The Best of Both Worlds with Hannah Montana

I love being a teacher. Having slaves my way through kitchens, hotels and the bevy of crappy jobs that come with being an over-educated, under-experienced child of the eighties, the promises that come with schooling are somewhat quashed by the crushing reality that was the credit crunch. 

So when I finally, accidentally, stumbled into a career in education, I was delighted to discover a job that fed me both mentally and passionately.

Teaching allows a born entertainer to revel in the knowledge garnered through world travel with a love of performing to an ever-eager crowd.

Of course, as the education industry attracts such a rag-tag collection of wannabe actors and unrequited musicians, there are many of us left wanting that little bit more.

As such, I'm glad to have found myself nesting in the musical hubbub of Bournemouth. As I sit this evening waiting to go on as I headline one of the local acoustic nights for the second time in as many months, I  reflect upon the amazing opportunities that have been thrust towards me. 

Having only really embraced music about four years ago when Manami pushed me into taking a post as house musician at a local gaijin bar, it's amazing to think how very far my £5 guitar has taken me. From disgruntled line cook to the dual life of teacher by day to acoustic rocker by night, I feel privalages to be able to keep the candle burning at both ends.

Sure, my caffeine consumption has risen exponentially, but spiritually, I'm fulfilled. Right now, I'm definately enjoying the best if both worlds!

A Bit on the Side with Brian Blessed

Being creative in the twenty first century is something of a curse. Despite what Glee would have us believe, no matter how big fish we were at school, when it comes to the real world we are not going to fall immediately into our dream jobs in the arts. In fact, there is no falling involved whatsoever. It is a long, painful climb punctuated by broken bones and landslides. And how many of us actually fulfil our creative potential? Very bloody few, Glee, that's how ruddy many!

So we need to make a living. It's interesting to note that many other creative types I know have, like myself, turned to teaching as a career. Education seems to attract performers for many reasons, but one of the largest perks is that you always have a captive audience. No matter what I going on in your life outside of the classroom, the moment you step in front of a group of students, you ready your jazz-hands, put on a smile and deliver a cracking lesson.

The thing is, there still remains that little fire in the back of our souls that longs for a little more. No matter how much we love the job (indeed it's difficult to find a job that is more regularly rewarding than seeing students progress under your nurturing), we still find ourselves longing for a little extra creative release.

Luckily, I have been fortunate enough to find the time to keep those passions alive through a steady stream of hobbies and side projects. Obviously this blob provides me with a daily dose of literary output, whilst the sketch pad that lives in the magazine rack is home to not only my general sketches and manga ideas, but also my more recent recurring cartoon, Teaching Training. Musically I've found comfort in local bars at regular open mic nights, and I have also just this week been invited to join the writing team for a popular lifestyle magazine.

So there are always avenues to take for those willing to search. I'm under no illusion that I could someday make a career from my arts; if it were to happen that would be a fantastic bonus. I shall keep singing, keep writing, and keep doodling down ideas for children's books, but for the most part it serves only as a release. I love my job more than anything, and despite difficult students and ridiculous amounts of paperwork, it certainly beats the years I spent in kitchens. If someday some agent is daft enough to throw money at me for whatever reason, then great, but until that day I'm more than happy to be a renaissance man. Like a skinnier, less beardy Brian Blessed. 

At least that's what I'd like to think...

Destroying the Music Industry with Avril Lavigne

I've always had a soft spot for Avril Lavigne. From her first single Complicated, I was ever so slightly smitten by her angsty cute Canadian punkyness.

Over the years, that love has sat somewhere in the back of my being like a nostalgic reminder of the rebellious teenager hood that I never had but secretly always longed for. Her debut album, Let Go, remains to this day in my top ten list of albums that have influenced my upbringing, and her third single from said album, I'm With You is one of my all-time favourite ballads.

I have fond memories of drunken 2am dancings to the highly infectious Girlfriend during university, and of wondering whether or not to reprimand one of my tweenage students in Japan when they told me that What The Hell was their favourite song.

So, with everyone's favourite Sk8er girl having such a beloved place in my heart, I was horrified earlier today to hear her latest song, Hello Kitty...

"Oh," I thought, sipping a refreshing cup of tea as I did my daily YouTube tour "Avril has a new song! And it's inspired by that delightful Sanrio character that I certainly didn't get enough of in Japan! This should be a catchy little ditty!" 

Over the course of the next three minutes and nineteen seconds, my tea turned sour, my heart turned to stone and mountains crumbled to the sea as the fires of damnation began to lick the shores of the country.

In her latest single, Miss Lavigne has managed to do what I fondly call "The Harajuku Hollaback".

