Hello, friends, I just found out that Bingo Gazingo (born Murray Wachs) died on New Years Day. He was struck by a cab on his way to perform his weekly show at the Bowery Poetry Club about a month ago.

If you love Bingo as a person and an artist as much as I do, I encourage you to spread the word about his music to people and let them know how awesome he was. He’s got a myspace page where people can appreciate his music and comment:

http://www.myspace.com/bingogazingo

BINGO GAZINGO

The first time I saw Bingo was in a UK documentary about outsider artists in America. I watched his segment over and over again, and resolved to try and work with him. Within 20 minutes of emailing the show’s producer I was on the phone with Bingo and he had launched into spirited transatlantic renditions of his soon-to-be worldwide hits, “J-Lo” and “I Love You so Fucking Much I Can’t Shit”. His raging ambition to be famous worthy of a man a quarter of his age, his joyously demented inhibition, and what I suspected to be a hidden awareness that he was destined to remain an outsider – all of these endeared him to me immediately.

I got to know Bingo (he was always Bingo, never Murray) a little better over the next few years. He made a guest appearance on my album “The Unrest Cure”, with “2000 Years From Now” – an impassioned rant against all the people who had held him back in life (‘I knew I was better than all those jerks put together’). Although I was sorry never to be able to give him the news of a hit that he demanded in a subsequent series of letters written in his trademark capitalised spidery scrawl, I think he was pleased that on his song, at least he had Brian Eno singing backup.

Bingo visited my East London studio in 2006 while he was in town with My Robot Friend. He started performing the moment he got in the door, reciting poem after poem grabbed at random from plastic bags, coat pockets, and often from the murky recesses of his memory. He wanted to concentrate on what he saw as ‘the hits’ – mostly highly libellous celebrity-themed pieces. But I was intrigued by some of the other material that slipped through, that seemed to offer tantalising insights into his past, and that blurred the line between Bingo and Murray. Many of them were about his late wife. Frequently he would veer from tender to scatological in the space of a couplet, snapping out of beauty and back into a sneer.

On the car journey back across town that night, my friend spontaneously ordered me to stop the car outside The Foundry, a squat and a popular venue for art, poetry and music. She led Bingo inside and he walked straight onto the stage and took the assembled crowd of young trendies by storm. A large group of them followed him out to the car afterwards, huddling around him and asking who he was. The look of quiet satisfaction on his face was one I’ll never forget. I saw it a few more times, and that look remains one of my favourite memories of Bingo.

Later that year I filmed the video of “2000 Years” with Bingo in Central Park. After telling off the cameraman and I for taking a taxi instead of the subway from Queens, he zipped around the park on a sweltering summer’s day with abandon, dancing with a salsa band and defiling a playground with cries of ‘I want to put my iTube in your YouTube’. He was willing to do anything in the name of promotion, but after several hours even he got tired, and abruptly said ‘ok, that’s enough’, before shuffling off.

Nobody did more for Bingo than My Robot Friend, Howard. He gave Bingo an outlet, and brought his voice to many more people than would otherwise have heard it. Both Howard and I will keep endeavoring to bring all Bingo’s recorded work to the attention of the public, but no longer – in the words of the great man himself – to that of the ‘fucking record companies’.

In one of my favourite songs of Bingo’s entitled “What A Life Some Shit”, he makes some very fair observations: ‘Why do bad things happen to good people? Why does God bust our balls? Even if you have the talent, you have to be gallant’. Bingo definitely had the talent, and despite his propensity for bellowing profane poetry at startled strangers in the street, I found him to be nothing less than a perfect gentleman. He had a fiery but generous spirit, and despite his uncompromising nature he didn’t take himself too seriously. The mainstream may not have taken him to its heart, but that’s because the machine that drives it doesn’t have one.

In “The More I Love You More”, he writes ‘You are the last page of my life, you are the last poem I’ll ever write. Here’s to you with love, and here’s to love with you’. Quoting that is the best memorial I can offer. I feel extremely lucky to have known him, I smile at the memory of such an inspiring person, and I miss him. Please spread the word!

Last month I spent a week producing Carl Barat. We’d never met before, and as I lugged all my equipment into a studio on Hoxton square on day one, I was rather nervous. Usually there’s at least a meeting beforehand. But within an hour of his arriving, we had written a new song and had a bit of a laugh, and we managed to record 4 tracks in a massive hurry. The imposition of time limits really is condusive to getting the best performances. Carl took this idea one further, by finishing lyrics only moments before going into the vocal booth. After one such last-minute addition, he observed “putting a new verse in a song is a bit like putting a new kidney in a person – you never know if it’s going to be rejected”. Findlay Brown, who co-wrote one of the songs, came down to help out and Carl kept a fairly constant supply of interesting people coming through the studio. Some artists like a ‘closed set’, and others like it to be more social. Generally I’m in the former camp, but this time it was fun. He and his manager thanked everyone on the last day by bringing in bottles of fine whiskey.

