Andrew Brel is a creative chameleon… a musician, an LA session man and a music producer.

He is also a travelling man and a campaigner against draconian family laws.

But Andrew is also a purveyor of fiction and a consummate narrator.

And it is these two talents we are focussing on.

Yep, like us all Andrew is old enough to have been through the milling machines, and like most of us, he has been left battered, bloodied, stark-bollock naked, broke and cheated by love and law.

All this comes out in his lightly accented voice and in his writing in a new audio book, One Day in Paris.

His experiences give cadence and depth to his tale of adventure, politics, love and deceit.

Originally from South Africa, Andrew washed up in LA after building – then helping to demolish – a family and a life in the heady musical thump of 80s and 90s London.

Yep,  he lost so many things, a partner, his Thame-side  home and contact with his little boy.

Licking his wounds Andrew fled to Tinseltown.

Since then he has privately published e-books, a number on the heartbreak of PA, a syndrome where the parent with ‘custody’ deliberately turns a child against the parent forced to hit the road.

But here, in his novel (hear it on Audible) Andrew is living in another world, under another name.

Yet you can still feel the rush and reality of our man’s emotion and confusion.

Andrew’s is a book sitting somewhere between Mettle of Woomara, Heart of the Hunter and Killing Eve.

One Day in Paris focuses on a year in the life of Dan Blake.

Blake’s career in the British Army comes to an end because of a psychiatric evaluation.

Divorced and jobless, a chance meeting in Moscow with an oil billionaire leads to an opportunity to earn again. But Blake has to go up against the world’s leading security agencies.

Failure means death.

Success though means membership of a secret super elite.

It’s not a world-changing concept, but a good read – or listen – is exactly what One Night in Paris is.

By ERIC LASTICK, a creative writer of bright talent…

Olden seas, ship’s masts, as cloud forms of these ghostly flipper cloth gins. Masts in the heights of the faraway landlines. Breads and turnovers in the dim of morning. Wishful crates and merchant’s holds, to their tales of ghost-like restlessness. Darken the galleys. Ship attain the lower corners of one and all…and of their darkest days. Ghosts of the flavored rise from the gray of the depths and deaths. These leagues of endless counts—and so very ravenous, these cities beneath triangles in water. Mysteries oft these most faraway knows. Being alive on this ship is of a new great knowing. A never fail to the very real of it’s ghosted secrets. Voyager in Indian Ocean…sails as of monolithic finds. The rise of a new wave. A break of the high waters, insinuate other vessels smooth so sail—yet of it real? Translucent figures on deck. Tell tale visions of past journeys. Sana Marie have little ghost face children—steer so clear, as 1900 masts…and flagship follow this caravan to a tunnel ride—all through the pipelines of the surf…and all at once, in the surging of the calling of higher arc. Breading galleries, Merchants await the next move for the ghostly calls. Cast over thunderous brain clouds of a Captain’s sword—too deem these waters of past…and of present tense. Futures rapping,as the ghostly figures of a good fight, honor this point of longitude—and go too the very ore. The center stoke of infant that care—which is man this day. This water filler. Ghosted gather— live now in every fish, in every gill…and every Ocean team. Every school, a moment in time—too even the splinters of past, and bends to the future, where we all stand. The ghost manifest of the front of the ship, as father. The deck’s hands drop to floor level. No ship’s cook on this one—as all deep water gills live on. The ghost in main frame and conquer. A same hello!

(THIRD EYE THROUGH THE TEMPEST)

Sit at the Captain’s chair…at its undone and scary studies of Crypt Zoology. Crypt codes and ocean deep, to what we really do not know of these depths. Lives and existences far and wide. Referenced and unrecorded of the truly bizarre—–right here, at 1900 masts. Halloween steers and stirs of the high waves of the seas. And here, in a notion of such one…and of story lines and lineage;  in order for man, woman of different spheres. Amphibian to island. Sand shell bend capable—sea and center core as one. A two sided monster—out of our icy notions. A serpent of cosmic dins, sins…and navigation’s—less compasses. The line crawls, maws in the mind’s of those so feared…and of those shores of Lochness Scottish songs. Per made creature take down. Do we see what seems to be human like—subservient sea serpent—yet with wet wing wet down head of hair. Face like no other known. The cold of trespasses in night blues…and their leagues—ways away, the Indian Ocean’s tail—which draws of a kiss! An Aqua mermaid’s jealous reprise—enrolling in the salty water’s run. Dress the winds and tempest waves of the surf…as a serpent girl—whether to believe it or not; stake account of her beauty. Ocean land and back to sea.

