Pop Shield

There are some days which you would like to indelibly screenprint in your mind’s eye.  And today was one of those days.

I leave the morning hollyhocks of my country village behind and travel sixty miles to the urban river creeks of south east London.  I am accompanied on my journey by a heavyweight ash auction-bought Global Strand PPM which I have stashed in a cheap over-the-shoulder service station cooler bag.

A drive, a train, a tube, another train.

Arriving at Boogie Bugle’s Helium Studios in the August sun, the pinks and yellows of the Italianate facade bleached yet saturated all at once. Walking into this folly through the Great Mortal Portal, I enter this magical and charming room within which legacy supersedes any acoustic properties. Where the names of legendary artists who have recorded here are carved into wooden panels above your head, like a university hall or sports club.

Climbing upstairs to the mezzanine, we prepare the mighty Hammond C-3 and vintage Leslie cabinet ready for quiet understated organ giant Copper G to arrive.  I chat with Ron about the manual presets and drawbars.

There are some days which you would like to indelibly screen-print in your mind’s eye.  And today was one of those days.

I leave the morning hollyhocks of my country village behind and travel sixty miles to the urban river creeks of southeast London.  I am accompanied on my journey by a heavyweight ash auction-bought Global Strand PPM which I have stashed in a cheap over-the-shoulder service station cooler bag.

A drive, a train, a tube, another train.

Arriving at Boogie Bugle’s Tootle Studios in the August sun, the pinks and yellows of the Italianate facade bleached yet saturated all at once. Walking into this folly through the Great Mortal Portal, I enter this magical and charming room within which legacy supersedes any acoustic properties. Where the names of legendary artists who have recorded here are carved into wooden panels above your head, like a university hall or sports club.

Climbing upstairs to the mezzanine, we prepare the mighty Hammond C-3 and vintage Leslie cabinet ready for quiet understated organ giant Copper G to arrive.  I chat with Ron about the manual presets and drawbars.

At midday, we set about constructing the kind of radio I love the best. That which interlaces great music, engaging chat and which toys with imagination and artifice.  I watch out for the words – or flick of Bugle’s wrist – that means its time for me to press ‘play’ on song after song after song from all these respected musicians. Mindful, as I line up the tracks, of that beaming photo of ‘poor’ Amy looking back at me.

Mark quips as I cue up a chaotic-sounding 1930’s all-female jazz band on 33RPM vinyl.  The chunky twist of the rotary fader on the EMT-250 record player (see last year’s post for more gush on this machine).  Wondering where the all-girl jazz bands have gone.  Changing the EMT stylus then attempting to balance up the anti-skate mechanism on a 78. Chatting with a visiting painter who makes giant record sleeve art.

The reassuring simple old-schoolness of it all – the crusty white bread cheese and tomato sandwiches, the endless pots of tea that George brings, the smokers smoking, the zoo humour, the quest for inspiration, the black electrical tape that holds house engineer Ron’s glasses frames together. The kicking off of my shoes and sneaking in a barefoot boogie during the records. The fact that after a jittery, head-scratchy kind of day yesterday we are all now comfortable in our stride. The fraudulent feeling of not quite understanding how on earth my life’s path has brought me here.

And later, the twinkling kind eyes of Are-we-gonna-do-Stonehenge come Voice-of-The-Sampsons actor Larry Clipper and his open, engaging musical partner. The lovely surprise train journey Rup, Mark and I share with them. The flowing conversation about Scandinavian thrillers and partridge and transatlantic comedy. The breaking of the interesting discussions to bid our goodbyes at London Bridge.  And how those warm mismatched eyes and the clever cobalt blue trousers and the humorous straw trilby hat head away from me, with no pretensions, into the London evening sunshine.

The simultaneous feeling that I want to keep this moment private yet shout it from the rooftops.

And that is why I blog.

At midday, we set about constructing the kind of radio I love the best. That which interlaces great music, engaging chat and which toys with imagination and artifice.  I watch out for the words – or flick of Boogie’s wrist – that means its time for me to press ‘play’ on song after song after song from all these respected musicians. Mindful, as I line up the tracks, of that beaming photo of ‘poor’ Amy looking back at me.

Mark quips as I cue up a chaotic-sounding 1930’s all-female jazz band on 33RPM vinyl.  The chunky twist of the rotary fader on the EMT-250 record player (see last year’s post for more gush on this machine).  Wondering where the all-girl jazz bands have gone.  Changing the EMT stylus then attempting to balance up the anti-skate mechanism on a 78. Chatting with a visiting painter who makes giant record sleeve art.

The reassuring simple old-schoolness of it all – the crusty white bread cheese and tomato sandwiches, the endless pots of tea that George brings, the smokers smoking, the zoo humour, the quest for inspiration, the black electrical tape that holds house engineer Ron’s glasses frames together. The kicking off of my shoes and sneaking in a barefoot boogie during the records. The fact that after a jittery, head-scratchy kind of day yesterday we are all now comfortable in our stride. The fraudulent feeling of not quite understanding how on earth my life’s path has brought me here.

And later, the twinkling kind eyes of Are-we-gonna-do-Stonehenge come Voice-of-The-Sampsons actor Larry Clipper and his open, engaging musical partner. The lovely surprise train journey Rup, Mark and I share with them. The flowing conversation about scandinavian thrillers and partridge and transatlantic comedy. The breaking of the interesting discussions to bid our the goodbyes at London Bridge.  And how those warm mismatched eyes and the clever cobalt blue trousers and the humorous straw trilby hat head away from me, with no pretensions, into the London evening sunshine.

The simultaneous feeling that I want to keep this moment private yet shout it from the rooftops.

And that is why I blog.