I’ve also been working on Chris Difford’s record, continuing to write songs with him and beginning to plan the recording sessions in January, and Iarla O’Lionaird’s album too. I had a couple of days with Jon Hopkins, putting puano on Iarla’s stuff. We’ve known each other since we were 15 and we know each others musical personalities so well, and yet it is a continuing joy to keep developing and surprising each other. He has a touch and approach to the piano that is mesmerising and unique.

One of the things we worked on together last year was the score to The Lovely Bones, which we co-wrote with Brian Eno. Last week was the world premiere, held at Leicester Square. We were sat 3 rows behind Charles and Camilla, whose otherwise-standard issue cinema seats had been specially draped in ermine. Once seated in the cinema, we were able to watch the arrival of various stars and dignitaries on the big screen, before seeing them enter the auditorium in reality. The sheer oddness of the occasion made it even more difficult for me to assess the film, and how the music had been used. I just remember being really pleased at how much of our stuff was intact, and generally overwhelmed at hearing stuff I’d written blaring out of a Peter Jackson movie. Also odd was the fact that I had to go straight to the premiere from a session with Trevor Horn. This involved getting changed into my tuxedo in a vocal booth, and bidding farewell to the most famous producer in the land whilst wearing it.

I have been trying to turn Brian’s Pure Scenius project from June this year into an album; coming to terms with the sheer amount of material, and figuring out how best to present it, have been the main challenges but it seems that Brian, Karl Hyde and I are gradually circling in on the right approach. It’s interesting to edit and mix 20-minute long pieces of music, because to get a true picture of what is right, you have to listen through from the top every time. But as ever, it’s about paying attention to detail without losing sight of the overall feeling.

Work continued with David Holmes on the Russian film ‘Gustav’. There was a bit of a scramble on the first day when the producer announced that he wanted to hear 5 major themes by the end of the night; but we got through that one and I think it’s going to be one of the best scores David has done. One night he took me to the club he’s just opened, got behind the bar, and destroyed me with whiskey. The following day was spent trying to do intricate string arrangements through a noxious fog.

A short tour with Marianne Faithfull was like a mini-holiday, albeit a sleep-deprived one. The main thing I learned from it is that Luxembourg town is absolutely lovely. Funny how tempting it can be to generalise about a whole town, or even country, based on one’s pathetically limited experience of playing there. Hence the group resolution that Amsterdam rocks whereas Zurich sucks. All very scientific of course.

There were a few sessions for other film things, one involving lots of small instruments that are very hard to tune and all in different keys, which was like some kind of living anxiety dream; and I’ve been working a bit with Duffy who is a bundle of manic benevolent energy. And lastly my new solo record has been mixed, and will hopefully be released in the first half of next year. It’s called ‘Zero Sum’.

Last week I took part in ‘Carousel’, a tribute to Jacques Brel at the Barbican. I’d been fairly familiar with his work, but having worked on it closely I now want to learn some proper French so that I can fully appreciate his incredible lyrics. The concert mixed French, English and Belgian singers – from Mark Almond and Momus to Arthur H and Arno – and as part of the house band I could more or less just sit back and enjoy. A non-musical highlight was hearing Arthur H translate the lyrics to ‘Madeleine’ for the audience: “She is all my life, we will eat goooood French fries…”, which made everyone in the room fall in love with him immediately. I got to use my favourite guitar – a 60s Italian thing made of sparkly plastic, with an enormous unforgiving neck, that sounds like it’s being played straight out of an old valve record player. It doesn’t get out much, but it made it onto the next Paloma Faith single too.

The week before, I was in with a new artist called Delta Maid. The producer was Craig Leon, a man of bafflingly and humblingly diverse talents, who has worked with everyone from Bob Marley and Blondie to Suicide and Pavarotti! It was fantastic to see a true master of arranging and producing at work (when we weren’t too busy getting him to tell us stories from his past). The music, which was steeped in traditions that I am by no means an expert on, was beautiful. Unbelievably it was Delta’s first experience playing with other musicians, but it didn’t show; a couple of times I sensed that I wasn’t quite getting the authentic feel she wanted, so I just got Craig to play those bits! After all, he was actually there for the ‘real thing’. The combination ended up working really well.

I went to Belfast with Jon Hopkins, for some sessions with David Holmes on a new film he’s scoring called ‘Gustav’. It is Russian, and as beautiful as it is grim. Jon and I basically spent 3 days improvising under David’s direction, and generated a load of material for David to sort through and tailor. I ended up playing a lot of guitaret (the rare thumb piano-like instrument that Eno gave me), and a £50 ukelele that David had bought recently. It was just a toy really, but played into his £3000 microphone, all the little imperfections and finger noises sounded very intense and atmospheric. When we got back, I played at one of Jon’s shows. Even in the thundering maelstrom of his live set, what he wants from his musicians is incredibly specific, and I felt slightly as though I was walking on eggshells; but I think it worked just having other people on stage (he usually plays alone), and the quiet bits took me back 15 years to when we used to play together at school concerts.