Remember when Gwen Stefani was in No Doubt and everybody loved her for being a cool punkyness chick in an awesome ska band? And then she went solo and everyone thought "ooh, this'll be good!"? And then it wasn't? And then it went from being utterly awful to a semi-racist cacophony of non-sensical lyrics and terrible outfits? Well yes, that actually happened.

But did the world learn? If Hello Kitty is anything to go by, then no. No it didn't. Terrible lyrics, a debatably condescendingly racist video, a godawful Skrillex haircut and Avril looking well past her prime all add up to the biggest crime against music since Rebecca Black realised what day of the week it was (happy Friday by the way everyone!). My faith is lost, and in shall be pushing Miss Lavigne from the pedestal upon which once I which kept her.

I'm sorry Avril, I'm no longer with you.

The Mamma Mia Effect with Amanda Seyfried

I've always thought of music as being a universal unifier; something that brings the world together through the emotive power of harmony. Harmony through harmony in fact. Whether it be the joy of dancing to samba in Rio, or caterwauling some karaoke in an Osakan bar, music has always seemed to bring people together of every creed and culture,

As such, it has been something of a surprise to me over the past few weeks as I have come to learn more and more about the Islamic faith that many practising Muslims are under the belief that listening to pop music is an affront to God. 

At first, I thought that it was simply a culture clash; during my time in Japan I found it occasionally frustrating that my students did not know of Springsteen or Bon Jovi, but put this down simply to my personal heroes not yet infiltrating the masses of Asia. As such I figured that my Arabian students' utter disinterest in British and American music was down to artists having not yet conquered the wavelengths of the Middle East.

And so to today; having planned a delightful lesson on The Mamma Mia effect, that being the boom in tourism in the Greek Islands that has been a result of that ruddy ABBA musical, I was knocked back somewhat to discover that in a class of seventeen Middle Eastern gentlemen, not a single one had heard of ABBA, let alone their delightfully cheesy musical extravaganza. Believing this to be some kind of well-planned joke, I whipped out my iPhone and played them the eponymous song. Genuinely, they had never heard it before. So much for that meticulously planned class...

So I decided to look into this a little more; surely a group that have been polluting our radios for the last forty years had at some point got some airplay in the Arabian subcontinent? 

But this is when I discovered the source of my students' somewhat endearing naivety; according to the  Qu'ran, any music that could inspire sinful acts such as drug use, fornication or adultery is prohibited in the eyes of Allah.

In many ways, I'm down with this idea; indeed a lot of the world's subcultural violence has inspired the debate into the influence of rap and hip hop. Drug abuse and sexual promiscuity is perpetually glorified in both genres, as is violence to those of different ways of thinking. Punk music has links in rebellion, and reggae in revolution (and again the glorification of drug use). Techno and dance music are linked with the hedonism of the Balearics, and screamo, death metal, and whatever bizarre names they're giving to that shouty music the goths are listening to these days lead to, well, goths.

And then of course there's Ke$ha... I really cannot defend her this time round...

But where would we be without love songs? Do they inspire fornication? Well, possibly... But is there anything evil about Barry White crooning a little seduction? It's an interesting debate that I would really like to get into with some of my more open-minded higher-level students. 

Pop music isn't all about sex after all; more often than not it's simply about bringing a bit of musical joy into our everyday lives. I personally couldn't live without my daily dose of Taylor Swift, and I'm pretty sure that "We Are The World" never meant anything but a message of peace and unity.

I do my best to respect all religious beliefs; as a teacher of English as an International Language, I have to be prepared to understand anyone and everyone's ways of life, but this aspect of Islam has befuddled me. I can see both sides of the dispute, and would probably prefer a world without Puff Daddy, One Direction and Slipknot. But no Counting Crows? No Beatles even? I'm not sure I could deal with that.

Of course ABBA might not be the most innocent of examples... After all, does your mother know that you're out? Here's Mamma Mia star Amanda Seyfried to prove my point...

Why I Love Sweden with Ming the Merciless

Let's face it, Britain is a bit rubbish. I know we as a nation are all fiercely patriotic, and sure there are things that are great about our fair isle, but if we're honest with ourselves, we're all pretty miserable with our lot. We're underpaid, overworked, underappreciated, and we aren't ever blessed with a decent bit of weather to make up for it.

You know who are a pretty happy nation though? The Swedes. And they've got a lot to be happy about! Today's ramble is on my top ten things about Sweden. Enjoy!

10. Skype

Originally created by Swedish programmer Niklas Zennstrõm, Skype has kept people across the world in touch for free, and kept my mate Stu in pocket for a good while too. So that makes it good for two reasons. Rock on Skype!

