Nov 252011
 

Voice’s Old Susannah takes a look at the week that was in Aberdeen and beyond and concludes that this is no country for old men (nor for old women, people with special abilities, school children and infants or animals either).

Old Susannah has been busy this past week.  There was an excellent two-day conference at Fyvie Castle.  The speakers seemed to believe our heritage, buildings, archaeology and environment are being affected by something they called ‘climate change’. Hard to believe, but some of these speakers think that our weather and climate are changing.

I’ve no idea why they would come to such a conclusion.  There was some person from the Met Office (whatever that is), who seems to think a case can be made for climate change because he has statistics that show it’s happening now.

Stranger still, he thinks this climate change might be somehow linked to people burning lots of ‘fossil fuel’.  If anyone hears any news about this unlikely story, please let me know.

The general thrust of the conference was that our ancient buildings are under moisture and temperature stresses they’ve not faced before, and many are at risk of actually crumbling.  Something called ‘Skara Brae’ in the Orkneys might get washed out to sea before long.

This would not be a huge loss. As far as I can see, it just a bunch of old stones.  The site is crying out for a nice high rise building, holiday homes, shops and parking – if not a monolith and a giant glass worm.  As to our wildlife, seasons are getting wetter and warmer, affecting growth and breeding cycles.  This is no time to be a bird of prey (or any other type of wild creature either.  Just don’t mention deer).

Despite the fact these animals are protected, we still have people who poison, shoot, and loot eggs.  Mixed with the changing seasons and related change in availability of food, things look rather bad for these creatures.

This two-day course was run at Fyvie Castle by the Scottish Traditional Building Skills Centre, an organisation which trains people (of all abilities) in the skills needed to maintain our historic built heritage.  The Traditional Skills people seem to think preserving Scotland’s historic buildings and monuments is a worthwhile thing to do.  (If certain local developers have their way, this centre won’t be needed much longer).

Further information is available on their website:
http://www.traditionalskills.com/

We must have skilled craftspeople in future who can ensure the glass worm/teletubbieland, concrete ramps, etc.  will remain beautiful, as I’m sure they will be when they are built.

I couldn’t help going away from the conference thinking what I’d do if I had £50 million burning a hole in my pocket.  It might involve a little bit of BrewDog, but it would not involve getting rid of listed trees to build a carpark with decorative worm.

It would have been very hard for staff to figure out that this frail woman had a wound so deep you could see her bone

I was glad of the two-day course and its speakers, if for no other reason than there’s not much else going on in the wider world for me to write about this week.  I think I heard something about an American policeman offering some protesters a peppery snack treat, and there may be one or two minor problems in Europe and the Middle East.

I also get the feeling that there might be some financial issues concerning our European economic paradise.  Other than that, I’ve not much to say just now.

Close to home, news these past few weeks has been short on happy endings.  For one thing, the Monolith was not shortlisted as a Union Terrace Garden design.  But looking through recent news items, I conclude this is no country for old men.  Or old women, women, people with special abilities, school children and infants.  And this is definitely no country for animals.

For example take the case of 87 year-old Jamesina Mackenzie who died from a bedsore which became so exposed you could see the bone.  This didn’t happen in the ‘dark’ or middle ages; it’s just happened.

So let’s move on to a definition or two.

Bedsore: (compound noun, English) A type of pressure sore caused by the sufferer lying prone in one position without movement over time.  A wholly avoidable type of ailment.

The owner of the Highland ‘care home’ where Ms Mackenzie suffered with the sore that killed her told an inquiry into the death that his staff ‘did the best they could’.   According to this  manager, the problem was that ‘…there had been some errors in staff’s record keeping’.  What would have been the result if they were negligent or slacked off, Old Susannah wonders.

I was glad to hear the staff did the best they could.  After all, paperwork can be pretty heavy going.  It would have been very hard for staff to figure out that this frail woman, who must have been in excruciating pain, had a wound so deep you could see her bone.  You would have to have some kind of medical background to work that out.

Older people are always happy to sell up their own homes

My granny had been head nurse of a hospital in Massachusetts.  The old-fashioned, primitive way to prevent bedsores was to encourage movement and if necessary, actually help people to move.

This hospital was very inefficient in that it had more nurses and doctors than managers.  Far too much money was spent on patients’ food, and far too much time was spent on actually caring for people.  I’ll bet the place didn’t even have a good profit margin.

Care Home(compound noun, English) a residential institution dedicated to long-term care offering rest and re-cooperation of infirm people, usually elderly.

