Author: simondgary

Curiously, “Ghosts” was one of those sit-coms that I resisted – for quite some time. However, with the holiday period upon me and with hearty recommendations from work colleagues, I decided to have a look.

Two weeks of holiday later and I have watched all three series.

And they are truly wonderful.

I could very well stop this blog post there. That’s it. “Ghosts” is an extraordinary piece of television and I urge you to watch them. All of them. At the earliest opportunity.

But that approach would be to sell this comedy short – so let’s explore deeper and see where we get.

“Ghosts” is put together by the same team that worked on the anarchic “Horrible Histories” series. This show did an excellent job of teaching children about the past, but there was plenty in it for the mums and dads underneath the Tudor dance routines. It felt like an extended version of the Simon Groom arch “what a lovely pair of knockers” comment that everyone of a certain age enjoyed in a 1980 Blue Peter – hiding in plain sight but flying over the heads of all but the most precocious of youngsters.

But with “Ghosts,” those shackles are well and truly off. One could expect a smut-fest, but what we have is far more subtle and character-driven.

One of the reasons that I didn’t watch the show initially was that I wondered just how long the writers could draw out continual spooking and scaring. But the team didn’t go for that. There is something curiously comforting about the living characters’ acceptance of their spectral housemates. Due to a near-death experience, Alison can see and communicate with the ghosts. Meanwhile,  husband Mike, who is entirely in the land of the living and relies upon reporting from his wife, accept the eerie presences early on within the plot.

This simple premise opens up some engaging character growth and comedy, which lifts the series’ into something far more relatable. The ghosts become fleshed out, which they probably long to be in actuality.

Another layer, only achievable within such a ghoulish premise, is having characters from different historical backgrounds interact with one another.

With each character bringing their own norms and experiences, based on their historical placement, some fascinating and satirical explorations can take place. One of the most rewarding relationships is between Robin, a caveman and oldest ghost, and Julian, the Tory MP, and most recently deceased. They bond over the chessboard when Julian, realising he has some serious time on his hands, decides the teach the caveman to play. As it turns out, Robin is surprisingly good, and his openness to learning makes him a most endearing creation.

When I first became interested in the mechanics of comedy writing, a BBC guideline was the “rule of four.” The advice was simple. Try to have no more than four main characters and four locations. Viewers find things easier to follow that way. That there are nine ghosts and two main living characters, all of which have their own rounded personalities, is a testament to the skill of the writing.

Some of the peripheral characters are worth a mention too. My favourite is the joyously bonkers performance of Geoff McGivern as neighbour, Barclay  Beg-Chetwynde. McGivern’s rendition is straight out of “Toast of London” and is riotously huge and exaggerated. This comes without mentioning the other community of ghosts that live in the cellar, where, at one point, their plague-ridden graves are excavated by a modern-day archaeologist.

The writing team manages to find enough storylines to fill the three available series comfortably. There is a mixture of recurring narratives, mostly surrounding the pursuit and loss of the filthy lucre, and these are interspersed with “ghost of the week” tales, which present the opportunity for some fantastic star cameos.

So, I think what I am saying is this. If you have been planning to watch “Ghosts,” watch it. If you have not planned to watch “Ghosts,” then do the planning bit and follow the instructions above. The show is genuinely funny and throws up many tender moments too.

More than that, “Ghosts” is just fun. And we could all do with a bit more of that these days.

Since they first came onto our screens, these BBC reworkings of the beloved Worzel Gummidge have quickly become a Christmas staple.

Perhaps the schedulers, targeting that strange limbo between Christmas and New Year, tucked these two specials in the days following the turkey-filled main event to lift our flagging spirits. But to me, these delightful pieces of television would not have been out of place in the prime slots of Christmas Eve and Christmas Day itself.

I think the element that makes these pieces of television so endearing is the embracing rural folk tradition.

These days, many of us are bombarded with ever-increasing levels of complexity, which we meet with escalating and convoluted technological solutions.

