Tag Archives: Paul Usher

Word Music?

15 Mar

On Saturday I took Spud and Spud’s best friend to the art gallery to watch (hear, surely?) some live music.   Not classical this time, but a  mélange of styles from across the borough.  Due to an unfortunate timing issue, we missed the beginning because Stockport County’s match had just finished.  The ground, Edgeley Park, is just up the road from us. 

When we arrived, there was a young band playing and the musicians were good, the boy wasn’t bad but the girl was flat with a capital flat.  Then our old friend Paul Usher came on, he of the no nits.  Paul (several of us from our writing class had promised to support him), the chance for two teens to experience live music and the fact that it was free are the reasons I went.  I hope to be like my mother one day, who saw the Beatles at the Cavern before they were famous; Spud, his friend, my writing buddies and I can all say, ‘We saw Paul Usher at Stockport Art Gallery before he was famous.’  He’d better be famous because I’m tired of being let down by the boys’ school friends who form bands, let me watch them, then split up to go to university or work.   P.U. was amazingly good; much better live than he sounds on the net, and his playing is fabulous.  One of my writing buddies spoke truth when she said, ‘I wouldn’t want to be the act that follows him.’  As it turned out, nobody did.  Want to be that act, that is.  Spud and SBF were not impressed by the country & western duo who followed, though the woman was pretty good.

The best was yet to come, however.  One of the gallery’s staff advised us to stick around and listen to the next band: ‘A lady who chants poetry to music.’  Hmm.  You can’t whack a good poem, it’s true; but try listening to a woman in a Harry Potter cloak and her wild-eyed band mate – if I tell you he could look at the pictures on either side of the gallery at the same time, you’ll get my drift – read what was possibly good poetry but we couldn’t tell because all we could hear was ‘Mmffff ggghh hhhrret tttssd ddeeyy uhnx nmdjdhggfh’ from him and a wobbly, reedy, way flatter than the earlier girl, ‘Can’t get you outta my head’ from her, interposed after every fourth line of  ‘Mmffff ggghh hhhrret tttssd ddeeyy uhnx nmdjdhggfh.’  The boys needed to leave immediately so they could laugh outside without choking.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for experiments in poetry and music and supporting local artistes, but the boys are in favour of breathing and they just couldn’t stifle their laughter any more.  They will definitely remember the band, called Word Music, because they made up poems and interspersed them with increasingly hysterical  ‘Can’t get you outta my heads’ all the way home.


I Knew Him Back When

5 Mar

With apologies to Paul, who might not find this blog to be quite what he was expecting.

Take a look at this You Tube video.  This – boy? young man? lad? What do I call him?  He’s of a similar age to Tory Boy but obviously we are not on similar terms. I’ll call him ‘person’ and make him sound like a bad smell under my nose…you mothers out there: did you find, like me, that the smell of a dirty nappy lingered long after it had been disposed of?  That sweet smell of success – Clever boy!  You did a big, sloppy poo for Mummy! – which meant your child was developing normally.  No?  It was just me?  Maybe I should have washed more often. 

Where was I?  Oh yes, the person in the above video is a young person in my creative writing class.  He is one of about ten hard-core persons left at what is almost the end of a twenty-week course.  When it started there were about thirty persons; some never came back after the first week; a few dropped off as the course progressed, one after the other, like synchronised swimmers in a 1930s’ water musical, until there was just me and nine others who liked writing more than they disliked my annoying presence.  This person, who (whom?  This is a day for questions, isn’t it?) I shall call ‘Paul Usher’, because that is his name, is one of the younger persons who has stayed the course of the course (I’m sorry, dear reader; I have my frivolous head on this morning) and I eventually overcame the age gap enough to occasionally talk to him. 

He’s a lovely lad and I learned that he writes and sings his own songs.  I checked out his website at www.paulusher.net – not because I’m stalking him: why would I do that when I haven’t finished with Brad Pitt yet? But because he shared his details with the class (a better class of persons you could not hope to find).  I was impressed.  I am doing a little bit of promoting as a result, and I hope my three regular readers will spread the word on his behalf.

Here’s the weird part* – Tory Boy knows him. Paul is the cousin of a very good friend of  TB’s.  It was the Hub who made the connection: surname-music-age-da-dah!  When I shared the information with Paul, he was only a little frightened, bless him.  We had been talking about stalking in class, however, and he might have mistaken my intense staring into the back of his head for something other than a motherly desire to check for nits.  We have only ever had one case of nits in this house, I’m happy to report; discovered in a certain head – naming no names or the boy will be embarrassed – on the first day of the Christmas holidays, 2000.  I bought an industrial strength de-lousing shampoo and treated the whole family.  Once our hair grew back we never had another case.

*Okay, it’s not that weird; Stockport is a small town.  I know this because the Queen refused to give us city status in the year of her Golden Jubilee.  Maybe we should buy a second-hand cathedral.

To sum up: itch that scratch; talk that stalk; stay away from Stockport if you’re a royalist; and check out my main man No-Drugs P.Usher.**

**There is a permanent link on the right-hand side under I Know An Artist… so that you don’t have to read through this again if you want to find him.

Remember – you read it here first!  And if you got this far, I don’t think Paul will mind if you don’t become a fan.  Seriously.  Stay away, you nutter.

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