‘Care home’ – the word even sounds warm, safe and snug.  The problem is running these homes costs money which could be put to other use.  Older people are always happy to sell up their own homes so they will be able to afford a care home of the type which looked after Ms Mackenzie so well.

Saving money and keeping a home in order to have something to leave to your children is so passe.  Sure you might get one or two dozen stories a month about older, frail people being abused in care homes, but who are you going to believe – them and their relatives, or the highly-paid (sorry – highly-trained) caring staff who run these places for profit.

Since most regional authorities and councils decided to ‘outsource’ their care responsibilities, there may have been a few minor hiccups or injuries and deaths.  But outsourcing is here to stay.

Still our City council knows best, and despite the collapse of a major private care home operator, Aberdeen is still looking into privatising more of its homes.  Which leads me to a definition I might have already done, but seems to need updating.

Outsourcing: (noun; modern English) To take a service or operation away from its parent/owner and have it run by a third party.

We are desperate to save money in Aberdeen (those portraits and jeans for the Lord Provost don’t pay for themselves, you know) and in order to do so, we are giving our money to consultants.  The totally impartial consultants come in and look at your business.  They decide which services should be outsourced, and then the money saving starts instantly.

clearly they just want to give the best care possible to your grandparents or children.

Coincidentally, they often want to outsource the same services that they are able to provide.  Old Susannah has yet to hear of a consultancy saying ‘let’s hire more people so we can run things better and have nicer schools and care homes’.

This just proves that the consultancies are impartial businesses which have to make tough choices.  It must be very hard for them indeed.

After the consultants have been paid a modest sum for their expertise, the city fires/lets go/lays off its existing staff who initially performed the services.  That’s a saving right there in salary expense.  In the case of childcare or nursing homes, this may upset the clients initially (the word ‘client’ as used by the City is an old, infirm or young human being to the rest of us).

The ‘clients’ may lose any relationship they’ve built up with their previous carers, but never mind.  If you play your cards right, you might even fire enough people to pay part of the consultant’s bill.

The economics of outsourcing get greater for the city involved.  Now that they are no longer providing a non-profit service with taxpayer money, they turn the taxpayer money over to people who exist to make a profit.  It might seem as if these private operators would cut a corner or two to make money, but clearly they just want to give the best care possible to your grandparents or children.

In the old days you might have thought the purpose of paying tax was so that the government could provide you the services you needed, but which were not designed to be money-making businesses.  If we read the odd case of an older person abused (or given a salt shaker instead of an asthma inhaler as happened recently), then that’s the breaks.  The other breaks often involve bones.

Thankfully in these modern, enlightened times, we realise that making money is more important than anything else.  Including poor Mrs Mackenzie and the other stories that don’t make the paper.

Stop Press!  Aberdeen City Council has approved its budget! Read all about it here in this unbiased City Council report:  
http://www.aberdeencity.gov.uk/CouncilNews/ci_cns/pr_budgetrevcap_100211.asp

It’s all central government’s fault for not giving us lots more dosh.  This might be in part because we waste so much of the stuff on monolith research, portraits and so on, but hey.  You will I’m sure be happy to know that only a few hundred posts will either go unfilled (keeps the existing staff busy covering lots of jobs – they enjoy it) or will go altogether.

Re-roofing an unfit building makes as much sense as anything else going on here

We’re holding on to teaching assistants, which is interesting because we’ll be cutting expensive, boring music and art lessons for children.  If you don’t have time to visit the city’s website, then just rest assured of one thing:  the 50 metre swimming pool is still very much in the cards.  Result!

We may pay for it from the Common Good Fund (remember the good old days when this was c. £35 million? Things have changed).  To help balance the books, it looks as if Tullos Swimming Pool will stay shut.

Old Susannah is told that it recently had brand new lights installed, and its roof is brand new.  Which is odd, because the city now say the building is unstable.  Re-roofing an unfit building makes as much sense as anything else going on here.

Consultants have also produced a brilliant 10 page report (took about a year to do, as you can imagine), showing that Aberdeen has many more swimming pools per population than other parts of Scotland.  Of course these consultants counted in all the pools we’ve got:  Ardoe, Palm Court, etc. etc.  I guess the families of Torry will just have to hop into their BMWs and pay to swim for a day at a hotel pool once Tullos is gone.

Still, we’ll have saved money, and we may eventually produce a swimmer who may win a shiny medal.  If Aberdeen wins an Olympic medal in a few decades, we’ll all agree it’s been worth it.

Sep 302011
 

By Bob Smith.

