Confessions of an unjustified gothic alt-country song writer

It started one time when I had nothing to tweet about. So I thought I would tweet a joke about “working on the album”. The joke being, for me, a lot of tweets come from bands, so why couldn’t mine? I hash-tagged it #grevilleandthetomsbstones as my quickly created fictional band name and then, again, with #thereisnoalbum just so I was not actually deceiving my followers.

It was taking up the thread I had begun on this very blog about a song I had written for my band which did not exist and just moving it slightly left, into the realm of Twitter.

Soon, I was using this idea of having a band as my default tweet when I had nothing much else to say: “Another track in the can #thereisnotrack #thereisnocan #grevilleandthetombstones”

Before long I was starting to incorporate parts of this parallel life dichotomy into more everyday tweets: “Guy beside me at train station carrying guitar case. Wonder if it is empty like mine? #thereisnomusic #grevilleandthetombstones” It was a bit of fun to keep me occupied.

In, admittedly, a bold move, I announced the name of my pretend band’s upcoming album on Twitter. I actually tweeted an actual picture that I had taken and spent some time putting words on as the cover. Along with the obligatory #thereisnoalbum

It’s not that I haven’t had the odd bash at some rhyming couplets late at night – and who here hasn’t – but I know nothing about writing songs. Before I knew it, I was writing songs for a band I did not have, for an album that was not getting made and posting them on my blog, just so I could continue making the same joke over and over about not having a band.

And you are more likely to get a friendlier response from pretty girls in bars when you say you are a Gothic alt-Country singer and writer for a band – even, when you alarmingly tell them that band is entirely in your head – than if you tell them you write poetry mainly about girl’s hair. Then offer to come up with some of that poetry right on the spot as you gently hold a lock of their hair between your thumb and forefinger. Yes, young women in the 21st century think poets are creepy, that’s just the basic science of evolutionary anthropology.

However, swiftly things were starting to run away from me.

Some friends started liking the lyrics.

I met the wonderful singer/songwriter She Makes War, who, admiring the integrity of being totally honest about an imaginary band, suggested I come up with a band logo and merchandising opportunities.

She Makes War even kindly tweeted about one of my songs!

Not long after, one of my good friends asked if they could join the band. I could have said: “of course!” and given them a “welcome to the fictional band” tweet. Instead, I invented an initiation where a Native American Chief has to re-name them for the band using visions through the spirit fire under a new moon, simply because I made up a fact of the Crash Test Dummies doing similar before releasing God Shuffled His Feet.

Another follower tweeted how important the 3rd album was to her during her angst years. I could have replied: “Ha! Good one! I see you are in on the joke here!” I could have not replied at all. Instead, I went with: “Wow! That is a rare album. I recorded it on C60 home tapes and sold it at jumble sales. #noididnt”

At one stage I tweeted and blogged the Tombstones were recording solo material as The Dark Throw. The ramblings of an utter delusionary.

I was starting to not be able to help myself.



Only a depiction of what could have been the vessel for the 3rd album

There was an instant at my office desk where I thought: You know? I could leave this job to concentrate on the made-up band full time. Spending sharp sunny winter mornings writing songs in sparse but comfortably furnished independent coffee shops as a mum-friendly circa 1993 grunge-light member of a band where fleecy, checked, lumberjack shirts are un-tucked and almost always unbuttoned to reveal round necked, washed-out t-shirts underneath. Ok, we might not be hugely popular, but we are establishing a solid cultish following, we’d get by on the recorded music and logo t-shirt sales, and most importantly I’d be free, dagnammit.

Yes, that would be quitting my tangible job for a not particularly successful band I have completely invented in my head!?!

It was clear this nonsense was getting out of control. It was not healthy.

So this is why I have decided – here and now – to put this madness to one side. Put this madness to one side, like a fox!

I have done a new blog site for Greville and the Tombstones! There is a link to it at the top of my blog. From now on, all Greville and the Tombstone posts, music, art and information will be blogged only there. Like sort of my blog shed.

What could be saner?

This Lore blog will return to what it does best – blogging of things I have seen on TV and the occasional discussion about my real life experiences and opinions.

And this is why I titled this bloggette: Confessions of an unjustified gothic alt-country song writer – because I needed to confess. My dealings with my imaginary band were tearing this blog apart. My blog was never intended to annoy readers with a pretend band. I needed to separate them. I had to say, Revelairs, I am truly sorry.

Well, this and because it is also, as I can exclusively reveal now! The title of Greville and the Tombstones 5th Album #thereisnotevenafourthalbum

It is likely a type of illness I have.

This is not a Press Release

Recently there have been rumours. Rumours on the threads. Rumours which have troubled fans of Greville and the Tombstones. Rumours of a magnetic tape circulating. Which is why, if I wanted to blog this press release today, then this would be it.

Is the band splitting up?

I can say with absolute certainty the band is not splitting. We are not going to be another La's.

What about the tape?

Alright, I was hoping this would never come into the public domain, but circumstance has laid it's cold hand on us.

This is a transcript from a recording discovered at the studios where Greville and the Tombstones are recording our seminal first album. It was meant to be destroyed, but was found in a bin, remastered using sell-o-tape and subsequently leaked out by probably Julian Assange, knowing him, currently staying with dance guru, Sash on his holidays. The date of the recording has been undetermined.