But the Worzel Gummidge programmes remind me that there is still simplicity to be had in life, and it is a simplicity underpinned by seasonality and joyous love for the countryside.

When James Joyce described the fall with the deliciously mischievous “bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk,” he was referring to a separation from pious knowledge and state of grace. Similarly, the countryside handbook that Worzel carries in his tunic is filled with the sort of knowledge that every child once knew by heart. Boys and girls knew the names of the trees they climbed and fell out of, the berries they ate from the hedgerows and the animals that peered out from the brackens.

But this knowledge is fading, along with the environment that it has long described. While Worzel and his scarecrow friends bring us genuine moments of comedic levity, in their weather-beaten faces and costumes there is more than a tinge of sadness, creeping loss, and decay.

The narrative of “appreciate what we have before it is gone” sits as a sub-text in each of the Worzel Gummidge specials. It is possibly a theme of Mackenzie Crooks’ wider work, especially if we nod back to “Detectorists,” which is also steeped in rural tradition. However, the environmental message is not pushed too heavily, but the specials remain thought-provoking, nonetheless.

I felt the theme of separation and loss continued with the two offerings over this festive period. First, Farmer Braithwaite, played by the ever marvellous Steve Pemberton, is faced with the loss of his beloved birdwatching hobby when a group of rare seaside red-billed chough are blown off-course during a storm. The village grapevine unleashes a flurry of activity as professional birdwatchers and media descend upon Scatterbrook. This close-quarters scrutiny rather scuppers Worzel’s plan to scare the rare breed, and the ensuing chaos unfolds to a pleasing end.

There is also a little more focus on the Braithwaites in the following episode, entitled “Calliope Jane.” Here, the sub-plot tends towards the topic of family. Mr Braithwaite and Mrs Braithwaite (beautifully pitched by Rosie Cavallero) are the childless owners of Scatterbrook Farm. Crook has skillfully built the relationship between the Braithwaites and their foster children, Susan and John. Against the backdrop of the evocative funfair, the bond between the children and the adults deepens. Each openly addresses the desire to become a family – parents looking for children and children looking for parents.

In the infectious joy that Susan and John exhibit around the farm, the desire for a family is acknowledged by the Braithwaites. However, it is no accident that this joy of life – initially missing from the jaded city children stuck on their mobile devices – is born from the meetings with Worzel.

Worzel is the constant, representing joy, seasonality, and the childlike hope, recreated through the turning of the calendar. Anything is possible, whether that be scaring a flock of chough, or enchanting a fairground of people into a peaceful sleep.

In the second episode, Bill Bailey stars as Mr Peregrine, the proprietor of the wonderful, steam-driven fair. Bailey’s performance also hinted at loss. Bailey, who has a natural gleam in this eye, channelled his inner Willy Wonka to give a rendition of a man grieving the loss of innocence and magical childhood. This memory, hidden under the gossamer layers of adulthood, is easily exposed within the presence of Worzel, even in his sulking, fully scarecrow state.

Because magic, memory, and nature are never far from the surface, no matter how many smart devices we have strapped about our person.

The great tree of trees was there before I was around and will endure long after I am gone. I think this is part of the point. Let’s not take ourselves too seriously – be your inner Worzel Gummidge. And while we are there, perhaps lookout for those around you. Like the Brathwaite’s, Susan, and John, family can be anywhere that you decide.

And finally, the greenery and balance of the countryside is such a gift. We are but temporary stewards. Looking after the place, well, it is necessary, but it doesn’t have to be difficult. Not if we all live with the joy of scarecrows, anyway.

As the heat disappears from the year and the evenings cool and shorten, I begin to set aside my summer things.

Whether it be the shorts I never wore, the hat that didn’t see the sun, or the gin that I forgot I had, I will pack them lovingly away, patting them as the doors close, with the simple phrase, “maybe next summer.”

Another raft of morsels that go back into storage is the pinkened vocabulary that we lazily draw upon during the summer months. As the bitter darkness of winter recedes, we select, as if at a delicious buffet, on the idioms that we roll around under the blazing sun. Heat, humidity, shower, and barbecue all bring us back into touch with the great outdoors. Mower, secateurs, ice cream.

