearsal with Kelly for that, via South Queensferry (see below). But there’s more, much more, so stay tuned!

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… in the meantime …

So I’ve started my review of Fleetwood Mac’s eponymous album, at least in my head, but since it’s been available in all good record shops for 40 years I’m reckoning there’s no pressing hurry.

In the meantime, if you want to hear a rare example of my attempting to sing, rather than speak, over music, my latest Soundcloud release can now be heard…

A Note To My Followers

Dear Followers,

First of all, a belated Happy New Year! Let’s hope 2015 is a kinder twelve months to the planet than the previous one: without wanting to sound like a beauty contest consultant, world peace would be nice, plus maybe a cure for Ebola. Frankly, I’d settle for an aggregate reduction in people being beastly to each other generally.

I’m not going to tweet or Facebook this post, partly as an experiment to see what difference that makes, but partly because I want to make this a post just for you, my select band of followers, to use as you wish. You’re a small but select bunch of, as I write, 27: you include, of course, Daughter and Heiress, the voice of youth; and my friend and  Edinburgh writer/performer/generally talented type cygnoir. The rest of you, I don’t think, I know personally, but I wanted to thank you for hooking into my world. Blogger followers seem, in general, a bit more faithful than the here today and gone tomorrow world of Twitter: and, frankly, I’d far rather read something longer than 140 characters most of the time.

So here’s what I’m going to do. Firstly, I’m going to follow any of you I’m not actually following already; and then, over the next week or so, I’m going to make a point of reading your blogs, and making some – hopefully not too inane – comment.

You might want to comment on this post. That way, you’re making yourself visible to a whole 26 other faithful souls who follow me, not to mention my thousands of non-following fans in Brazil.

In the meantime, have a good year. I plan to have lots of new things happening for you soon.

12 things I’ve learned (or relearned) this year

It’s been a bumpy 12 months, both for me personally, for many of my friends and colleagues, and perhaps most of all, for my country of origin. Which is not to say there’s not been a few good bits too.

 
January: Everything people say to you about losing a parent is true.

 
Statistically, it’s more than likely that your parents will die before you; all the same, you don’t understand how awful the reality is before it happens. Only other people that have experienced it can really know how you feel; however much all the kind words from everyone are a help. Life is never the same, though.

 
February: Music is a great healer.

 
I didn’t really know what to expect of a gig at the 02 Academy, Glasgow, featuring Foals and Cage the Elephant, having never been to the venue, and only had a hurried catch up on the main act. I certainly wasn’t expecting what might well have been The Greatest Gig Ever (although a subsequent outing to Temples in December ran it pretty damn close – see Daughter and Heiress’s Liquid Rooms review).

 
March: Collaboration really is the best policy.

 
Although I took a step back from Writers’ Bloc this year, there were still some really exciting and fruitful bits of partnership working, to use the cooncil terminology. Step forward, in no particular order, Gavin Inglis, Kelly Brooks, Halsted Bernard, Harky and Kenny Mackay… I hope to do much more of the same in the coming year, as well as with other long term collaborators like Mark Allan and Lara Matthews.

 
April: Until they find the lost race of six foot, red-bearded conquistadores, I’m always going to stand out in Spain.

 
Granada was gorgeous and Malaga, at the end of our Spanish trip this year, a real undiscovered gem of a place – those of you who only experience the airport are missing out on a great, lively place to spend a few days. In between these two cities, we went (at the suggestion of our Spanish cousin, Guillermo) to Ubeda, a smaller town heading up into the sierras and surrounded by olive-clad hills. It was lovely, and well worth a visit, but it was clear they’re not used to Vikings.

 
May: Exams are just as awful as they always were. Especially Maths.

 
Daughter & Heiress sat her National 5s in May – that’s O Grades, O Levels, Standard Grades, or something else to the rest of you. Despite being a member of the guinea pig generation for the new exams, she did really well; but although the new curriculum was sold as a clever way to extend the length of time the kids have to take in the Higher course (for non-Scots amongst you, they’re the ones you sit aged 16 or 17 that more or less dictate if you get into University) it looks like they’ll have exactly the same amount of time to struggle through as their parents did.

 
In other words, a few desultory weeks in June, and then the whole of fifth year when they’re not actually being tested to near-destruction. The difference being D & H is working a lot harder than I ever remember doing.

 
June: Guitars matter.

 
My post about the mysterious origins of my semi-acoustic garnered some interesting comments. Mind you, easily the top post in terms of hits I’ve ever done is a review of an acoustic guitar amp, so I’m not sure what that proves.

 
July: Being a Festival Dad isn’t all bad.

 
I blogged pretty extensively about our Latitude experience, so I won’t go on about it again; but now, as we approach the longest night of the winter, it’s just a happy blur of sunshine, hot weather, great music, spectacular lightning storms, and polite queues for drinking water. I’m reliably informed we’re going back next year.

 
August: The Fringe isn’t just for watching.

 
With one thing and another, I was late booking a couple of slots in the Free Fringe for Tribute to Venus Carmichael; and I confess to being a bit more nervous than usual. This was a good thing, because it made me practice every day for a fortnight. And practice makes much less imperfect.

 
September: You can breach the EU Working Time Regulations several times over and live to tell the tale.

 
At the end of a 25 hour shift of work on the administration of the indyref, I lay on the couch at home and watched the results coming in, eating cereal when my body clock didn’t know if it was Tuesday or a biscuit. A strange end to a seismic day.

