Get Off My Lawn, Punks

It’s been about 6 months since I posted something on this blog, and what a pleasure it’s been, eh? But I’ve finally succumbed to the barrage of insistent inquiries that could conceivably have been pouring in, and put feeble fingers to calcified keys. Just to tell you that I’ve got nothing to say.

When we put that Catch and Release business to bed at the end of last year, I decided to take a break from the relentless self-promotion that had taken over my life. I felt like I needed to stop talking about playing, writing and listening to music, and actually play, write, and listen to music. And it’s been grand. But I missed the little messages I used to stuff in a Coke bottle and fling into the internet. Stretching one line’s worth of idea into 500 words every couple of weeks gave me a real sense of achievement. But the longer I stayed away, the fewer ideas I seemed to get. And now when I look back at last year’s attempts, they read like they were written by someone else. Someone carefree, wide-eyed, and innocent. See, the real problem is that I turned 40.



It’s not only suitable topics that are the problem, it’s finding a way to express these newfound feelings of resentful middle-aged bitterness that’s got me scratching my head. Continuing unfiltered, this blog could rapidly turn into the front-porch rocking chair rantings of a deranged old coot. And I guess this constant sharing of our lives that we’re all supposed to be enjoying is really starting to get up my nose (I recognise the irony of writing this in a personal blog), and much of the time I can’t be bothered making my mundane life sound more exciting than yours, which rather seems to be the point. I find myself longing for the simple pleasures of a nice cup of tea and an afternoon spent throwing rocks at children.

On the other hand, I’m feeling energised by a weird feeling of rebellion. I’m yet to find a distinct target, but it has something to do with all the money and hype and pomp involved in today’s jazz world, and how little of it has to do with playing jazz; and how apparently eager some players are to buy into the bullshit. I’m not sure how I’ll express this, but it’s something to think about. Fingers crossed it’ll get personal and catty!

Anyway, I’m 40, and it seems my daydreams are evenly split between bringing down the establishment and making plans for a nice rock garden. And this is all just a drawn out way of saying I’m pulling the shutters up, and the blog is open for occasional business. Anything you want to know about? Cheers, Nick

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