But my favourite, by some considerable stroll along a hay-stacked country mile, is petrichor. For many years, I had known what petrichor was, but to the best of my recollection, I only had a name for it in recent seasons.

For the uninitiated, petrichor is that wondrous aroma that is to be sampled when there has been rain after a long period under the baking sun. To me, it smells like a long, satisfied sigh. It is the scent of the scorched earth, curling its baked toes in delight as the sweet liquor seeps into the cracks, turning the brittle, dust-orange clay to a deep spongy brown. Petrichor is the joy as roots, shrunken and bronze, reach forth, drink and become yellow-green, green. It is the squeak of the grasses, as they push heavenward once more, bright and verdant, in a celebration of the chance to swirl around surprised ankles and sated hooves.

But I guess most of all, petrichor is the presence of balance and glorious seasonality, the slow beating quadrumvirate of the mother earth. It is the promise of renewal and the warning of passing. The water cycle begins again, and in its surety, the hot ground sighs. The summer rains speak quietly of transitory circles and the privilege that is the consciousness of the journey.

As summer passes, it will return, and the earth will welcome it with a sigh.

Unusually for this site, we are going to review a non-fiction book. That said, review might not be the correct term. I’d like to use the book as a springboard to think about writing specifically, though all will become clear as we move on.

Modello was the name of a housing project just south of Miami with a reputation for drugs, alcohol, violence, prostitution, truancy, and many other social disorders.

The book is the story of how this community turned itself around. The sub-titles on the cover give an extra clue. One states, “A story of hope for the inner city and beyond.” Another, “An inside-out model of prevention and resiliency in action.”

At the centre, at least initially, is Dr Roger Mills. Dr Mills was a traditionally trained psychologist whose life was turned around by exposure to the wonderfully charismatic Sydney Banks.

Banks, previously a Scottish welder of average education, had come to a realisation about life that had changed his entire outlook. Banks distilled this understanding down to three principles, those of mind, consciousness, and thought.

Mind is the innate wisdom, common sense and mental health available for all. Consciousness is the essence that allows us to be aware of our day to day experience, and thought is the commodity that powers our experience in the moment.

To be clear, what Sydney Banks, Roger Mills, and many others were saying is that each of us is experiencing the result of our thought at this instant. If we change the thought, we can change the experience. It is an inside-out model of life rather than an outside-in. Through understanding when a low mood, for instance, is colouring the lens of our outlook on life, we can embrace the realisation in the moment, smile at it, and move on the something more positive.

If this seems fanciful or non-sensical, I will invite you to sit with this explanation for a while. Better still, why not look up Sydney Banks online, or perhaps modern practitioners, such as Michael Neill or Jamie Smart.

But what the book “Modello” offers is the transcription of this method applied practically to a deprived and ignored housing projects in Miami. It is a joy to read first-person accounts from residents throughout the book in their authentic language. Through these accounts, we see a transformation in a group of individuals, which seems to seep out and change the community.

Take, for example, Ruby. Ruby was addicted to crack cocaine and, through gaining an understanding of her own thought, was able to find the motivation to seek help and attend a rehabilitation clinic.

Then consider Lenny. Lenny was bright and ambitious but had sought to steer his talent towards selling drugs. The logic seemed simple. Looking around, Lenny could see that those young men around him who had nice clothes and cars were selling drugs. It was a straightforward story to keep repeating that this was the only way to succeed. However, because one of the Modello ladies reached out to him, recognising his talents for what they were, Lenny not only changed himself but influenced his friends as well. As the book closed, Lenny and his friends had established a Student Tenant’s Association and were all in college – this coming from a background where college would not previously be considered an option.

The book contains many similar tales of triumph over perceived adversity. Schools were turned around, Parent Teacher Associations created, and neighbourhood crime seemingly defeated. Individual women stopped drinking, ended abusive relationships, went back to school, and found meaningful jobs.