 
What made me, as a Scot, proudest, wasn’t the 84% turnout – frankly, what on earth did the other 16% have on that day that was more important? But the fact that, in all the fevered atmosphere, hints, allegations and conspiracy theories, there was not one criticism of the 16 and 17 year olds who, voting for the first time, conducted themselves with every kind of decorum and seriousness at the polls when their elders were, in some cases, doing the opposite.

 
They and their English, Welsh and Northern Irish counterparts won’t get a vote in May 2015 for the Westminster election. Can anyone explain to me why not?

 
October: Kinsale is a nice place to visit.

 
Fly to Cork, take a bus from the airport, and you’re there. Great food, music, Guinness, and craic. Thoroughly recommended.

 
November: You can totally book the Old Observatory on Calton Hill to stay in.

 
I know this because my sister did it for a Big Birthday celebration in November and it was absolutely fab. One of the best cityscape views in the world from every window; all mod cons, done tastefully to blend in with the historic building; it’s even well heated, somewhat to our surprise. The room which used to be the observation chamber has the most amazing acoustics of anywhere I’ve ever been. Some day, I’m going to do a gig there.

 
December: Edinburgh is the place to be for Xmas

 
We leave tomorrow. Byee!!

Next week, the Surrealist Year Ahead.

 

 

 

 

 

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Forthcoming Abstractions

Now that Stevenson Unbound is finally done and dusted, I plan to do a couple of pieces for this blog. First of all, a bit of chat around the preparations for the gig – I really began to think someone up there didn’t want the show to happen, to the extent I had a word with Louis one day I was in the car… provisional title Taking a Red Pen to RLS.

Tomorrow night, I slope, in a louche kind of manner, to the Cool Cat Club, to hear Luna Webster, Wozniak and Tuff Love make interesting noises, so that might lead to a review.

And the recent consignment of my cricket gear to the charity shop is slated to produce a piece called Farewell to a Flanneled Fool.

But wait! What’s this? Another cassette tape has mysteriously appeared at Kelly’s house? Featuring loads of previously-unheard Venus Carmichael songs? Keep the dial here…

Back on the Horse

A late-summer wasp, heady with its own venom, banks round for yet another bombing mission on unsuspecting giant bipeds. In external wall crevices, hunter spiders flex their chitinous legs and begin the long autumnal march indoors. The biomass plant facility tolls the knell of parting day, and leaves the world to darkness, and to me. The nights, as they say round these parts, are fair drawing in.

Those of you who know me best know why I’ve been quiet on the performance front this year so far. However, the two Tribute to Venus Carmichael gigs at the Free Fringe have revived my interest in not making a complete fool of myself in public again; and like the buses, I’ve a few things coming up rather than a single one.

The first thing isn’t actually a live performance: it’s a release on Soundcloud which, for reasons which will become obvious, I’m not releasing till 19th September. Watch this space for that one!

Then, on 2nd October, I don my spangly jacket for MC duties at Slam Factor Fife II. A stellar line up of judges – Miko Berry, Kevin Cadwallender and Rachel McCrum – will be performing as well as judging, and I might squeeze a couple of my own in. If you’re in some loose way associated with Fife, and fancy giving it a go, follow the link for an application form.

Then, I have an event to promote my Dad’s last book, A Huntly Loon Goes To War, at the Huntly Book Festival, on Saturday 4th October at 4.This event will be quite special for me, and I hope you can make it if you live locally.

On 3rd October, just before heading up to Huntly, we’re going to see Randolph’s Leap in Dundee, supported by St Kilda Mailboat and Blood Indians (for the syntactically acute, that’s Randolph’s Leap they’re supporting, not us: I don’t think we could squeeze them all in the back of the car). I plan to review Blood Indians’ excellent EP in advance, so keep the dial here for that.

Also in early October, or maybe late September, Kelly and I will be doing a session at Leith FM as Tribute to Venus Carmichael, on Ralph on the Radio. We’re really excited about this – more news soon!

Finally, on 15th November, I’m putting on a show called Stevenson Unbound. More details soon, but in the meantime, this is the spiel:

Spoken word performer Andrew C Ferguson (Writers’ Bloc, Illicit Ink) presents an atmospheric new show in back room of the White Horse, in the Canongate. On a darkening November afternoon, immerse yourself in classic RLS supernatural stories ‘Markheim,’ and ‘Thrawn Janet,’ as sound effects swirl through the half-lit space.
In the final segment, hear Ferguson’s own Stevenson-inspired poetry and prose, including Hyde’s Last Words, where Henry Jekyll’s worse half finally has his say. Do you dare to stay the afternoon?
With special guest. Part of the Edinburgh City of Literature RLS Day programme.
Stevenson Unbound, White Horse, 266 Canongate, 14:00 – 17:00 Saturday 15th November 14+
£5/contribution

Things are starting to return, slowly, as autumn advances on us, although it’s still more music-based than fiction. On the Venus Carmichael front, the old girl has been busy writing new songs; I’ve a feeling she might have more to tell us of her life story soon too. I still have high hopes of another musical project I’m collaborating on, although it has a missing component at the moment. I even started a poem the other day. There’s a fair chance I might finish it.

In the meantime, like almost every other Scot, I have strong views on a certain question needing an answer on 18th September. However, the necessities of the day job mean I’m not able to express a view, so unlike almost every other Scot, you won’t be getting the benefit of my opinions.

I’m sure the rest of them will make up for me.