Eence mair oor local “daily”
His cum up wi mair shite
“Is iss Scotland’s maist hated mannie?”
On their front page they did write

A cos a chiel stood his grun
An ti ridicule widna gie in
So some sneaky journalist buggers
Thocht the knife they wid stik in

A puckle fowk they wrote letters
An ti the editor fair pynted oot
They hid nae truck wi hatred
Ower the opposin o the AWPR route

Some 91% o us are supposed ti be
Agin Road Sense an their palaivers
Na Na, it’s 91% o five hunner an een
Faa’s opinion they did favour

Ti the P&J iss winna maitter
Iss wee bit slip o the quill
As lang as Wullie Walton bides hated
An thochts o Road Sense they are ill

The Daily Record an apology gied
Ti Neil Lennon an Celtic FC
Fer usin wirds like “hated”
Allied ti Rangers fecht wi HMRC

Noo jist fit is the difference
Fowk wid  hae the richt ti ask
“Hated” wis used in baith spiels
Yet only ae paper wis teen ti task

©Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2011
Image credit: © Axel Drosta | Dreamstime.com 

 

Jun 032011
 

Some weeks ago, Voice’s David Innes went to the very scary outer limits of his IT abilities and downloaded Queen of Denmark by John Grant from the i-Tunes Store and lovely it is too. It wasn’t always that easy, but it used to be a lot more fun. Fred Wilkinson also chips in.

I can almost date it to a day in November 1971 when my rock ‘n roll obsession finally took hold. It’s refused to let go ever since. It was the day that my first cassette recorder arrived from the wifie across the road’s clubbie book.
That was, I suppose, ‘hardware’, and ‘software’ in the form of a C90 cassette tape which meant that a whole new world opened up for me.

Recording Pick of the Pops from the radio or Top of the Pops from TV, using a microphone held close to the sound source, obviously, was a wonderful way of picking up music for free. But for every Heart of Gold there were three Johnny Reggaes and the charts were crammed with Chicory Tip and David Cassidy rather than Family and Deep Purple.

In the small country town in which I was raised, there was no specialist record shop. Haberdasheries, draperies, gents’ barbers, ironmongers and butchers abounded, but for the aspiring vinyl junkie, the banqueting hall consisted of half a dozen racks of cardboard LP sleeves at the back of Clydesdale TV. This chain of Caledonian electrical shops was much more interested in knocking out hoovers, fridges and colour (aye, colour) tellies to upwardly-mobile council house tenants than offering hirsute, denim-clad Banffshire youth the heavy, cred-establishing, underground sounds of the day.

The stock rarely rotated. I’m convinced that Atom Heart Mother was in the rack for so many years that the cow on the sleeve aged to the extent of having to be removed by the local rendering company. The single copy of CSNY’s Four Way Street was on display for so long that a traffic-managing one-way system was installed. Had I not eventually taken pity on a lone copy of Jimi Hendrix at the Isle of Wight (not his best) its display longevity would only have been matched by the somewhat less-desirable Jimmy Hendry at the Isla Hotel.

It was a rare treat then, to visit Barr Cochrane in Elgin and set eyes on such semi-mythical albums as Argus, Fog On The Tyne and Machine Head information about which we’d devoured voraciously in Melody Maker and Sounds and which were available to us via mail order from some Branson gadgie and his Virgin Records. The journey home by bus passed in a flash as we devoured every syllable of the sleevenotes of spanking new King Crimson and Atomic Rooster purchases.

Even more decadent were occasional outings to Aberdeen, beyond the fortnightly excursions on the supporters’ bus to watch the thrilling early 70s Dons. There, there were teeming racks of LPs of which we had only heard the names and had never eyeballed the covers.

One Up took specialist record supply to a new level in the city, with knowledgeable, sociable and friendly staff who shared our passion

We sought out  Bruce Millers and Chalmers and Joy, both emporia of rock then in George Street, Telemech in Marischal Street and the ever-reliable Woolworths, where bargains could often be had due to a bizarre pricing regime which more than once saw credible chart albums reduced to 50p because the wifie in charge confused James Last with James Taylor or Frankie Vaughan and Frankie Miller.

Who can remember, at the less-salubrious end of George Street, then a respected shopping thoroughfare and still the main A96 into the city, a down-at-heel, nondescript shoppie in which there was an ever-present pungent aroma of exotic smoking materials and where a milk crate of bootlegs resided, literally, under the counter? Aberdeen’s original Virgin Records store!