9. H&M

I once bought a purple waistcoat from H&M and it was beautiful. It did look like the wallpaper from Disney's Haunted Mansion though...

8. ABBA

If it wasn't for the image of Pierce Brosnan belting out SOS still haunting my every waking moment, the quintessential Swedish pop quartet might have made it higher on the list. He may have had a licence to kill, but his performing licence needs to be revoked.

7. Alexander Skarsgård

Okay, so Skarsgård isn't the world's greatest actor, and with such duds as Battleship and Straw Dogs clogging up his resume, it's a good thing he won the role of sultry Sheriff Eric North in sexy vampire drama True Blood. Sure, he's no David Boreanaz, but he isn't Swedish, so doesn't make the list.

6. Shooting Stars

The Reeves and Mortimer panel show would have not been complete without everyone's favourite Swedish strumpet Ulrika Jonsson. Yeah, she was mostly there to be ridiculed, but what larks we had!

5. Alfred Nobel

Without Nobel, we wouldn't have the Peace Prize, and ironically we wouldn't have dynamite either. Certainly an oxymoron if ever there was one. But, without Nobel, by osmosis we wouldn't have had Hanna Barbera hero Dyno-mutt, nor would Jimmy Walker have had a catchphrase in Good Times. Gee jillickers!

4. Roxette

Everyone bangs on about ABBA, but we're you aware that eighties pop-rockers Roxette are also from Sweden? With such hits as "The Look", "Joyride" and of course "It Must Have Been Love", Roxette were the ultimate eighties group.

3. IKEA

Flatpack furniture, hilarious product names, freakin' amazing meatballs (literally amazeballs!) and that funny named pink juice, IKEA is an institution, and rightfully so. They have recently redesigned the Billy bookcase though, which is somewhat irksome.

2. Swedish Chef

One of the best Muppets. Need I say more?

1. Max Von Sydow

One of the greatest character actors of all time, Von Sydow brought to our screens some of cinema's most iconic (and creepy) characters, ranging from Father Merrin in The Exorcist to Vigo ("He is Viiiiigooo!!") in Ghostbusters II. Most importantly, however, he was Flash Gordon's nemesis Ming the Merciless. So obviously he's the best thing to come out of Sweden. Fact.

Rick-Rolled by the Radio with Rick Astley

It's always the first song you hear each morning that gets stuck in your head for the remainder of the day. For me, for whatever reason, usually my iPod being fickle, 90% of my days seem to be filled with Starship's We Built This City. Fortunately it's a song that I absolutely love, and now every time the 3 advert comes on, with the little girl singing it with her cat, I find my mood inexplicably brightened for the next few hours.

One song, however, that infects me like a virus more unwanted than gonorrhoea is Rick Astley's ridiculously annoying Never Gonna Give You Up. 

Even before the tedious Rick-Rolling that swept the globe a few years ago, I hated this song with a vengeance. It's cheesy lyrics, Rick's punchable face, and a voice that simply doesn't fit his image, this was a song that irked me almost as much as Gwen Steffani's ruddy Hollaback Girl. As far as that song goes, I'm with Cleveland Brown...

“I don’t know what a Hollaback girl is, but I have to imagine it’s a foul, disease-ridden thing that wears too much make-up to cover up the fact that it’s a 47-year-old fish dog.”

So this morning, upon jumping in our hire car, on our way to return it to the dealership in our new homestead of Bournemouth, I was horrified to have been aurally affronted by Astley's gurgling tones. And have had that poxy song stuck in my head since.

Screw you Rick Astley. Screw you very much.

Busking Makes Me Feel Good with Journey

I never intended to be a singer. Indeed, I was told quite implicitly by my dearest friend at the age of fifteen that I "couldn't shout for coal", apparently a Northern phrase for being completely tone-deaf. With him having been the lead in the school choir, and more recently boasting a spate of prestigious West End roles, I had no valid reason to dispute this.

I have however (possibly moreso in my own head) always had something of a talent for voices, so upon moving to Aberystwyth at eighteen and discovering the joys of karaoke, I set about dedicating a "Song for Wales" each week during our drunken singathons. So somewhere, amidst raspy Cerys Matthews renditions and my booming Tom Jones, there came a time when I began belting out some Stereophonics tunes. It was at this point some inebriated fool informed me that actually, I had a cracking voice.

Since those heady days, I have found myself hiding more and more behind the crummy old guitar I found in the loft, finding comfort in the likes of Counting Crows and Bruce Springsteen. It wasn't until I moved to Japan however, and my girlfriend half-jokingly suggested I go for the house musician job being advertised at a local bar that I really discovered the power that music had over me.

