For reasons that matter not, there isn't much music in me these days, nor live television for that matter. But sat this afternoon having a cuppa in a friends kitchen with the television playing in the next room. I suddenly pricked my ears when I heard introduced as, the 'other' team, on some quiz show or other, the London Didgeridoo Club.
Lo and behold, one member of the team was; on the only bit of live TV I have watched in the last twelve months, the fellow whose CD is the only one I have bought in the last five years, Steve Heath, didgeridoo player extraordinaire. A white aboriginal from Portsmouth or Plymouth or that way on.
It was watching a program about The London Underground Busking Scheme that first brought the fellow to my attention, I have chopped it down to just a few minutes that feature Steve Heath, that's the first up, the second, a pretty awesome clip, courtesy of Youtube.
I do have to say though, I am a great fan of busking and street theatre, it really gives a city some soul.
Here's a little tale I told on an Australian poetry/music forum a few years back. It was nice to know it was still there.
Lo and behold, one member of the team was; on the only bit of live TV I have watched in the last twelve months, the fellow whose CD is the only one I have bought in the last five years, Steve Heath, didgeridoo player extraordinaire. A white aboriginal from Portsmouth or Plymouth or that way on.
It was watching a program about The London Underground Busking Scheme that first brought the fellow to my attention, I have chopped it down to just a few minutes that feature Steve Heath, that's the first up, the second, a pretty awesome clip, courtesy of Youtube.
I do have to say though, I am a great fan of busking and street theatre, it really gives a city some soul.
Here's a little tale I told on an Australian poetry/music forum a few years back. It was nice to know it was still there.
My last day of a holiday in Majorca, a very still autumn Sunday, I partook of the Majorcan thing, promenading. Strolling along, I heard in the distance, an angel making music.
When I finally arrived at the source of this incredible sound, there stood this angel in the guise of a hobo blowing a trumpet.
I sat a goodly while in a near state of rapture listening to this fellow making music, he really was that good.
We got to chatting, and the shorter of it, we went on the piss at his local, a little non-tourist Spanish bar, and proceeded to get rat arsed on thirty bob bottles of vino callapso.
He more than I, I have to say, for whatever my Father left me on his demise, he left me a thirst and a frightening tolerance for grog.
As this German, for that's what he turned out to be, started getting worse for wear, the barman explained, "His problem is he makes too much money" something I could well believe.
While he was still coherent, the trumpet player told me he had once been a member of the Berlin Philharmonic but had come off the rails big time, seemingly there was an obstacle on the track that resulted in eine grosse katastrophe. Sounded a lot like a woman to me.