A few of us moved into the city in the mid 1970s and we became spoiled for choice. The Other Record Shop became legendary, especially once the 76-77 revolution made buying 45rpm singles essential again and Happy Trails was always good and far enough off the beaten track to  indulge that guilty Grateful Dead collector’s reflex.

My Voice colleague Fred Wilkinson also recalls Thistle TV’s part in youthful vinyl junkiedom…

“I got tel’t that the scary wifie that worked in Thistle TV wis Evelyn Glennie’s ma. Glennie wis the proprietor’s name for sure, and the wifie did resemble Evelyn in some wyes.

“She didna like maist punks, so I’m nae sure why she ordered in punk singles,  though it possibly explains why there wis a crackin 50p box in which, it wis rumoured, many a rarity could be found … if she wis prepared tae serve ye!

“It might hae been the case that she didna like folk smokin in her shop, like in the days far ye didna think twice aboot lightin up in a shoppie except if it selt food, in which case ye widna light up, but if ye had one on the go fan ye got there, ye didna waste it by snibbin it, nor hing aboot ootside an finish it. Ah can still see a’ the black marks on the local newsagent lino fae folk stumpin oot the fags they finished aff while waitin tae get served.

“I wis one the few punks she liked – or maybe, didna dislike? –  though tae this day, I dinna actually ken why, except maybe because I never smoked in her shop. I mind when Generation X released King Rocker, a lang-awaited release fae Gen X, and the first copies in the shops were a limited edition o’ yalla vinyl.

“That Setterday saw punks rinnin a’ ower the toon lookin for copies – apart fae the smart arse bastards fa got intae toon aboot 8′ o’clock in the mornin! Nithin tae be had fae The Other Record Shop, Brucies, Boots, Trax, Happy Trails. Even the Aiberdeen Market wis bein checked oot, but nithin! However, there wis aye Thistle TV.

“So when I got there, there wis a wee pile o’ punks roon the corner fa had tried an failed, jist waitin for somebody a wee bit less punky tae go get them a copy. The wifie kent they were there an wisna budgin an inch. Foo’an ivver, I managed tae walk in, said “Aye aye, foo ye daein the day?” I got a wee smile, an walked oot wi the last 4 copies – 1 for me, an the ither 3 for the 5 or 6 folk waitin roon the corner.

Noo if I wis a capitalist …..”

One Up took specialist record supply to a new level in the city, with knowledgeable, sociable and friendly staff who shared our passion. More than once was I called to the phone at work to take “an urgent message”, which tended to be something like,

“Hi Dave, it’s Raymond – there’s a couple of copies of part 3 of the Charly label Jimmy Reed series just come in – I’ll keep one aside for you”.

That Diamond Street shoppie, One Up’s third home, I think – Fred will keep me right – was where I also bought copies of all the fitba fanzines on sale and Viz, (just establishing itself as a sort of fool orra Beano) as well as far too much vinyl, inessential and indulgent cassette-only mixes of tracks by favoured artists and, eventually, these new shiny tiny pancakes of aural pleasure, CDs.

In the late 80s, HMV muscled in on the local action, followed by Virgin, Our Price and, a decade later, Fopp.

Of those only HMV remains, but its games and DVD sections now dwarf the audio area. They’re also not performing as well as they want to on the High Street although their online ordering and download service is growing.

In the 1990s, a brave attempt by everyone’s pal, James McGuigan, to bring something different to the record-buying public by offering heavily-discounted CDs in his Retro Blue outlet on George Street, was roundly applauded.

there’s no doubt that it made us more appreciative of those precious black 12” platters, lovingly liberated during a day-long trek round every city centre record store.

I spent a sizeable slice of my kids’ inheritance in there, drank far too much of James’s free coffee and enjoyed fantastic conversations with James himself and Joe and Andy, his trusted lieutenants, always willing to play something which had enthused them, listen to we older guys’ war stories of greatcoats, pints of heavy and the Harriet Bar, or discuss burning international issues of the day, generally the Dons’ latest inabilities or Morrice the Butcher’s Brither yarns.

When Retro Blue pulled down the shutters for one last time, teeth were provided for the dentally-bereft to join in the communal gnashing. Good try James, you’re a diamond, min!

Back in 2011, One Up is still valiantly knocking out CDs, vinyl, magazines, fanzines, clothing and memorabilia. Fred is always available for advice on what’s worth buying as he knows every regular’s taste, as well as being the fount of all knowledge in what’s happening in the city centre, opinionated about the Dons and ready to recommend a Guardian article from the previous week. It’s still one of the few places like Cheers where you can enter at any time of day and someone will know your name. Live long and prosper, One Up.