On stage, one loses oneself. There is a true comfort in sound, when you're caught in a lyric, the crowd, however small, however previously rowdy, suddenly intoxicated by the music that you yourself are creating; in that moment, time stops and suddenly you are the lord of your own harmonious kingdom. When the song ends and you step away from the mic, the harsh reality of life inevitably returns, but for a few moments, you become a celebrity in your own right. There's still a small Northern voice in the back of my mind, adamantly telling me I can't sing. But you know what? For the most part I ignore it and just enjoy the moment.

Recently, I've been earning a little extra money busking on the streets of Durham. The smiles from the passing public make up the majority of my earnings, but seeing them singing along, knowing that in some small way I have brightened up their day is payment enough. Having a two year old girl stop dead in her toddling tracks to stare up at you in awe is one of the loveliest feelings you can have.

Of course there is the occasional comedy genius who decides a good heckling is in order. "Get a proper job!" Is usually the witticism of choice. But consider this when questioning the validity, and indeed the price of hiring an entertainer;

1) Minimum wage is £6.31 an hour. I have a "proper" job. Said proper job is exhausting and soul-destroying. But can I afford the rent on a flat? The upkeep of 4G network? A new pair of slacks? No. As Tesco so finely put it, every little helps.

2) Training. Sure, it's not your 

mandatory diploma, required and then scoffed at by every potential employer, but the hours spent perfecting your craft are surely worth the little extra monetary gratitude? After all, it's a very lucky man indeed who picks up an instrument for the first time and is instantly a pro.

3) Can you do it? If you can, then do. But if not, consider it a service. You wouldn't complain about hiring a plumber or a chap to service your laptop, so why bemoan a more inspirational talent?

But most importantly, don't take away our music. Imagine a world like in Oscar's Orchestra! The world needs music, and the musicians need it even moreso. It is our life, and when we play, it is our world. We're just working hard tryin' to get our fill...

Stranded on a Desert Island with Nicki Minaj

I miss Hannah Montana.

I know it's cliche these days to ramble on about Miley Cyrus and how far down the wrong path she's gone, but y'know what? She chose her path, let her live with it. But I do genuinely miss Hannah Montana.

I have a theory that the real Miley died some time between the H.M finale and the release of the deplorable We Can't Stop. Some tragic accident... Possibly from being smothered by an over-bearing Billy Ray... and has since then been replaced by Justin Beiber, thus explaining Beiber's gradual decline into drug-fueled debauchery; he simply cannot cope with the duel life of a famous transvestite. In replacing the real Miley, he has essentially become a real-life cross-dressing Hannah Montana, without the perks of hilarious sidekicks and every shoe in every style, every colour.

And so today a question arose; given the choice, which would be the lesser evil; having to join Miley in her current coccaine-fuelled carnation for a romantic evening of frolics, or spend the rest of your life stranded on a desert island with the multiple personalities embedded within the musical peacock that is Miss Nicki Minaj?

It's a tricky one, but there are two major factors to be considered when making this life-changing choice;

1) The annoying:amusing ratio

2) Induction of murderous rage

Let's begin with the date with Miley. Frankly, I couldn't imagine being able to put up with the company of Miss Cyrus for more than a grand total of two minutes. Harsh, yes, but after that initial "oh, it's Miley Cyrus" (see my previous entry on the joys of celebrity), she really has very little going for her. To look at, she is a train wreck, and will inevitably be sticking her tongue out like a handicapped giraffe for much of the evening. Her conversation will in no way be endearing, referring for the most part to her infamous addition to the English tongue (the word "twerk", not the aforementioned giraffe tongue) and her many, well advertised misdemeanours at parties of the rich and famous. She will inevitably attempt to do something shocking, be it straddling a table/waiter/nearby tractor, lighting up a crack-pipe mid-conversation or removing her clothes and causing general nausea. Honestly, I'm not sure I could cope with ten minutes, let alone a whole evening without a homicide occurring.

So, Nicki, it looks like we'll be spending an eternity on a desert island. But you know what? I don't think it'll be all that bad. Surely you can fashion something amusing to wear from the local foliage? True, you'll stuggle to get any more plastic surgery on the island, but I'm sure we can attach a coconut or two somewhere or other, and that would certainly match a palm-frond bikini. The multiple personalities in which you pride yourself would allow for a change in conversation when boredom inevitably sets in, and if all else fails, I'm sure you're buoyant enough for us to at least attempt an escape. And to be honest? I quite like your music. We all have our guilty pleasures... But try not to bang on...