Astral voices

The offbeat provides
A change of tempo
Increasing the pace,
Catching momento.
Closing my eyes
It’s then I hear them.
The sound of gentle
Song soaring within
The rhythmic beat.
I look around.
No one is there
Except our circle
Of drummers all –
Engrossed…and mute.
The music is ours
Felt through fingertips
and palms and the sway
of our torsos,
Yet a choir of
Tribal souls are here
Present in this room.
drumming hands

photo credit:

Brushing off the Cobwebs

The old neglected piano has sprung to life! My daughter has found some music on the internet and is teaching herself to play it…do I offer to help her – and risk her stubbornly closing the lid, or do I leave it up to her to work it all out (I’m sure she will eventually)? In the meantime I sit in the room next door and listen with maternal pride.

photo: Google Images

And relax…

I’m taking my elderly parents shopping. They are not impressed by my new meditational didge CD.
“What’s that noise?” says my Mum, “Sounds like we are being invaded by dinosaurs!”
My Dad,an artist, doesn’t appreciate the tonal quality.
”Not much colour is there?”
“No colour at all.” complains Mum. “It sounds like a more boring version of the bagpipes.”
“Wait!” I urge them “I think there’s an interesting bit just coming now…” Two beats later the drone is back. I am marvelling at the length of the sound without stopping. I share this revelation with the captive audience.
If he’s not breathing he should be dead by now. No-one can go that long without breathing!” says my sceptical mother.
“It’s circular breathing Mum, in through the nose and out through the mouth at the same time.”
“Hmmph” responds Mum, unimpressed obviously.
“Your grandson is able to do it.” I point out. My Mum immediately takes more interest while my Dad, who has missed this additional piece of information, is still not able to hear the subtleties in the rendition. He is a bit hard of hearing after all.
“I think it would be more tuneful listening to me gargling.” Dad is feeling left out.
We can’t help laughing as holding a tune is not his forte.
“Listen!” I can hear the faint beginnings of a boomerang call weaving its way into the music but by the time they have finished their derisive mutterings, they’ve missed it.
Didgeridoo for the unconverted.

Didgeridoo Dreamimg by Cephalodidge is available here: Joe Caudwell!didgeridoos/cbfn

Over the last few months, Joe of Cephalodidge has been running events that provide a relaxing and healing space for people, using the didgeridoo as a therapeutic instrument, through sound and vibration. These ‘Didgeridoo Dreaming’ sessions have led Joe to create an album that can facilitate meditation, journeying and healing. This CD, recorded and mastered by Tim Charlton (who also did the Ostara album for Joe) is an atmospheric soundscape of two didgeridoos weaving together for just over 40 minutes. The didgeridoo used for the recording was made by Joe from a dead sycamore tree he found in the Autumn of 2013, near a special cave in the woods that he often visits and plays in.
10% of the sale of the new CD will be donated to Survival International, the well known organisation that helps tribal people defend their lives, protect their lands and determine their own futures.
You can hear some short samples of the CD here, and also pre-order it now, the CD will be released by the end of April 2014.

Six Words for Saturday – Connections

The rhythm

Making your ears Bleed

I wonder who writes the mind-numbing tunes on the HMRC website? Is it a ploy to make you so incensed that you hang up and stop bothering them? The electronic tones are of a similarly uninspiring middle-toned variety and are irritating in the extreme – especially if you are hanging on for what seems like an endless premium rate phone call. Is there some sadistic person on the other end filing their nails, reading a book with their ipod plugged into their ears…having that oh so smug voice repeatedly stating,  “Thanks for waiting one of our advisers will be with you as soon as possible.”

This is blatantly a lie. They are on an extended lunch break or (as it is a Saturday) they have knocked off until Monday.  I am not happy. I have lots of other things to do. It says on the website that they are open until four!!  Maybe they only employ one person in the help centre and they have to make tea, do the post and play online bingo.

I feel that I could almost join in the dulcet tones that are assailing my ears – I have heard them so often.  Incidental music I think they call it – there’s the quacking one, the uppy downy one, and the oh so jolly one, and the plainly bizarre moonscape ocean one. They are enough to send anyone crazy (in my defence).

I think I may have to go and sit in a darkened room for a while – oh and take the phone with me of course!


I’ve done the treadmill and the bike,

You could have joined me if you’d liked,

Added a jog into the walk,

Tried not to stop to have a talk.

Waved to some kids walking up the hill,

And the coachload of pensioners stopping still

Right outside the vast glass pane,

Hope they know “No pain no gain”

I’ve balanced across the giant ball,

I had to be careful – it’s easy to fall!

In fact I managed to stay atop –

Avoided the wobble as there’s a nasty drop.

But the main point of all this sweat

Is not to win a hasty bet,

I’d like to get thinner and burn some fat

And I would question anyone, “What’s wrong with that?”

Tomorrow I’ll ignore any kerfuffle,

‘cos I’m taking my new ipod shuffle!

G Force

A recorder lesson and I’m starting to get a headache. To the soundtrack of Mama Mia by Abba the children are instructed to play the first note of the bar. G, rest, rest, rest… G rest, rest, rest… and so it goes on…and on…and on…
Jimmy is blowing his instrument a bit too exuberantly and the note comes out as a full throttle screech.
“Who can play me a Gentle G?” the guest music teacher suggests to no avail.
I’m trying to listen to some of them read. I have to resort to lip reading and I smile encouragingly, hoping that I am nodding in the right place. I can’t hear a damn thing. Correction. I can hear 28 recorders doing trumpet voluntary impressions.
I notice that Sam is looking a little pink, whether from too much sun at lunchtime or holding the note a bit too long – who can tell?
Charlie arrives to read with his fingers in his ears. I am sorely tempted to emulate him but I must set a good example. Then they move on to Bon Jovi’s Livin’ on a Prayer. Previously a favourite of mine, it’s amazing how quickly the memory gets sullied. I give up trying to hear Charlie and sing along instead. After all, if you can’t beat them…

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