The racks of heavily-discounted CDs in Asda and Tesco show just how the record buyer’s outlet choice has diminished. Once we had to labour, strive and struggle to find what turned us on and there’s no doubt that it made us more appreciative of those precious black 12” platters, lovingly liberated during a day-long trek round every city centre record store.

Picking up a copy of Motown Chartbusters 5 with a loaf and a stone of Maris Piper from the supermarket is too easy. Jimmy Ruffin deserves better and more loving treatment than being dropped in a trolley with the Evening Express and a dozen pakoras from the deli.

Clicking a mouse fewer than a dozen times to download only the tracks you want from an online mp3 site gives far less satisfaction than finding a rare Stones’ Decca compilation in Barr Cochrane’s for 99p. Those Amazon jiffy bags don’t quite hit the sweet spot in the same way as a 12 inch square grey Virgin Records’ cardboard envelope did when Quadrophenia was delivered by the postie to my ma’s house in 1973.

Old rockers never die, they just grumble about having to change their listening format.

Jan 072011
 

By David Innes.

No matter how lurid were the stories of Gerry Rafferty’s personal demise in summer 2010’s tabloids, it was still shocking to hear that he had died on 4 January, aged only 63. His career is well-documented elsewhere. This is a fan’s view of his talent.

I first heard of The Humblebums in the late 1960s. They may even have appeared on one of the low-budget, dodgily-shot, poorly-recorded, grainy Scottish music TV shows of my youth. I may even have been attracted to them by the fact that the word ‘bum’ was in their name. I cannot remember. Neither can I recall anything about any performance I may have witnessed.

What did affect me though, was a friend’s copy of a record in what looked like a hand-painted sleeve, in the days when sleeves were constructed from stout cardboard, were a foot square and served well as temporary indoor hats, worn to display to fellow listeners your own excellent personal taste in listening choice. Maybe that was just me and my teenage trusties, come to think of it. I later discovered that the sleeve, credited to “Patrick” was the work of the scarily-gifted, all-round good guy John Byrne, Gerry’s enduring pal, commemorated in The Humblebums’ Patrick.

Can I Have My Money Back, on Transatlantic subsidiary Blue Thumb Records was to have made a star of young Rafferty. His material was the melodic bedrock on which The Humblebums’ live reputation was founded whilst Billy Connolly took care of the gags, in his unique, hilarious and anarchic way. Comparisons to Paul McCartney are no exaggeration when the title track, with its still-relevant lines

Listen to the lies of the politician man

Saying that we live in a democratic land
One land for the rich, another for the poor
And if you try to change it, they’ll nail you to the floor

is considered along with melodic tours de force, Mary Skeffington and Long Way Round and the subtle brashness of New Street Blues.

Can I Have My Money Back still sounds amazing today. The songs themselves are sublime, the arrangements precise and sympathetic and the delivery proof that young Rafferty had a supreme pop sensibility. Alas, this landmark release did not sell in the numbers it deserved to.

There was no other identifiable solo releases until City To City, which is not to dismiss the three Stealer’s Wheel efforts Stealer’s Wheel, (it included THAT single) Ferguslie Park and Right Or Wrong, but Transatlantic had the foresight – at least it seemed so to Rafferty addicts – to release Gerry’s Humblebums’ material in a variety of guises during the mid-70s. Anyone with an ear for melody could not fail to be moved by the wistful beauty of Her Father Didn’t Like Me Anyway, the resignation to fate of Rick Rack and the strolling funk of Steamboat Row.

When it was announced in 1977 that a first solo album for six years was to be released, I ordered the title track released on 45rpm single, from Aberdeen’s emporium of dreams The Other Record Shop. I asked for another brand new release to be popped in the bag with it. Were there ever two more incongruous purchases than City To City and The Sex Pistols’ Holidays In The Sun? That was VERY 1977.

There was greater success. Royalties from Baker Street and from Stuck In The Middle accompanying a cop lug-ectomy in Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs, meant that Rafferty was able to live comfortably and securely until he bowed out this week.

In some ways, given his recent history, he wrote his own epitaph early on

But when he took to drinking we knew that he was thinking
That his days were quickly coming to an end
He’d only speak of Steamboat Row, he said someday we ought to go
And walk along that dusty road
Fifteen miles to get there, fifteen miles to go
Fifteen miles back home again, home to Steamboat Row

That’s how I’ll remember Gerry Rafferty, 1947-2011.