Her boyfriend plays in Scritti Politti, Aunt Sally's brown bread…

Helen and The Neighbourhood Dogs have a new album out. It’s longer than Nashville Skyline, but shorter than The Ramones’ first album and sits, thematically, somewhere between the two. From the first tentative WhatsApp to the band suggesting that if we were to do a series of studio recordings, which songs did we as a group think we’d most like to preserve, to the culmination of the recording, mixing, designing, pressing, merching and launching process, we’ve had a ball. Everybody involved brought their A game, people reached out with undue generosity - not least our hosts at The Dove in the heart of swinging downtown Ipswich who opened their beer garden, their barbecue and (and they didn’t have to do this at all) their till to us. I think we managed to thank everyone involved at the time (and a big hello to The Black Feathers, who flew in from Nashville specifically to be with us)* so there probably aren’t any missing accolades to explore beyond the exceptional continued service to the East Angliacana scene of the peerless Stephen Foster, who continues to be a beacon of enthusiasm and who nabbed us for an interview after the gig which will be on air in the next couple of weeks. In advance of the broadcast I would like to formally not apologise for my enthusiasm in describing one noted local musician as the fried egg of the Ipswich music scene, the slightly spiky reference to the local venues who couldn’t find the common courtesy to be bothered to reply to a simple email** and, to reiterate as Helen noted at the time we decided to start the band, hang on - we’re not quite done yet! In the meantime, here are some photographs, courtesy of Dave Markwell, of that sunny Sunday afternoon when it seemed like the Summer would never end…

https://helenandtheneighbourhooddogs.bandcamp.com/album/anything-that-moves

*Some parts of this sentence may not explicitly be of a factual nature.

*It’s your call, but I think they enjoyed the custom of sixty or so thirsty and hungry folk on a Sunday afternoon at The Dove.

It is a question as old as time itself…

 …where does Gaffa tape* come from? We all know where it goes – securing trip hazard-friendly cables, affixing pedal boards, muting the strings behind the nut on the guitar so the frequencies don’t resonate at high compression, repairing mic stands, that joke our drummer used to do where he put it across his face and claimed he’d been pictured in the Sunday Sport…but where from? I am explaining my theory to an increasingly credulous proprietor of a musical supplies store that – much like The Candyman, Beetlejuice or Katie Hopkins – if you say its name three times, it is beholden to appear. “I’ve got some you can have, but not a whole roll” he explains. “Exactly!” I say. “No-one’s ever a got a new roll, but there is always some about”**

I am on the lookout for tape as part of my backstage kit for The Medicine Show pop-up stage at The Maverick Festival, of which I have written at length previously and on the subject of which I sold two books at this year’s Company Store. I usually try and keep some spare strings, leads, a guitar stand, a strap and an actual guitar in the trailer just in case of emergencies. Oh, and a fridge. This year I also have a new PA amplifier and mixing desk, powered monitors, a fixed power supply and a novel new effects loop – all of which I will at some point or another over the weekend be completely baffled by and have to call for assistance in order to attend their functionality. Obviously by the time I’ve confidently got a handle on it all it is time again to hand in my two-way radio, pack up and go home but, y’know – it’s not a sprint.

As always, I am spoilt this year by the kindness and generosity of the talent giftfully given by the best of the turns. A late-night banjo and vocal solo spot from Ryland Moranz turns out to be one festival-goer’s personal highlight. I am discussing the best form of travelling suitcase to mic up with my colleague Smithy from The Moonshine Bar next door, and we agree that it is probably some form of Samsonite, as evinced by the charming April Moon, who gently correct the description of their music to “Canadiana” and play a country-folk version of ‘Anarchy in the UK’ as a thank-you for their wonderful sound mix.

The Dead Religion are hugely, embarrassingly talented and slip me a copy of their CD once I’ve stopped telling them over and again how hugely, embarrassingly talented they are. Jerry Hannan’s exquisite dobro player Sven asks for my number, recounts jamming with Bob Weir and explains that their fiddle player missed the Friday set as he was over here competing in the world frisbee championships. “We weren’t expecting him to get to the final, but that was on Saturday and so here he is. All week we’ve been practising saying ‘Sorry for your loss’.” On Sunday Bearfoot Soul shows up with his own PA, power amp, rack of loops pedals, iPad and attendant sound engineer.*** Subsequently Jason McNiff turns up with an acoustic guitar and a version of ‘Blues Run the Game’ he learned from Wizz Jones. All Americana life is here.

Back at home I unpack the bedding, the tent, the torch, the spare guitar stands, the camping stove and the laundry. As I lower the parcel shelf and close the tailgate I glimpse, unmistakably, nestled among the bag o’ leads a cylindrical objet d’etude. It is a part-used roll of Gaffa tape.

 

 

*It’s alright – you can call it ‘Duck Tape’ although, technically, that’s a brand name.

**This will later be disputed by someone who has bought crates of the stuff and now suspects that he may indeed inadvertently be the source of all of the black gaffa tape in the wild. Like Jimi Hendrix and those parakeets.

***I am reminded again of the possibly apocryphal story of the FOH engineer at The Cambridge Folk Festival asking Ry Cooder what he wanted and being handed a single quarter-inch output jack lead. “Plug that in” he said. “And don’t fuck it up.”