Off topic: Out in the ‘hood

On a bridge over a (currently) dry river bed in Turre

Although we have a fairly strict fitness regime here at Moore towers, Sunday morning usually sees me crawling from my pit, giving the daily press-ups a weekend break, and plonking myself down in front of either office or studio computer like a month old, bleary-eyed sack of potatoes.  But today Miki suggested we head out for a walk. The wind was blowing a gale, yet it was curiously warm, so donning my boots off we went. now, we’ve been on bike rides in the surrounding area, but it’s amazing what you can discover just wandering around, even when you’ve lived here for years. We had a great wander over the fields and alongside the huge, sprawling river bed which had, unbelievably , just weeks before, been a raging torrent of floodwaters.

The village of Turre from a distance. In the far background you can see the foothills of the Sierra de los Filabres, with the villages of Los Pinos on the left, and Bedar on the right.

It’s also odd to view your village from an angle you’ve never seen it from before. This all might sound a bit strange, but you’d be surprised at how much people miss what is on their doorstep, especially when you travel so far and wide and often as we do. It’s yet another reminder that we are lucky to live in such a lovely place down here in Turre, Almeria, and that when we’re here, we need to get out more!

Kev Moore

Masterclass – Joe Bonamassa in Murcia

Photo by Miki

There are expressions for this kind of thing; “Selling sand to the arabs” – “Taking coals to Newcastle”.  But “Bringing guitar to Andalucia”, at least to my knowledge, is not one of them.  Joe Bonamassa had the balls to do just that when he and his band performed for well over 2 hours in Murcia last week, and the Spanish loved him for it. It was his first visit there, and me and my partner Miki welcomed it, loving his music, and the fact that it was only an hour or so’s drive from where we live. Miki, being a painter was inspired to capture him. Check out her take on things HERE.

Photo by Miki

The late English entertainer Roy Castle had a catchphrase: “Dedication’s what you need” and boy, is Joe the living embodiment of that. He plays guitar around 6 hours a day without fail, and since he was knee-high to a grasshopper, and it shows. He is the master of his instrument. The guitar is a living thing in his hands. He caresses it, coaxes, cajoles it, and he makes it sing. From a whisper to a roar, a blinding flurry of runs, or that single sonorous note, perfectly plucked, hanging in the air, beautifully formed – an auditory equivalent of the first drop of morning dew falling from a leaf, a moment of wonder.

Me outside the auditorium in Murcia before Joe's gig

He paints pictures in the air, does Joe. There are very, very few guitarists that come close to his artistry, perhaps Jeff Beck, but few others have the skill and the soul.

Me and Joe in Loket, Czech Republic, for the Black Country Communion gig

His work ethic is amazing. He tours, and tours and tours. Fantastically organised and marshalled by his Manager Roy Wiseman, (who I admire enormously for his attitude to the Major labels and his commitment to Joe)- he can move around Europe with ease day after day, getting to his public, and winning over new fans. Does he get on the radio much? Not really. Has he had any hits. Um, not really.  He is a musician apart. Apart from the sickening conveyor belt of dross that is served up via the media and airwaves of five minute wonders and meagre talents, that the rest of us are expected to eat up like conditioned sheep.

In the real world, where there are real music fans, and music matters, Joe Bonamassa is King.

Kev Moore

A Question of balance

Watching Clive Sarstedt at Titos - will gigs like this be a thing of the past?

I find, as I dig deeper into the furore that has sprung up in Mojacar and surrounding areas regarding Noise control, that the problem is not as clear-cut as it first appeared. Sure, we have a percentage of the same bunch of middle/old-aged miserable buggers that used to moan about music in the UK, who’ve moved to Spain to moan about it here.  But it’s really not that simple.

Firstly, I would advise anybody with half a brain to consider the possibility of NOT buying or renting a villa or apartment on Mojacar playa if you don’t want to hear music. It’s not rocket science. But then, moaning is the life-blood of some people. They need it to justify their existence.