So what happened? I think people made a connection with their natural mental health and common sense. People also realised that their lives had value. With this realisation, it didn’t make sense to take drugs, drink, or endure an abusive relationship. Then, free from the shackles of vice or abuse, people began to see hope, which fuelled their subsequent actions.

Allow me to address the topic differently. Imagine our lives as a notebook. At birth, it is full of pristine sheets of paper. This blank page is our mental wellbeing, and in this state, the paper is open to receiving anything.

But as we grow, things are written onto those pages. In moments of reflection, we re-read the sentences, add to them, and create the person we recognise as us. It doesn’t matter if what we read is positive or negative; we build upon our stories and embellish everything with thought.

If challenged, we become defensive and fight tooth and nail for this self-created picture – this notebook that makes us an individual, but as the words on the page, self is a series of repeated beliefs – many of which do not serve us.

For, despite all of the writings in our collective notebooks, one fact remains true. The pristine page still exists underneath it all, and the greater part of ourselves exists in the space between the letters. Through recognising the words as thought and having the consciousness to realise that we are just a book, we have the opportunity to connect to the pristine page of mind.

What is more, there is only one infinite notepad, and all of our lives are written on it. At a fundamental level, we are all connected. When, on some level, the residents of Modello and Homestead Gardens realised this, suspicion, hate, and violence no longer made sense. To hurt another was to hurt oneself. The only emotion that makes sense, after that, is love.

So, where does this leave us in terms of the written art with which so many of us engage? Well, in this article, I would like to focus on inspiration and ideas.

One thing that initially troubled me with the three principles of mind, consciousness, and thought, was that it inferred that writers were not the creators of ideas. Rather, we are conduits of ideas that exist in Universal Mind, somehow woven into the pristine empty page of nothing. We don’t create; we connect.

But as I sat with that idea, I began to feel more at home with it. I think I am okay with it now.

You see, for a long time, I haven’t really written much. My ideas seem to have dried up, and the more I concentrate on “having ideas”, the more things will slow down, as I am clogged up in thought. So I am giving myself permission not to write, and I am doing other things.

We have all seen some media where successful people are questioned about where they get their best ideas and breakthroughs. The answers are always very similar. Insights seem to come when you’re in the shower, doing exercise, washing up, taking a walk, ironing, or even sleeping. Because these are the sort of activities where you can drift off into a flow state and temporarily quiet that chatter of thought. At this moment, you open the space for inspiration and creativity to sneak in.

So, thanks to the residents of Modello, I think there is plenty of ironing, cleaning, and exercise on the horizon for me.

But I would also recommend reading this book, especially if this piece has struck a chord. It could just change the way you look at life and yourself. It may dig down into a seam of hope, just as it did with Ruby, or Lenny, or any of the others who share their unique tales.

Wherever the book takes you, go with love, best wishes and may inspiration flood through you.

I want to take some time out of the usual activity of this blog to reflect upon the activity of writing and publication.

I have published two novels, “Gone to the Dogs” and its unofficial prequel “Thryke: The Man That Nobody Knew.” These have both been self-published. The first, I did query with a few agents; the second, I did not.

Social media allows me to see the trials and tribulations of many fellow writers. Many have the dream of being traditionally published. I shared this dream for many years and, in fact, still do, but I have come to realise that this may not come to pass.

The problem, for me, is embodied in the word “traditional.” Traditional means something longstanding and embedded into habit and normality. Tradition sits outside of a world that is constantly changing. These touchstones offer us continuity and the illusion of understanding in a world the otherwise seems chaotic and scary.

So what was the traditional path to publication? It came through querying your work to a few agents and hopefully picking up one who would be interested in representing you. In exchange for a small percentage of your future earnings, the agent would place your book with an appropriate publishing house and look after all of the contractual side of things, ensuring you, as the author, got the best deal that was available.

