mostly david ephgrave

While sorting through some old things today, I stumbled across a cassette of early Big Day Out demos I haven't heard for years and, after putting magnetic-tape-to-tape-head using my first HiFi (which I rescued from my garage last week), I discovered they're still bloody good. The songs were recorded using our friend, one-time band manager and adopted-father-figure Martin Goodrich's 8-track in around 1997ish, and sound remarkably polished considering our tender age and the technical limitations. The joy and energy bursts from the speakers like the band are playing in your front room today and, while there are inevitable Britpop-style musical quotes we'd soaked up at the time - like the odd Oasis-Esque vowel sound - something sparkling and original still comes out the other side of it. And the songs - which are unashamedly out-and-out pop - are catchier than coronavirus. (Too soon?) Before I sound smug, I should point out the driving force at that time wasn't me, but ...

I visited my dad today – and while I was there, he showed me some of his recent sketches. He used to paint when I was younger. He took it up as a hobby, going to the local art club once a week.   Sometimes they’d be on the lookout for models, so I’d volunteer my services. I found it hard to stay still for an extended period, so I’d take a book to keep me occupied. This resulted in a shedload of pictures of me looking at my lap; probably not the sort of thing you’d want to grace your walls. (It’s worth clarifying that I did it fully-clothed.) My dad specialised in watercolours, though he’d also do the occasional in oils. He’d sell the odd one here and there; there were a few on permanent display at the carvery at the Gordon Craig Theatre, which I’d often go and look at when I went to their weekly drama club. (The theatre ran the drama club. Not the carvery; that would just be weird.) He shared a studio on Stevenage High ...