The real mistake here though, is that the authorities are using a sledgehammer to crack a nut. Of course, we don’t want to turn Mojacar into a San Antonio, a Benidorm, or God forbid, an Ayia Napa. But a blanket restriction will not only put paid to the admittedly noisy hen and stag nights and hard dance club scene, but also decimate the ‘real’ entertainment,  the music that gives Mojacar it’s heart and soul – the live bands that appear along the Playa, mainly in the beach bars, the jam sessions, the FUN.

A real concern is the ruling that all bars (at huge expense) will have to be internet ready, so a modem can relay the sound levels to the local Police station. My God. Can you imagine the endless possibilities for abuse here? And don’t tell me it won’t happen. Who is to stop the Police wandering down to a bar and saying, oh, you reached 98 db on the 10th, 97db on the 16th, you owe us a couple of hundred Euros. I really don’t like this development. It is Big Brother in its worst form. How can you let rip on guitar, and try to entertain people, with all this garbage going on in the back of your mind, knowing some Policeman is monitoring you remotely? It’s unacceptable. perhaps I could suggest catching criminals might be a better, more productive use of their time.

We must be careful to preserve our musical heritage here. Make no mistake, it is a musical heritage.  It is precious. It’s been here for decades, and I don’t want it to disappear into oblivion because ‘Fred and Olive’ want a nice , quiet, retirement retreat.  The rest of us have a voice too.

Download SAVE MOJACAR MUSIC from this site:

Kev Moore

A line in the sand

The recent news that all the bars on Mojacar playa have to be fitted with sound proofing and decibel meters was the final straw for me. The politicians, whose credibility is non-existent, never mind damaged have squeezed and squeezed in order to push the foreigners out of Mojacar and kill the tourist trade here. The bars are suffering, businesses are suffering, and families are having their dreams dashed on a daily basis. Now, to cap it all, the bars are to be denied the opportunity to showcase live music, or face the threat of closure. This is a step too far, and angers me beyond belief. I’ve tried to channel my anger into something productive, and here it is – a protest song that I hope will help draw the line in the sand – thus far and no further.

It’s called Save Mojacar Music, and I urge you all to download it – it’s free – just click on the link at the bottom

Play it loud and play it proud. We will not be dictated too.

TURN IT UP!

SAVE MOJACAR MUSIC

Save Mojacar music, don’t wanna lose it
We only wanna have some fun – we’re not the only ones
Save Mojacar music, don’t wanna lose it
We the people put you there, we’ll kick you out without a care

We can’t survive at ’55’ – Mojacar’s more dead than alive
You’ve got your Mercs, you’ve bled us dry
Now watch the beach bars fade and die
Unemployment, 30 dot, the music scene helps stop the rot
Look past the Euros in your stash
Or come Elections, you’ll be trashed
mark my words, better listen to us
Or your kids’ll be sellin’ asparagus, dig?

Empty bars, empty beaches
Big black cars, Council leeches

No music, can’t use it, what ya gonna do when the whole town lose it?
No music, can’t use it, what ya gonna do when you finally squeeze it?

Don’t quit it, gotta hit it, gotta stick it to the man
Gotta give it to the motherlovers one mo’ time
Don’t quit it, gotta hit it, gotta stick it to the man
Gotta give it to the mothers……..

Sun…..sea…..sand…..Systematic shutdown

Save Mojacar music, don’t wanna lose it
We only wanna have some fun – we’re not the only ones
Save Mojacar music, don’t wanna lose it
We the people put you there, we’ll kick you out without a care

Turn it up!

SAVE MOJACAR MUSIC – The Song

Kev Moore

The Mayor of Simpleton

I live in the Province of Almeria, in Andalucia, Spain.  An area of the world rich in musical heritage. Indeed, the village next door – Mojacar was revived in the 1960’s when the then Mayor invited artists and musicians to buy the derelict homes of this deserted and forgotten town for just ten pounds each. It was a revolutionary idea – and it worked. Mojacar slowly came back to life, and was fed and financed by a slow but steady tourist industry, clearly distinct from the ‘lager lout’ culture of Benidorm, much further up the coast.

