What's in a name?

The highlight of the day at the Maverick Festival 09, for me at least, were The Groanbox Boys, a trio steeped in the traditions of American roots music, blended in the melting pot of New Orleans: a real romping, stomping, hollering, good-time band of roving troubadours.

The percussionist was a sight to behold, hammering out rhythms on just about anything apart from a conventional drum or cymbal, even at one stage wielding the thigh bone of a large mammal to beat a wooden palette. His band mates played accordion, guitar and banjo, vocalising with guts and soul, guaranteeing a splendid time for one and all.

Another pleasing set came from The Haley Sisters whose dialect was south Yorkshire rather than Louisiana, more than ably assisted by their guitarist Brian, who sat modestly to one side and turned in some blisteringly dexterous guitar runs as the girls sang songs in sweet harmony from a selection of country greats.

Didn’t stay for headliner Al Perkins, the legendary guitarist who in his time has plied his trade for the likes of Gram Parsons, Emmylou Harris, Bob Dylan and The Stones. A pity to miss him, but it’s a long drive from Suffolk.

Off to the Maverick Music Festival today in sunny(I hope) Suffolk, jointly organised by Ken, an old mate and colleague. It's home for Alt-country, Americana and the New Tradition. Yee-haw.

As she set off for Windsor, the Queen was heard to say, 'At least one doesn't now have to give up one's Sunday afternoon to watch a game of bloody tennis in SW19.'

So, as I pound the keyboard, the Murray, Roddick match has gone to a tiebreak, Roddick leads 5-3 for the match. The television’s on downstairs while I watch on the computer upstairs. The television is ahead, so I hear the crowds reaction at a distance before it appears on the screen in front of me. It’s now 6-4 to Roddick, no 6-5. Still match point. Roddick wins upstairs, 7 or 8 seconds after he won downstairs. Isn’t technology marvellous?

I once lived a tennis ball's throw from Wimbledon in the Borg, McEnroe days. When a Heathrow bound plane went over the flat, it could already be heard simultaneously on the television commentary, we were that close. Stereo TV before there was such a thing. We always said we'd go along one evening after work to catch a doubles match or two, but we never did. You don't though, do you?

John Betjeman. Born 28 August 1906, London, England

Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!

Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air -conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town-
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown
For twenty years.

And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears:

And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.

It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead

And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.

In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.

Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.

John Betjeman 1937

flickr.com/photos/7232802@N06/485305230

Sultry heat we haven’t seen the like of for three years has already resulted in the retrieval of the fan from the back of the cupboard. The lawn’s beginning to throw up little puffs of dust and dry grass underfoot, with a hosepipe ban surely only days away. Play at Wimbledon has continued uninterrupted, with only one brief shower at Glastonbury so far. Strawberry stalls occupy every lay-by, the smell of burning charcoal drifts from surrounding gardens and legs of all shape, size, gender and age make an appearance beneath shorts of many colours. Young men heavy with alcohol tragically sink off midnight beaches, England cricketers prepare to ensure The Ashes return to Australia and the first ‘book now for Christmas’ reminders appear. Newspapers print pictures of packed shorelines under headlines that include ‘phew’, ‘scorcher’ and ‘hotter than Corfu’. The Great British Summer has arrived.

I once saw a TV programme featuring Michael Jackson that included a sequence of a shopping spree at Caesar’s Palace, Las Vegas. A ‘king’ in a ‘palace’ surrounded by ‘antiques’. All fake.

The one real thing in Michael Jackson’s world was his music. Once the media has finally tired of raking through the events of his bizarre and troubled life, it’s that which should remain as his true legacy. And boy’s who never grew up, may fly.

Saw Ken Loach’s film ‘Looking for Eric’ last night. Thoroughly enjoyed it. The ‘Eric’ in the title refers to two characters in the story, a hapless Mancunian postman and his idol, Eric Cantona. The film is worth seeing for the clips of Monsieur Eric in all his footballing pomp and glory alone. The man was a genius.

Asked by postman Eric what his favourite Manchester United playing moment was, Eric C recalled not a goal, but a pass: a precise, expertly weighted chip over the Tottenham defence to Denis Irwin, who ran on to score. Perfection. Questioned about his long ban and what he did to pass the time, Eric said that he learned to play the trumpet, which he demonstrated with a wobbly but spirited rendition of La Marseillaise. But when it came to the beautiful game, there was none better at blowing his own. Ooh ah!

A day off from daubing today. Going to have a look at other people’s efforts. It’s the time of year that around and about my part of the world we have ‘open studios’. I say ‘we’ in the community sense rather than me personally as I’ve never done it myself. Not that I wouldn’t, it’s just that I’ve never had enough work to show, but maybe next year. So, having been through the book we’ve picked out some likely candidates for a visit.

Watched a programme featuring this year’s RA Summer Exhibition the other evening and it’s staggering just how many people there are out there producing artworks. All the more so as a lot of them are very good. Thankfully not all – too much competition otherwise - but then that’s where it gets interesting, because personal taste and preference is subjective. One person’s masterpiece is another’s piece of shite.

In another TV programme about the Pre-Raphaelites, now fully accepted into the art mainstream, it was amazing how much they were vilified by critical opinion at the time. The scorn and disgust that greeted their first paintings seemed to have no connection with the work shown on screen when viewing it today. But for influential critic John Ruskin who championed their manifesto, the ‘Brotherhood’ may have sunk without trace.

The Impressionists were a laughing stock. Even the name was coined as an insult. Now, who wouldn’t have an original Monet or Renoir on their wall given the opportunity. Not many I’ll wager. Van Gogh never sold a painting in his lifetime. His work must now arguably be the most recognised of any painter in art history. But the passage of time is not always a guarantee of universal acceptance in art. Picasso still generates controversy 36 years after his death, his vision still a step too far for many. I dare say the infamous ‘Tate bricks’ are still a pile of builder’s raw materials to the majority. And as for Tracy’s bed and Damien’s skull, I can only guess.

So, what treasures lay in store today? Will there be some undiscovered genius holed up in a garden shed just waiting for someone to pluck them from obscurity? If there is, it won’t be me doing the plucking. I mean, what do I know? One thing’s for sure. I know what I like.

I’ve come over all British today. Not in a Union Jack, UKIP, curry and chips, Austin Healey, bicycle clips, knotted handkerchief, pint of mild, how's yer farver, Hawker Hurricane, any old iron, Bobby Moore sort of way. But musically. Again, not in a George Formby, Anne Shelton, Jess Conrad, Helen Shapiro, Frankie Vaughn, Wee Willie Harris, Don Lang & His Frantic Five way either. Rather in a Frederick Delius, George Butterworth, Vaughan Williams kind of way. So that’s who I’ll be taking to the studio for a spot of accompaniment.