April 14th, Monday. Gig No. 11, Hideaway Bar, Archway

Today I write about the frustration of the artist. As an artiste, (yes, I am an ‘artiste’ – when you see me, you may kiss me twice) you have a vision of what you want to create. Before that, you have been inspired by other artists. You grow up as a child subjected to all kinds of weird and wonderful influences. Michaelangelo himself was influenced by the works of Giovanni and Ghiberti (No, neither me. I think he played left back for Arsenal?) Shakepeare by the works of Chaucer and Plutarch (Pluto’s grandad?) and as for me: Bedknobs and Broomsticks, the A Team and Spongebob Squarepants. (Spongebob came out in 1999, which would have made me oooh, around 20 yrs old – the lesson being, it’s never too late for great artists to be inspired by the work of others). My other genuine influences were the great actors like Brando, Olivier and Dyer. The Godfather, Hamlet, and Billy the Limpet. (If you don’t get this reference, you don’t deserve to own a TV) And this brings me the problem of the artist: Expectations. When he is inspired by great works, he develops a taste for what is good. And when he decides to try it himself, he wants to emulate his heroes. He wants to meet the standards set by the great and the good. And for me, the single greatest creative influence of my life is The Beatles. This presents a problem. The Beatles were unanimously the greatest band in the world. A gigantic behemoth that bestrode the entire planet. They had it all: Massive mainstream popularity, universal artistic acclaim, and fucking great haircuts. And, deep down in the darkest recesses of my brain, a part of me, no doubt, is thinking: ‘I want to be as good as them’. And thus, therein lies the problem. You carry around with you a constant niggling frustration with yourself and your work. Your ‘Bellydance’ bit is not as good as Rubber Soul. Your ‘Pull my finger’ routine comes nowhere near Hey Jude. Even Maxwell’s Silver Hammer puts your ‘Talking thumb’ joke to shame. And that’s a pile of shit. You live with a constant frustration. Fear, doubt. Will you ever be good enough? Will you ever create work that you’ll be proud of? Every gig you do, you walk away incredibly dissatisfied, feeling like you’ve eaten the hole in the doughnut. Of course I’ll never be as good as the Beatles, I know that. They were four, and I am one. I’ll be lucky if I can be even as good as Cliff Richard, let alone that lot. (One day I will write a joke as good the Millenium Prayer. That was fucking hilarious) I don’t expect that. I do expect, if I am to do 365 gigs in a year, to start being good. Not good every once in a while, but consistently good. Solid. Like, say, Phil Bardsley who plays for Sunderland. A good solid defender, good enough to play in the Premier league, but not quite good enough to play for the big boys. (Not yet. In a few years I expect to be touring the world, waving babies on the balcony, spitting at fans and walking out of chat shows, disgusted at the Loose Women’s shitty manners.) That’s all I want to be, truth be told. Deep down, I want to be good. Good at what I do. I love people who are really good at what they do. Like, seriously good. That’s what really inspires me. That’s why I loved the Beatles. Because they were damn bloody good. But I can’t control that. All I can do, is put the work in, and let go of the rest. Lennon himself said he was never truly satisfied with any of their songs. And he wrote A Day In The Life. How can I possibly ever be satisfied if he can’t? I’m off to tell a punter to pull my finger.

Gig No.11 done. Promoter Joe Grant