JFDI

The saying goes that you are your friends.

If you look around and all you can see are numpties?

There you go …

My status in that regard is not something I can comment on with any authority.

I'm sure I have my moments.

Most of us do.

However, on the subject of my friends I can wax lyrical.

They're fantastic.

Brief, but lyrical.

Among many other things, friends are the people you talk to when you aren't sure of the right move. You can bounce ideas off them, canvas opinion, take stock.

Enter Sandman: enter Andy H.

Andy and I have known each other since we were thirteen. We met in a biology class a long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away and bonded over a shared love of music. We loved music so much we formed a band even though neither of us could play an instrument. That was the start. We've been friends ever since. Even when I don't always agree with him, I trust Andy's instincts. He's like a Geordie Yoda in as much as he's wise, gnomic and always right.

And green.

With the eight songs I recorded over the last few months mixed, sequenced and mastered I did what I used to do with every song, idea or lick that I had:

I sent them to Andy to get his opinion.

A week later, I got a FaceTime call.

The Geordie Yoda himself:

'Nice work. You'll be releasing it, then?'

'Well ...'

'Don't tell me you're going to sit on it. Why on earth would you do that?'

Andy knew what was happening in South Yorkshire at the time.

'Oh. That.’

A pause.

‘Mate, release it. We're musicians. That's what we do.'

'Well, there's that but ...'

'What? You think they’ll kick off?’

'Maybe.'

'Probably. So? And? They're going to kick off about everything you do from now on from now on until kingdom come. You exposed them. You're damned if you do and damned if you don't. So by that measure, you might as well be damned for what you've done. Release it.'

Andy opens a bottle of Hobgoblin, his drink of choice on a Friday night.

'Besides,' he adds. 'Their behaviours are their responsibility. Release it.'

Like I said: Geordie Yoda.

'Interesting guitar sounds,' he adds. 'Is this the altered tuning stuff you said you'd been working on?'

Andy tunes his guitar E A D G B E, low to high. Drop-D is as low as he goes but only in high-gain situations where riffage might be involved. My recent attempts to get my fingers moving again by experimenting with altered tunings has made me, in his opinion, a dangerous heretic.

‘Yeah. Each song is in a different tuning. I didn’t set out for that to be the case. It's just that every time I turned the tuners somewhere new something else came out.'

‘Well,' he says appraisingly. 'You don’t sound like you haven’t played for nearly a decade.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. I’d have said two.’

'Thanks.'

'No problem. That's what friends are for. Of course,' he goes on, 'this would be a lot easier if you’d stayed in Manchester.’

‘Well, yes, of course,’ I reply evenly. ‘A lot of things would have been easier if I'd stayed in Manchester.'

‘What I mean,' he clarifies, 'is that this would have been easy if you'd stayed in Manchester.'

'How so?'

Well, we'd have done what we always do. Set a release date; throw a launch party in town; invite all of our friends; ask all of our friends to invite all of their friends; play a blinding set and then have the sort of aftershow bash that ends relationship and starts new ones. Ads would organise some PR where we'd tell anyone who'd listen that we were the best band in the world.’

He takes a sip of his beer.

'And if anyone disagreed, we'd tell them to form a queue outside.'

‘It’s the Manchester way of doing it, mate. It's the playbook everyone from Joy Division to New Order to The Blossoms via The Roses, the Mondays and Oasis have used: we’re the best band in the world; our songs can kick your songs arses; eff off if you don’t agree.’

‘I know,’ I smile. ‘I did live and love in Manchester, remember?’

‘How could I forget? Great city, great times. When are you coming back?’

'You can never go back.'

'Yeah. COVID-19 is going to get us all like that.'

'I meant in life.'

'Well, yes, but seriously. You loved living in Manchester. Come back.'

'I'll think about it. What I mean is that it's an approach I've yet to see a folk musician use to announce their new album, you know? ‘Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough.’ I mean, I can’t see Sam Sweeney giving someone a knuckle sandwich; or Eliza Carthy offering Fay Hield out overThe Rufford Park Poachers.’

‘Well, that just means you can probably take them, then,’ suggests Andy. ‘Mind you, Martin Simpson’s from Scunthorpe, isn’t he? They make them tough over there. He’s probably quite tidy in a swedge. You'll want to watch him.’

I reassure Andy that if I ever get on the cobbles with a folk musician, I’ll make sure it’s not Martin Simpson.

He adds:

‘Anyway, you're not really a folk musician, are you?'

'No. Not in the sense of being born into the tradition since birth and having sworn a sacred oath to defend it, no. I don't pretend to be either.'

'I mean it's got a folk flavour. Dark subject matter and an acoustic guitar.'

'I'm not sure that's all that's needed to qualify you as folk artist.'

'Worked for Bob Dylan,' says Andy. 'You'll need more biblical references if that's the direction you're going in, though.'

'Bugger off.'

'I know. I get it. Yes, it's acoustic; yes, it draws on all the stuff we heard as kids growing up in Newcastle … I get that. It's you. It's not like you're down at Cecil Sharp House twice a week looking for a new version of The Shrimp-Catcher’s Daughter, though, are you?’

I tell Andy that I’m not in the market for a new version of The Shrimp-Catcher’s Daughter.

‘Exactly,’ agrees Andy. ‘You’re playing the music you need to play at the time you need to play it - just like we always did. Anyway, why didn't you ask me to play on it?'

‘I was going to; but I thought I better do this one myself.'

‘Yeah. I can see that,' Andy nods. 'So? How are you going to release it?'

‘I thought about maybe printing some CD's and selling them from a website? Maybe send a few out to see if it anyone will review it? I quite like the idea of going physical in the digital age - you know, be counter-intuitive? Also if I make it a limited run - maybe 200 and done - it gives it a start and an end point ...'

Andy laughs.

'Mate, I love you, but no-one knows who you are. You don't get much rarer than that.'

'Harsh. Fair.'

'True. Now, here's what you're going to do. Listening? First of all, make a website. Don't overthink it. Keep it simple. Music, bio, blog ...'

'A blog?'

'Yeah. Remember the blog you did for the last band we were in? It had more hits than we did - and we were massive on Myspace.'

'Exactly. Myspace is from the Ark. That was then. This is now. It's a different age. People don't read.'

'They might. Try it. Have fun. Be you again. You're allowed to. You escaped, remember?'

'You really do have a way with words, don't you?'

'I do. Do you still keep a diary?'

'Yes.'

'Well, there you go. I know you. Among other things you'll have written about this. Pull some bits from your diary and put them up as a 'Making of ...'. As for the music - same thing. Don't overthink it. Don't go back and redo it. Finish what you need to finish and then put it out. Do it digitally. Let people find their way to it. You're in the twenty-first century now. Don't thank me. The water's lovely, come on in.'

‘But …’

Andy holds his hand up.

‘But me no buts. You’ve project-managed before, right? Have you heard of JDFI?’

‘Is this like WYSIWYG?’

‘Yeah. Except in this case, it stands for Just Fxxing Do It. Finish what you need to finish. Put it out.'

‘Ok.’

‘And when you do the next one, ask me to play on it. It's about time you worked with a decent guitarist.'

‘Yeah? Know any?’

'Cheeky bugger. Got a name for it, anyway?'

'Yes.'

'What?'

'Northumbria.'

'Yeah. That's the one. That’s the title alright.'

You can measure a man by his friends.

Mine are amazing.

What that makes me is this:

Lucky.

——-

©℗ A. I. Jackson