So take a moment in what dreams so states, so moves; as the gusts come off of a real alliance, to draw away the heinous thoughts—yet what if she, so real…and so scaly—seal sight of these deep waters, and swim ashore as a silhouette–right through thee Tempest gale—too regenerate 2 as 1! Anomalies back drops of swims…and of layered fragrant air of rich compounds, not of our sciences.1900 masts in the ghostly call—too the tempest—and these high waves of the seas. Halloween crypt notions, a hard play to sell, until their very children ghost dance—and hold until dawn. A new reality.

It was like a painting out there.

An Edward Hopper, but with people … security guards, revellers, drunks, grifters, barkers, all peddling and paddling through this liquid night.

Neons and cafe lights have become vivid blotches in the rain.

The theatre lights flicker and go out.

Hull – around its glassy grey brutal Bonus Theatre at least – is grid-locked.

And stuck inside of it all are Bob Dylan’s tour buses which should be eating up the 90 miles to his next date in Nottingham.

It was a strange feeling out there.

Bob could be in one of those buses flouncing his ‘bouffant’ and being Mr Cool despite being ’crabbed’ tonight by what looks like a very bad back indeed.

But nobody on these Humberside back streets was humping for piggybacks to peak through his swag-n-tail caravan curtains.., nobody was hammering on the flimsy vinyl wrap doors either …no girls screamed Bob and took bouncy selfies hoping he might stumble in to one.

What is going on?

Is it the rain?

Is it City-of-Culture’s pseudo cool?

Or is it just our pink-robot society’s disinterest?

One of the world’s most enduring and diverse geniuses is stuck on a bus in traffic in Hull! People should be mobbing his buses and snapping at the air with their plastic crocodiles!

Then it hit me …

Bob’s not actually there, not on that bus, not in the rain … he is the real gone kid now.

Yes, his one foot remains, still firmly, in our moribund world. But the other remains on that train.

No. at 81 he is the lost youth of every generation people as old as I am can remember.

And now everything he performs telegraphs a sense of urgency, like a perfect last waltz or an elegant swan song.

Bob surely lives in his own brilliant world inside an old-time music hall filled with growling riverboat captains, tough cowboys, snarling murderers, ghosts of lost loves. There’s blood and redemption in his world still, mountains and streams, iron ore smoke and stormy flatlands.

Thank God Bobstill lives inshadowy kingdoms.

At least one hundred times a year though, Bob opens his flashy gates to the public and we rush on in.

And we know as we step through, we’ll be greeted by this gruff old man hiding behind an upright piano and bashing out lost chords like Jerry Lee on Monad.

You know, sometimes Bob’s tousled head is like a glove puppet performing a strange dance on the lid of his piano. The head howls and whoops, sneers, leers and grins like the Joker he is.

Yep, the image is bizarre, comically grotesque – but there has always been the grotesque in Bob’s world. Always.

Tonight in Hull his band rocked slowly in stringy gravity against the honey glow of the set.

The music was blue, different, old-timey. Yet brand new…

But on a rainynight like this in Hull Bob revealed himself completely only twice. And for less than 10 seconds at a time.

He was dressed to the nines but he barely got his fist to his hip before he retreated back behind the piano. At that moment Bob Dylan looked more vulnerable than Blood on the Tracks.

Yet he still had the air of a young Jack of Hearts with all the winning cards.

He was singing beautifully too, rolling dark clouds, skidding up and down his own forked lightning, a bird careening across the storm, coyote desert howl.

Every voice he has ever had is still there and he is using them all.

And all the time there’s that rocking and rolling boat of splintered notes, a cacophony of keyboard symbols and aural hieroglyphics. It’s the essence of his wild mercurial sound…

When Dylan opens his creaking gates and lets us in, all of history, the history of Americana and music is on display for us to commune with.

And the emaciated curator in too big a shiny suit and pointy boots tells his stories of betrayal and loss with dignity, skill, passion and romance.

Dylan might not be wildly mercurial any more but he is pure solid gold.

As the last owls and hoots of his harmonica faded, the lights went out.

So, we waited – cheered and roared for a couple of roadies by mistake – watched the colour and life drain out of the stage, turning it cold and skeletal.

Reluctantly, we joined the long cattle queues to reclaim our phones and our very own digital world. It blinged and whistled all around, a whole new cacophony, false and thoughtless.