Many foreigners moved here, Brits, Germans, Scandinavians, all bringing their dreams and creating a new economy. But dark clouds loomed on the horizon. As the prominent local families had finally amassed their fortunes from the tourism trade, and swapped their horses and carts for Mercedes, they decided to systematically set about killing the goose that laid the golden egg.  Mojacar, once on the verge of a successful 10 month tourist season thanks to our wonderful climate, saw its trade wither like an old Rioja grape on the vine. August is now about the only time the bar owners get to redress the horrendous losses they make during the rest of the year, and yet the bars have had to cancel the entertainment that would bring in the business, for fear of falling foul of the regulations. That’s a lot of ‘effin there. Damn right.

Dreams began to die on an almost daily basis, as people returned home, broke, and disillusioned.  Now – the fate of this once renaissance village seems to be finally sealed once and for all. The ‘powers that be’ (I shan’t use the word Mayor, as they don’t even come close to the vision shown by their 60’s counterpart) – Have decreed that all bars be fitted with a noise control machine (decimeter) – to be paid for by the owners of course – at 1,500 euros a shot – and to be set at 55 decibels. I fart louder than that.

So, a fait accompli then, because if the bars are reckless enough to book live entertainment, they cannot fail to break the new law. Apparently, if the police are called twice to any venue, the place will be shut down. This, make no bones about it, is Fascism by any other name. What kind of mindset implements laws to kill the very culture that helped rebuild this magical place? It disgusts me, and I state here and now that I find these people beneath my contempt, and their actions reprehensible, not to mention inexplicable.

Oh, and by the way, we have the highest unemployment rate amongst the young of anywhere in Spain.  Yeah, the bosses are doing a great job.

LONG LIVE MUSIC – SAY IT LOUD, SAY IT PROUD, AND PLAY IT LIVE!!!

My Other Job……

Kev with El Retiro gallery owner Curtis Helm

Today, with not a little fear and trepidation, I presented for the very first time and exhibition of my artworks at El Retiro gallery, hosted by Curtis Helm in our village here in Turre.

I was really pleased with the turn out

I can stand in front of 1,000’s of people and sing, it’s my job, and I’m confident in my abilities, but my artwork is something I’ve kept much more to myself over the years, gradually allowing Miki to coax it out of its shell.

"But why is the squirrel blue?" - an Artist explains

I was overjoyed then, to find it so well-received by the local community, selling one piece and a couple of my Blue Odyssey CD’s into the bargain! It was fun to see the public so engaged in the art, drawing comparisons with their own lives, kids, or experiences, or just enjoying the humour that I hope pervade the majority of them.

"Your name's not down mate, you're not coming in" - Full House

Certainly, for me, the interest, and of course the sale, gives me the necessary impetus to continue, and perhaps even exhibit again this year. So I can now order that bumper sticker that proudly exclaims; “My other job is ‘Artist’!”

The picture says it all.......

If you want to buy any of my prints, click on the widget below:

Kev Moore

Motorway Madness

I’m not usually one for Political satire, but in this case, I made an exception. Recently , the Spanish government decided to reduce the speed limit on motorways from 120 kph to 110 kph. Apparently , it’s a temporary measure, for three months, to ‘save oil supplies’. They’ve had to change around 6,000 motorway signs at god knows what cost in materials and man-hours, and, given that most Spanish didn’t bother observing the 120kph speed limit in the first place, and the obvious cost of changing everything back again three months down the line, I don’t think it’s unreasonable to assume it’s a bit of a daft idea. But then, Spain’s no stranger to daft ideas – expanding Almeria airport for example, then making the landing fees so expensive hardly any planes fly there anymore, but hey ho – it all makes for good subject matter as far as my art is concerned!

 

© Kev Moore 2011 - Unauthorized copying of this image is prohibited

If you’d like to buy a print of this artwork, click on the widget below:

 

Kev Moore

Gary Moore – Rest in Peace

Last night I returned home on cloud nine after gigging down on the Playa in Mojacar. It had been a while since I’d been on stage and I’d missed it. Arriving home, I was in great spirits after getting that ‘fix’ again.  A mere four hours down the coast, something had happened that was to hit me like a sucker punch.

On Friday, sitting in our local at lunchtime, I’d met one of Gary Moore’s backstage technicians, taking a short break from touring. We were discussing how Gary achieved his wonderful tone, partly through the heavy gauge strings that he used – incredibly hard to bend, but rich sounding.