The secondary benefit of this arrangement was enjoyed by the consumer. The system described inevitably came with a degree of quality control. As a reader, you knew that the book you were about to tuck into had been through several loops and sets of eyes. Even if the story wasn’t quite your thing, you at least knew there would not be a slew of spelling and grammatical errors.

You could have confidence that the novel had been deemed acceptable and, critically, marketable. If you didn’t like it, it was likely to be a matter of style or subject, but at least you had something to debate with your fellow bibliophiles. But things were about to change.

The internet arrived, and several huge companies followed.

With the internet came the promise of online publishing. You no longer needed to find an agent and a publishing house. You could do it yourself. The landscape was shifting.

I tried to find a reliable data source for the number of books published, either traditionally or otherwise, in 2020, but it has proved tough. So I am going to make a series of educated guesses. I will suggest that the number of books published globally last year was four million. I am further going to assert that ten per cent of those were traditionally published. While these are mind-boggling numbers, I will suggest further that a) I am not far off, and b) this is a tenfold increase on ten to twenty years ago.

But has the book-buying revenue increased at the same level?

I would say not. Data suggest that the average book sells less than a thousand copies in its lifetime.

I recently watched an interview with the celebrated mathematician and author of the marvellous book “Antifragility,” Nassim Nicholas Taleb.

He described writing as a “scalable” profession. The logic is sound. As a writer, I only have to write a book once, but I can sell it again, and again, and again. Each time I sell one book, I do not have to write another to replace it.

Taleb compares this to a sandwich-seller. Her profession is not scalable. When she sells a unit of her product, she must make another to replace it.

The problem with scalable professions is that they create a “winner takes all” environment. People, especially here in the UK, complain about the money that footballers earn. But the truth is that most of the money is acquired by a very limited number of players. In the lower leagues, there will be players struggling to make a living.

The same is true of musicians, and of course, writers.

Taleb estimates that around 50% of the book-buying profits are earned by between ten to fifteen individuals.

This one fact puts a hugely different complexion on the concept of “traditional” publishing. Let’s be honest now. If I am an agent, I need to make a living. As much as I love literature and books, that love will never pay my mortgage and keep me in groceries. I need money for that. So I need to back a winner. This circumstance creates a tremendous paradox. Do I stick with the authors I know, or do I visit my submissions pile, hoping to find the next gem?

While it is probably a bit of both, some books I might have taken a chance on in years gone past, I now have to reject. These books may potentially end up being self-published. And that is where the work begins – not where it ends. Today’s successful self-published author is now a master of marketing and social media too.

But the difficulty of reaching an audience remains. Some absolutely succeed; many don’t. Another layer of “winner takes all” is created. But while there remains the chance of being spotted, and while we have stories we are desperate to tell, we will continue to create content for the world. Some will be great; some will be shockers. But even Franz Kafka was unappreciated during his lifetime, right?

Many reading this won’t mind either way, however. And I think that I don’t now. I’m just happy to have something to write and the challenge of how to get it out. For most of us, that is enough.

While this blog tends to steer its tiller towards literary content, every so often, the chance comes along to share an artistic review of a different kind, and this is where we find ourselves today.

For, screaming over the horizon, with all cannon blazing, comes something unique. It is the new album by Justin Liquid Anderson – the marvellously monikered “Not Everyone’s Cup O’Tea,” released last week by the fine team at Shambotic Recordings.

If you are a regular visitor to these parts, you may recall meeting our friends at Shambotic Recordings once before. They operate under the straightforward philosophy: “If it’s good, it’s in.”

Given this qualification criteria, I am happy to report that Justin Liquid Anderson smashes it adequately in an undeniably extraordinary release. At the time of writing, I have listened to the album on half a dozen occasions. I have found something different on each listen, and each time I have been entertained and amused in equal measure.

So, the problem I have is this.

It is my understanding that music reviews are generally written by the encyclopedically gifted – people who spot what something sounds like and can identify its roots to the nth degree. Either I cannot do that, in this case, or this long-player is something marvellously unique and eccentric. I am happy to report that I believe it to be the latter.