Then we wandered out, plastic pinned to our ears, no jolly chats between strangers about how brilliant Dylan was. No interaction at all. We’ve all got our own worlds pinned to our ears now. Everything is back to normal, heads down in the rain, buds in our ears, reading the glassy glow in hand…

What does it matter that Bob Dylan might be stuck in a traffic jam in inclement weather in the back streets of Hull.

And it looks like he’s got a bad back…

Things have changed, huh.

Thanks to Luke and Victoria for arranging this night…

https://leighgbankspreservationsociety.blog/?s=dylan

https://leighgbankspreservationsociety.blog/?s=dylan

#dylan #bobdylan #hull #bonustheatre #humberside #roughandrowdy

What is going on in the world! Leigh is out-thunk by a 6 year old and Rodney is grumpy about politics war and everything else!

Click to see video…

#power #utilitybills #children #schools #politics

Please click below for the true horror of possession

THIS PROPERTY IS CONDEMNED – a true-life story of terror and possession – The Leigh G Banks Preservation Society

Please click below for the killing of elephant…

Under malaria skies – The Leigh G Banks Preservation Society

#ghosts #halloween #spooks #hauntings #india #villageof thedamned

To many he was the real King. To others he was the real devil of rock’n’roll.

Good on ya, Jerry.

RIP

#JERRYLEELEWIS

Prince Harry’s memoir is to be called Spare, according to publisher Penguin Random House.

The publication was delayed following the Queen’s death, and Harry is said to have requested a number of alterations to make it less critical of the Royal Family.

A press release released today said: ‘Spare takes readers immediately back to one of the most searing images of the twentieth century: two young boys, two princes, walking behind their mother’s coffin as the world watched in sorrow—and horror.

It is believed that Harry was paid an advance of £18.4 million as part of a three-title deal worth £36.8 million.

Penguin Random House said the duke had donated $1,500,000 Sentebale, a charity helping children affected by HIV/AIDS. He will also donate £300,000 to WellChild, which he has been patron of for 15 years.

#wellchild #hivaids #penguin #harry #meghan

Nothing’s cheap in the UK any more. Mortgages, food, power, diesel, beer, fags and health have all rocketed like our world has been reset behind closed doors.

And we now have a new leader, a very rich man indeed. who is promising to save us AND the land of the pound.

But Rishi and his Missus don’t have much to worry about if the reset turns to total regret!

After all, between them, they are said to be worth £730,000,000… that’ll keep their electricity meter topped up won’t it!

And the odd cheese and onion butty on the table …

But let’s not forget Rishi has won the contest of unfeasible comebacks. Boris Johnson has abandoned his own attempt to return to 10 Downing Street after being booted out by his own MPs.

Don’t forget though that he was rejected by the Conservative Party‘s membership in favour of Liz Truss.

#Rishi #sunak #boris #truss #UK #britishparliament

Join in the chat as the gentlemen ranters reveal a shock about electric vehicles and how much does diesel really cost on a motorway? They also investigate the inflammation highway.

#Realcostofdiesel #Electricvehicles #inflammation #Boris #TV #Podcast

BOZZO RIDES THE POLITICAL SEAS, LET’S LOOK AT HIS PREDECESSORS AND SPARRING PARTNERS…

The Society made a prediction a few weeks ago that Boris might try to make a comeback… well, well, well!

But is he really the worst? Let’s look at a few of his predecessors …

BORIS JOHNSON… presided over a disgraceful culture of law-breaking in Downing Street, with his wife and no less than 50 of his closest aides and officials accused of various things

TONY BLAIR … constantly has the finger pointed over the Iraq War. Hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians died and are still dying – but draped in robes and gold, he was given a Knighthood

KEIR STARMER … Police investigated a gathering attended by Sir Keir Starmer and deputy Labour leader Angela Rayner for potential breaches of Covid laws. No charges

JEREMY CORBYN… was suspended because he argued claims of antisemitism in Labour were deliberately exaggerated

DAVID CAMERON …  An “unauthorised” biography tells a story in which a young Cameron had “inserted a private part of his anatomy into” a dead pig’s mouth. He denied it…

MAGGIE THATCHER… considered cancelling foreign trips because she feared being seized abroad and indicted for war crimes like her old friend, General Augusto Pinochet.

#BORISJOHNSON #MARGARETTHATCHER #CORBYN #STARMER #CAMERON #TRUSS