Now, as I fired up the Mac upon returning home late Sunday night, I discovered that Gary had passed away in a hotel in Estepona. He was just 58. I was dumbfounded. Gary Moore has always been one of my guitar heroes. He was the real deal, and the complete package, not only a genius guitarist, but a great singer and writer. There were few if any, that could touch him. As if that weren’t enough, he was equally at home playing fusion, blues, jazz and metal.

I first became aware of Gary’s music on “Little Darlin'” by Thin Lizzy. I was always a Lizzy fan, even going so far as to impersonate Phil Lynott on Stars in their Eyes. I also met Gary’s predecessor, Eric Bell.  But when Gary joined their ranks, briefly, for that first time, and Little Darlin’ exploded from the speakers, I knew he was special.  I discovered his earlier work with Skid Row, amazing skills at just 16!

One of my favourite albums of his  is “Run for Cover” because it brings together three of my all-time favourite musicians, Gary, Glenn Hughes and Phil Lynott. But I’m not going to feature anything from that, nor “Still got the blues”. Instead, here’s a lesser-known single from Gary, unbelievably poignant and eerily prophetic, given the last line.  Gary, the word genius is often over-used, but in your case it hardly begins to cover your mastery of the guitar. Rest in Peace, your music will live on forever. I want to extend my condolences to his friends and family at this sad time.

Kev Moore

Criminal shortsightedness: The Death of the Lorca Rock Festival

About an hour up the motorway from where we live, there is a small town called Lorca. It is famed for its spectacular Spanish fortress high on a ridge overlooking the town, under which the motorway passes, tunneled through the mountain – and it is famous for the spectacular Rock Festival that is held there every year, bringing the cream of heavy rock from around the world to this small corner of Spain.

The last Lorca rock Festival. Shame on you, Mr Mayor.

But, while trawling the internet yesterday, Miki discovered that the Lorca Rock Festival is no more.  This is just one more blow in a worrying trend. You see, they have a new Mayor. The Mayor doesn’t like Rock, or apparently, visitors, and has put such a huge amount of obstacles in the way of the organizers that they have found it impossible to continue.  So the Lorca rock festival has died.  How stupid can one man be? How short sighted? His vision is narrower than the tunnels that run beneath his Fortress.  Much the same is happening in nearby Mojacar. The Mayoress here makes no secret of her dislike of the UK residents and tourists, to the extent that tourism here as all but dried up and the season, once as fulsome as a watermelon has shrunk to the size of an unpalatable prune. English couples, working on a dream of running a bar or some other service business here, are returning home dejected by the dozen. This area in particular, has experienced growth courtesy of the tourist euro from the Brits, French and Germans for over 30 years. Now it’s thanks very much, and goodnight.

The lack of foresight in Lorca and Mojacar is breathtaking.  Only a couple of decades ago, these people were selling Asparagus by the side of the road to make ends meet. Now, every peasant that had a horse and cart drives a Mercedes. Mojacar was a dead village until the then Mayor (a man cut from considerably finer cloth than the current incumbent) offered up the empty houses at a tenner a throw – artists and musicians flocked here, and the village was reborn. They may have come a long way financially, but social finesse has been sacrificed on the altar of ‘progress’.

Does the Mayor of Lorca not realize that his town is known around the World because of the Lorca rock festival? Because of the song “Night train to Lorca” by The Pogues? Make no mistake Mr. Mayor, if you continue with this madness, your town will be little more than a forgotten archaeological footnote, barely visited.

Similarly, in Mojacar, the Mayoress is playing with fire. The Spanish tourists rarely spend money in the bars, the tourist industry locally is a fragile one, and is collapsing before our very eyes.

I must qualify this by saying our village, Turre, just 5 minutes away, seems to be run a little differently. But all it takes is a change of Mayor, someone who forgets, or who is too young to remember why this tiny forgotten area began to flourish in the first place, and it can happen here, and anyway, all these villages are in the same area, and the residents are hostages to the same ‘tourist eco-system)

The world economic crisis has badly affected the tourist trade, and steps should be taken to bolster it, not kick it while it’s down. The Brits, for one, are creatures of habit, and when they get into the habit of discovering that the likes of Florida and Turkey can offer more for less, they won’t come back.