.................................................

[The tape warps the sound at the start and then we hear a voice cracking through for the first time]:

GT: OK guys, take five. We have just recorded our first number one record.
The T: [congratulating themselves with whoops]

Telephone: Ring-ring, ring-ring, ring-ring, ring-ring

GT: I’ll take it!
[Click of receiver]
Hello? Greville talkin’. No, I am not a Tombstone. They are my band. No, I am not the manager of the Tombstones. I am Greville of Greville AND the Tombstones? Ah – uh-huh. I see. I see. Oh I will be sure to pass on the message. Thank you kindly.
[Pause]
So I hear you guys have booked another recording studio to record some sweet material without me?
The T: [murmurs]
GT: After all we’ve been through? The naming ceremony last week where you all received your Tombstone names from the Chief who called you after the visions he saw in the spirit flame of fire he lit in front of your faces? The Crash Test Dummies did the same thing too, you know, and they ended up recording just the best goddamn album in history.
The T: [Half-denials and then one voice, louder] It’s not what it seems…
GT: Oh, Squiggly Leaf, tell me: what is going on?
SL: Well, we like being in the band. We’d never leave it. It’s cool. But we want to try out some music of our own, without the confines of being a Tombstone and all that coolness it represents. Forming a separate band gives us that freedom.
GT: And you all feel the same as Squiggly Leaf? You too, A Bit Like A Sleepy Bear?
ABLASB: Sure, Grev. We all do. Me, Squiggly Leaf, Fish Or Goat and Ironically Fire.
GT: And what is this new band of yours calling itself?
IF: The Dark Throw.
GT: What on earth does that even mean, Ironically Fire?
IF: Well we figured you were the bright star, I mean your name is the first thing in the band name. So we were, like, the shadow thrown out behind you. The Dark Throw was what we called ourselves to connote the shadow.
GT: That’s actually pretty good. And what genre are you recording in?
FOG: Instrumental Country Gothic. A little heavier than what we are doing with you for this album. More slide guitar. We are going to have our name in silver on the album cover. That kind of music.
GT: That’s quite interesting. It could go places.
SL: And we figure we could be the warm up act for us at Greville and the Tombstones gigs.
GT: Good point. OK, I’ll allow this side project. If you mainly stick with my band, I’ll even give The Dark Throw some Twitter ups. But you are all forgetting one pertinent fact.
ABLASB: What’s that, Greville?
GT: You don’t play any music. There is no music making going on here. Greville and the Tombstones, have no tunes at all. We don’t do gigs. In fact none of you actually exist and this recording studio we are in? It is just an empty cardboard box I am shouting into while wearing headphones plugged into nothing, sitting alone in my flat.
IF: Fair point. But next time you’re on Twitter could you tweet the details of The Dark Throw’s booking down at the local Booze N’ Newz this Saturday?

.......................................................

At this point the tape stops.

So, you can clearly see after this, there is no need to worry about things. I'm fine.

My first review!

Actual review

"Ace new song from imaginary band"


 

What am I made of?

One night this week my lady caught me doing something. Something I would have continued to do if someone hadn’t walked back into the room.

It was after 11pm. Relaxed in the sitting room, I had eaten well and with just Laura Tobin telling me about tomorrow’s weather on the Television for company for several minutes, and the angle poised lamp light, casting elongated shadows over the furniture, I half slouched down on the settee and it just felt right, you know how it is, to consider my own body.

On walking in on my situation at hand, Mrs. Tombs stuttered to a halt: “What on earth are you up to?!?”

When I explained what I was up to, she told me it would only end with me having to be taken to A&E because I had pulled my own spine out my hips, at which point I would have to look a doctor straight in the eye and say I did it as a result of the curiosity of if I could taste my own knee.
And the doctor would not fully believe that.

So I stopped, knowing she was right.

Earlier in the day I was out at a family party. Not for my family, you understand. I got talking to a man called Marvin. Apparently he is known as a very boring man in this family’s circles and I was, by virtue of unwittingly standing next to him, taking a boredom bullet for the relieved family. Which explained why no one came up to us for pretty much all of the afternoon as part of the customary mingling processes these occasions usually present – despite my watering eyes.

This was despite the fact I liked him because he reminded me of a man from the 1970’s. He was a collection of straw yellow shirt, brown flannel tie with brown tint spectacles and had a moustache from a documentary featuring a father of two teenage daughters who had recently got a management position at the local BETAMAX factory.

This kept me amused during his in depth discussion at me about Ordinance Survey map scales. At some stage during a binary description of his 2nd family holiday in Austria, I thought: I wonder what my knee tastes like? I should know this, it’s my knee! I have never touched my own knee with my lips, mores my shame! I mean, it is my body and I am a grown adult, able to do things with my body if I want to, like simply tasting my own knees. When I get home, I am absolutely going to aim to find out. There is no right minded reason why I should not know this.

And I will tell you, I am glad I experimented with my body that very night. Shambolically convexing, lilting and tilting like an upturned wood louse on the couch, trying to taste any one of its 3, 8, however many knees. I am not proud I was seen doing it, don’t get me wrong. No one should be seen trying to taste their knee. But I did manage a little strained lick, though. The tiniest touch before by leg sprang back from my face.

For those of you wondering what it tasted of?
Wrist.