“Not Everyone’s Cup O’Tea” sounds unlike anything that I have encountered, yet the sound, underpinned by those everso languid vocals, is undeniably Justin Liquid Anderson. It is, I must warn you, catchy as hell. You will hum the tunes at work. You will. And how cool will you look when you tell your co-workers where the tune that they are now humming came from? Perhaps this is why Mr Anderson is liquid – because he will get everywhere.

So what we have here is 34 minutes and 34 seconds of uplifting and joyous earworms. Ten perfectly crafted anthems, one turn of the tap away from soaking you in bubbly, warm water. This album is a jacuzzi for your ear canals. Surely you cannot deny them that pleasure?

We start with “Luv is a crazy game.” This one will pull you in. To paraphrase Anderson, he always knew he’d get you, since the day he met you. Crashing in as track one, this will drag you into the vortex. I found it was easier not to resist – just go with it.

Hot on its heels comes another stonker. “I like everything about you” is glorious, one of my favourites. I would like to describe it as Munsters Rockabilly, and it is cooler than Steve McQueen with a baseball. I particularly love the 50’s style harmonies, which, if life were a movie, would be delivered by sunflowers in mirrored aviators. Trust me on the description. It will make sense.

“Magic Time” follows. This one will also appear on film one day, playing over a US teen beach party. All the cool kids will be having fun, while the clown of the piece will grimace comically when an ice-cream cone inevitably adorns his boat race.

“Koochie Rydes Again” has some lovely jangly guitars and would probably be the tune I would choose to go hot-air ballooning to. It’s slicker than a greased ferret down a drainpipe.

JLA treats us to an instrumental with Track Five, the foot-tap inducing “Good Mood.” It’s well-titled too. Settle in and glide off on the guitars. They’ll take you to better times and warmer climes.

“Fall in Love” is a track that I had heard before sampling this cup of tea, and it rumbles in at number six. It’s great, super and smashing. Minimalist in places, the juxtaposition allows the chorus to soar. “Fall in love with someone; take the chance right now. Change your life for someone!” What a message of selflessness! We can all take something from that.

As we begin to enter the last few furlongs, the energy levels of this runaway stallion of an album do not drop. “Sum1 Wiv Sum1” crashes into the neighbouring meadow rather than simply jumping the fence. There’s some lovely guitar work, which flow in and out over a simple drum pattern. It’s actually rather relaxing.

Next up is the superb “Old England,” which has a bit of “Get Carter” menace and chic to it. While the fella from “Coronation Street” is not thrown from a multi-storey, this track is right on so many levels. (Get your coat, Ed.) It’s a cracker. It’s Old England with a new electro-sound, lifted by a kazoo chorus, which I would like to think is accompanied by the Peking Rip-Saw Orchestra. At least that’s what I would like to imagine Mr Anderson was going for.

I picked up a dash of Polyphonic Spree in Track Nine, simply called “Hey Girl.” It’s like petrichor – you know – that lovely smell that parched land gives off after an unexpected shower. That’s the best way and describe it. Have a listen and see if you get what I mean.

By the time the final track comes around, you will feel like you are saying goodbye to an old friend. This long-player is that good.

The honour of closing the album is given to “Harmony.” This track will get the festival-closing, crowd-hugging call and response, as the collective realises that the present is about to fade into memory. It’s a wholly adequate close to a fantastic body of work.

In reflecting, we must recall that music is about emotional connection and transportation. I found “Not Everyone’s Cup O’Tea” by Justin Liquid Anderson was capable of doing just that. It is joyous, uplifting and full of positive energy. Who could not do a with a spot of that? Best enjoyed with beer, friends and a stout pair of dancing brogues, I cannot recommend it enough. It is certainly a record that I shall return as the summer deepens and the sunshine follows. And failing an appearance by our helio-shy friend, “Not Everyone’s Cup O’Tea” will certainly brighten your day.

“Not Everyone’s Cup O’Tea” is released on Shambotic Recordings. I have pleasure in including a link to the album here or check out Shambotic’s Facebook Page. Go on, you know you want to. (Album link opens in Spotify.)