Bring back the Tourists, and more importantly, BRING BACK THE ROCK!

Kev Moore

5 flights, 3 days, 2 cars, one dead bass player……..

Hopefully a big dressing room, then...

It started off simply enough. Leaving the house at 9am on Friday morning,  I made my way to Alicante airport (with a brief stop in IKEA Murcia to pick up some picture frames).

My first flight was to take me West, to the Spanish capital, Madrid, where I would have a 3 hour layover awaiting a connection, improbably, to Blibao on the Northern Coast.  Kicking my heels in Madrid, I had my fingers crossed that the Bilbao flight would be on time, as I only had 45 minutes with which to connect with my final flight of the day to Frankfurt. Nobody can say our promoter doesn’t have a sense of humour.

View from my second hotel room window in Plauen

Nice 'n' cosy - and barely slept in....

Luckily, that plan seemed to come together, and I arrived in Frankfurt around 10 o’clock at night, with the other guys flying in from the UK  around a half an hour later. Had we arrived at our destination? Well, not really. A 3 hour drive awaited us, which rapidly turned into a 4 hour drive due to autobahn closures. The hotel didnt have 24 hour reception, and luckily our driver had had the presence of mind to check in advance, and asked them to leave a key outside. It would have been amusing if it hadn’t been so late, as we stumbled about in the dark, once we’d enetered the hotel, trying to find the other keys, after having failed to find the light switch. My head hit the pillow around 2.30 am – and left it again around 9 as we had to get up for breakfast and move to another , admittedly more opulent, hotel for the second night.

Jeff discovers we get a free drink on check-in

Salvation was at hand in the form of a whirlpool and sauna in the basement, which the management kindly opened up for our exclusive use. Time that perhaps would have been more prudently spent running through the numbers was instead spent wallowing in the waters!

Environmentally-friendly town, then.

Plauen's busy tram terminus

From my halting German, this seems to mark the site of the first workers protest against the DDR. Hooray!

We also managed to spend an hour or two out in the town of Plauen, a charming, well kept place with trams running through it, and some nice sidewalk cafes – full of Germans braving the autumnal chill. Although it was pleasantly sunny, my defences are low after having lived in Spain for so long, and I persuaded the lads that we should take our coffees behind protective glass!

I know it looks lovely, but it was too bloody cold to sit out!

Simon Kay, Drums, Fos Foster, Guitars. Instruments not included.

Obligatory arty-farty shot

Far from being a typical DDR 'clone-town', Plauen had some lovely architecture

A young German fan is delighted to get Jeff's autograph

A frowning, inanimate object (the one on the right)

Pointy

Plauen had its share of interesting buildings and monuments, and I was glad I’d brought my camera along.  5 o’clock saw us heading for soundcheck. We were opening the show, and were therefore the last band to check, which was perfect, all the settings would remain as we left them! I was debuting my Dan Electro semi-acoustic bass with Christie, and was running it through my Hartke bass attack pedal, so I was reasonably confident of maintaining my signature sound.  So often, these multiple bills with hired backline prove to be more an exercise of battling against the odds than anything else, but tonight was a dream, crystal clear monitoring, a sweet bass sound, and a great onstage mix. The crowd must’ve sensed we were enjoying ourselves, too, as we really seemed to storm the show! As this is probably the last Christie show of the 2010 season, it was great to go out on a high.

Jeff's Stratocaster relaxes backstage.....

Simon sorts his kit out at the sound check

Eric Faulkner's Rollers take the stage

BC Sweet's Pete Phipps on extra-curricular drumming duties with The Rollers

Jeff chats backstage with one of our loyal fans

After our performance, we relaxed backstage and had dinner, courtesy of some excellent catering, and swapped stories with our mates who were waiting to perform. Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Tich, Sailor’s Grant, Henry, Phil and Nick, and Eric Faulkner of the Bay City Rollers. It was also quite funny to see Pete from my other band BC Sweet – he was standing in for Eric’s drummer, and did a great job, with no rehearsals!  I’ll be seeing Pete again in a couple of weeks for a BC Sweet show in the UK.  One of our fans, going by the name of sweetyglitter(!) who follows all the glam rock era bands, offered to film our set, so hopefully I’ll have a clip up from the show in a couple of weeks.

