Cut Yourself

Cut your own hair. Really, you should try it. It's scary at first, but then you've made the first cut and there's no turning back and it's not so bad really, not so bad at all.

It took me twenty-six years to realize I can cut my own hair, for free! Any time I want! No need for expensive salons, awkward stylist chat, trying to figure out how to word what you want, exactly... Really, people, it's not very hard, and, in the words of Regina Spektor:




maybe you should cut your own hair
cause that can be so funny
it doesn't cost any money
and it always grows back, hair grows even after you're dead.

I'm Sorry, Tom.

Dear Tom, and all other non-musicians,

I'm sorry that every, every, every, time you come to one of my parties, friendly, cheerful, socially adventurous, you end up sitting by yourself on the couch while everyone else, inevitably, ends up in an impromptu jam session. I'm sorry that all we can do is offer you the weak solace of 'you can play percussion,' handing you two sticks or a bell or soup pan. We know that even though you may be out of your element in King of Swing or McDermot's Reel, you're actually a very smart, creative person. Really.

So please don't feel you have to wash the dishes by yourself in the kitchen.

But thanks, they're sparkling.

x
e

Don't let them be misunderstood

Last night we opened for The Animals. Yes, the house-of-the-rising-sun Animals. Many of them are dead, but they still have their original keyboardist and drummer. These guys have been playing the together for almost 50 years now. The drummer looked adorably like my grandpa.

The gig was for the Brailles Village Fair. As well as the music, there were contests for the biggest leek, loveliest knitting, best chocolate cake baked by a man, and best human-or-animal face made out of vegetables.

It probably wasn't their most glamorous gig. But there they were. Surely they could have retired decades ago if they wanted. But there they were. Smiling and making music for the big-leek growing people of Brailles. They were nice in the backstage (village hall) bathrooms and lively, loud, and happy onstage. I couldn't decide if it was tremendously sad, or brilliantly inspiring. Since they were such nice people though, let's go with the latter.

Why we need our own publicist.

I don't know who gets the job of writing the blurbs for bands on leaflets, but I certainly hope it's not their only job. The Cedar are playing Moles Club on Wednesday night, and here's what the leaflet says about us:


"To call Neil Gay a singer songwriter is an injustice as great as calling a beautiful summer sunset 'quite nice'. The lyrics vary between the intensely personal & universal truththat strike a chord with everyone. When live the emotion of the song is brought to the fore producing a captivating experience that keeps audiences listing in rapt silence." [sic]

Oh those audiences. Always listing.

So, fellow logophiles, how many errors can you spot?

Minnie the Moocher

The problem with doing what you love for a living is that you love to do it. So, when people ask you to do it for them, for free, you usually say yes.

The arts, I think, are the most plagued by this problem (although maybe doctors are a close second). Nobody really expects their administrative assistant friend to file for them in their spare time. But with musicians, it's chronic. And with British musicians, it's the worst. You go to recordings not knowing if you're going to be paid the union rates, a small honourarium, in drinks, or not at all; and once you get there you still don't know because everyone's too polite to bring up the issue. But you love it and hate the idea of being left out, so you always say yes.

I hope my cat doesn't mind generic brand food.