Vive le Crack(ling)

Now and then a sneery voice speaks softly in my ear. It questions what a grey-headed old git like me is doing playing at being some kind of half-arsed musician. Sometimes, witnessing the acts of brilliance that 'real' musicians turn out reinforces that self-doubt. After all, what the fuck am I doing here when so many others can do it so much better apparently without sweating a bead?

Then, every now and then there's a reminder of why we do this. Last night myself, Nige and Planty went to see the Ruts (again). One of the fellow travellers we bumped into in Brum was our dear old friend Sam. When we were 12, me and Sam went and bought our first guitars together with the intention of starting our own punk band, inspired in part by The Crack, the Ruts' classic album. Our project dissolved quickly as I was stolen away by the Virgin Destroyers and Sam actually learnt how to play and rapidly moved far beyond my rudimentary musical horizons. Nige picked up the bass though and we moved on to the Dodos, DNR and various other bits of nonsense. Anyway, this morning, mulling over the brilliant performance last night and the sheer passion and heart of those songs that so moved us 40+ years ago that sneery voice can fuck right off up it's own arse. I know again why we do it, still writing songs that might be heard by nobody and cranking up the passion and heart. It's because stuff matters to us more than grey hair and this is the best way we know to express it. Great rebel songs lodge themselves in our hearts, and although I can't match the Ruts, what's the harm in trying? Oh yeah, and it's fun playing at being pop stars. Vive le punk.