Photos by me, in case you were wondering!

We were ferried back to the hotel following the show, with only The Dozys left onstage, and continued our conversations in the hotel bar.  We were set to leave the hotel at 3 am, so sleep seemed a little pointless. I relaxed a little in the room and then had a shower to try and boost my energy!

Simon looks pensive......

Heading off into the night along the autobahn to Frankfurt, we braced ourselves for a long drive. The other lads needed to fly at 8 am. Although I was with them, my flight didn’t leave until midday, so I had the prospect of four hours alone in Frankfurt airport!   It’s amazing how things change though……….45 kilometers from Frankfurt, the hire car started to misbehave and our driver became a little restless. Eventually, with smoke pouring from the bonnet, we pulled over onto the hard shoulder as one of the con rods exploded through the side of the engine onto the ground. Our shiny new Renault had died. It would ‘va-va-va-voom’ no more.

...while Fos sees the funny side

Standing in the freezing cold at the side of the autobahn at 7 in the morning, wearing a hi-vis jacket and erecting a little plastic triangle 50 meteres up the road to stop a truck from ploughing into us, I pondered on the glamour of our profession……………….

I'm not sure what it does, but I'm fairly certain it's supposed to be INSIDE the engine.

Jeff, inspired by Fos, also sees the funny side. Simon contemplates suicide.

Needless to say, the lads missed their flight. A breakdown truck came and dropped us at a nearby depot, from where a taxi charged us (well, our promoter) a small fortune to ferry us to the airport. As luck would have it, we’d all been booked with Lufthansa instead of one of these cheapie ‘we take no responsibility whatsover for yo’ ass’ airlines.  As they have done in the past, Lufthansa came through with flying colours, and without question, bumped the lads up to the next flight to Manchester at midday. Needless to say, the promoter was happy, and we didn’t hesitate to point out what a good idea it is to fly Lufthansa for just such eventualities!

So we left Frankfurt around the same time, albeit to different destinations. I landed in Madrid around 2pm, and braced myself to spend a further 5 hours in that airport.  By the time I had caught my next flight and was coming into land in Alicante at around 8pm, I was unravelling. A mild headache had blossomed into a full-blown migraine and I was fighting extreme nausea and exhaustion. I could barely get into the courtesy bus to take me to my car. A woman from a family who shared the bus with me, greeted me, and I must have looked like a drug addict or an alcoholic or something, because I could barely mumble a reply, so scared I was of offering projectile vomiting as an alternative form of greeting, which, even in the age of Reality television, is unlikely to catch on.

I stumbled out of the bus at the car park, alternatively looking for a) somewhere to throw up and b) some way to function.  After getting my key and transferring my luggage, I sat in the car wondering what to do. Speaking to Miki at home, she forbade me to drive back and insisted I find a hotel. I seemed to remember that the services near the airport had a hotel attached, and prayed I was right.  Driving the kilometer or so to it proved very hard indeed, and I was constantly speeding up, in order to get there quicker, and slowing down, ready to jump out and throw up.  I must have been driving like a schizophrenic.

Finally, I made it. There was indeed a hotel, and the look of gratitude on my face that followed the sallow and resolute death mask of a man determined not to toss his cookies, must have convinced the concierge that I’d escaped from the local nuthouse. To his lasting credit, he allowed me to have a key and I trudged up to my room.  I managed to send some kind of nondescript text to Miki to tell her to call, and I lay on the bed with the phone balanced on the side of my head, I couldn’t even hold it in my hand. When she called me, I think she was convinced I was dying!

Another day, another headache, another hotel room.....sweet respite in Alicante

I slept for about four hours before I had the strength to look for the two precious aspirin that I knew were somewhere in my bag, and then I slept for another six hours after that.

Even the following morning, as I drove the two and a half hours home, my headache was threatening to return.  These trips, all for a mere 40 minutes onstage, are a killer.

They say that a man who repeatedly does the same thing expecting a different outcome is clinically insane.

Will I do it again?  Yes.

So colour me crazy!

Kev Moore