Simon Gary is not really a music writer, as you can probably tell, but he is the author of the darkly comic novels “Gone to the Dogs” and “Thryke: The Man That Nobody Knew.”

My name is Samuel Dawkins, and, in my youth, I was apprenticed to Mister Holroyd, over at the Smithery.

As I recollect, one winter’s day, when I had not worked there long, he called out to me across the clanking and the din.

“Boy? Will you be coming on the visiting Wassail a couple of nights hence?”

I remember looking across from my duties and spying this colossus of a man beaming back at me. He was a wonderful master, as strong as any ox. I once saw him lift a laden cart from its broken axle through his labour alone.

“I do not know Mister Holroyd, sir.”

He glided across the cold, stone floor as was by me in an instant. He looked down at my craft.

“You’re doing a good job there, Dawkins. We’ll make a smith of you yet. That’s right, as I showed you. Let the teeth of the file do the work, gentle. As soft as you would with your young lady.”

To my shame, I reddened, cursing my inexperience and callow nature. Holroyd let out a boisterous guffaw.

Continue reading Wassail – A Short Story.

“Behold,” he says, pushing back the leaf cover, “Antheraea assamensis.”

I pace deeper into his private garden. “The wild muga silkworm?”

He nods. “The very same. The creators of the exquisite garment that you are wearing.”

It seems an inappropriate gift – but he insists I wear it to write my piece.

The humidity is now unbearable.

“Only my creatures are unique. With behaviours, unlike any other.”

The air is cloying! I claw at my throat.

I spy the human-sized chrysalis suspended in the branches, and my knees buckle in the earth spin.

“I believe you remember your predecessor?” he says.

One of the most glorious things about lockdown is the wave of creativity it has released.

Artists of all hues, through the need to retain some level of sanity, have dusted down the projects that were long left on the shelf, waiting for that moment when the creator “had the time.”

Others, such as live musicians, have sought to find alternative methods to channel their musical energies. Marvellously, one such outcome of this surge of imagination has been Shambotic Recordings.

Shambotic is the brainchild of Michael Evill, of The Music Liberation Front Sweden, and Carl Hitchcock, keyboard player extraordinaire of The Sequels. Both are passionate and sourcing and sharing great music, and this enthusiasm really shines through their social media.

Let’s dive straight in with their first release – Bulb by Biowire.

Pretty awesome stuff, don’t you think?

But that’s the Shambotic credo – if it’s good – it’s in.

Upcoming releases promise to be eclectic – with the great innovation of new material being issued every Friday. What better way to throw off the yoke of work, sit back with your favourite tipple, and simply groove? Friday 19th March is certain to be another belter, with “Wonderful Things” by SoulKing following as SHAM002.

Future material includes the wonderfully jangly guitars of Socialist Leisure Party, an anthemic tune from Justin Liquid Anderson, and, so I am told, a real gem by a Lithuanian electro artist who goes by the moniker of Exhibitor. So, as the saying goes, watch this space!

It genuinely is awesome to see labels such as Shambotic Recordings springing up. And believe me when I say it is done for the love of the music. Nobody is getting rich here – but you great people are going to be getting great music every week. What’s not to love about that?

Ride for wave and follow these guys – it just ain’t exotic if it’s not Shambotic! (Horrific wordplay by me!)

The storm has battered the cove. Now, in the eerie calm, I walk onto the shingle. Rockslip has embedded the beach with shards of seething rock, shattered, splintered and sorrowful.

I step amongst the fallen, and then, as if shining under seaspray, it is revealed to me.

On a canvas of rock, in the first-seen gaze, is confessed the presence of a long-dead creature.

I place my hand inside the humming tridactyl span, and millions of years crash away. I dissolve into atoms, spinning across the cosmos, crackling into the electro-soup.

As I swirl, so shushes the cold, implacable sea.

Simon Gary is the author of the darkly comic novels “Gone to the Dogs” and “Thryke: The Man That Nobody Knew.”