The Josephine Oniyama record got finished a few weeks ago. The last 4 or 5 days were spent mixing, and once again Josephine was extraordinarily patient during the boring bits (actually it’s all quite boring by then), inspired and passionate when called on to sing, supportive when I wobbled, and generally lovely to be around. The head of the record company came down and made some very useful suggestions – usually that is a moment to be dreaded but he comes from a musical background and was very helpful. The record deserves to do well. I also kept up the work on Iarla O’Lionaird’s album – adding a variety of strange and outsized bass instruments courtesy of Simon Edwards. I still feel this huge responsibility because of how much I love what Iarla does, but every time I hear his voice coming back through the speakers it inspires me.

I did a session for Skye Edwards (from Morcheeba), for a John Martyn tribute record – I had a bit of a hangover and hopefully it didn’t show too much. I hardly ever have them on sessions because it’s a bit miserable and scary, but luckily it was Skye’s honeyed voice coming through the speakers rather than something abrasive. There was also a day with film composer Alex Heffes, and Seb Rochford came to my studio with an artist he’s producing called Jay Brown (sister of VV). We managed to get 2 full tracks done in a day, and I just had to engineer – doing that alone is quite rare for me but I really enjoyed it, because I got to concentrate purely on mic positions and sounds, without the distraction of also having to play and produce. Seb played some absolutely incredible percussion, glass marimba and bass in addition to the drums, and we even got Jay’s managers to add handclaps at the end of the day.

And in between, I wrote a few songs with Chris Difford (of Squeeze); although not technically ‘with’, as he wasn’t there. But he sent me lyrics and asked me to come up with some music. I’d never worked that way before but found it incredibly inspiring. His words are like fully fleshed-out stories, and music just seems to rise out of them like a lovely aroma. I did 6 or 7 in a couple of days, and hopefully a few of them will go the distance.

Almost 2 months since my last entry… and despite it being holiday season I haven’t been on holiday. Well, I sort of have – for the best part of a month I was on tour with Marianne Faithfull. A punishing number of flights notwithstanding, I had a great time hanging out with my friends in various parts of Europe. I felt really grateful to Marianne – she’s been very kind and encouraging to me and she gave the music her all every night, which really helps when, half way through the tour, everything becomes a bit like Groundhog Day. Once the music gets familiar it’s sorely tempting to start embellishing, but because everyone else is doing it too the whoe thing can veer dangerously close to jazz. On this tour, I found that I was almost completely relaxed onstage – hardly even aware that there was an audience. It made me play so much better, because although at times I felt almost weirdly complacent, it let me play very honestly.

In the London-based gaps between dates, I put in a bit of an effort and finished my new album, on which I’m singing. It seems like every record is harder to make than the last, purely from a perfectionist point of view. My plan to get this one finished was to get other people in to build up the tracks and give me impetus. Cleveland Watkiss and Lisa Lindley-Jones contributed some amazing vocals, and helped me up my game. Pat Dillett, who mixed the Eno/Byrne album that I co-produced, is going to mix it. I’m proud of it, and so relieved to have it finished after sporadic fits of pique and doubt.

Speaking of David Byrne, he asked me to guest on a couple of songs at his show at the Barbican, playing some of the parts I played on the record. Virtually his entire show is choreographed, and the whole band is dressed in white. Plus they all wear headphones instead of having monitors onstage so it was very odd to put on white trousers, sneak onstage for a bit and then sneak off again to watch the rest of the show from the audience. The whole band were so incredibly friendly and happy, and I thought that mood would definitely be encouraged by playing such euphoric, energetic music for the best part of a year.

I did some co-writing with a new artist called Bahia, which was great because she was the type of artist who comes in with already-brilliant ideas and all I had to do was help with varying the chords a bit and developing the lyrics. In other situations it can be weird, when you basically end up writing the whole thing then handing over 50%. I also did a couple of days co-writing with Brian Eno; the method of working was that each of us took it in turns to contribute one thing to the track, and every half-hour we started a new one. Sort of like musical speed-dating.

Kate Schermerhorn, from whose documentary my EP ‘Searching 1906′ was taken, asked me to write the music to her new film, which is a wry study of marriage. For each of the cues I chose a different palette of sounds, but based the themes on peals of bells to give everything some unity. I actually found it quite difficult to watch the film at the same time because parts of it were very moving, so I had to try and just maintain the memory of it as I worked on the music.

Lastly, I’ve started producing a couple of albums. One is for Iarla O’Lionaird, who I’ve worked with for a while. Producing and writing with his feels like a big reponsibility because I have such respect and love for what he does. But Most of the time I manage to feel inspired and lucky instead of intimidated! His lyrics are mostly in Irish, but he frequently explains to me what they mean, and the meaning behind them. This affects the production, as the sounds need to reflect quite precisely what is happening in the words. I find this interesting, because of course not many listeners will know exactly what he is saying, but the story is somehow told in his singing and in the sounds. He is such a vivid communicator that I feel like I know what he’s singing about even when he doesn’t tell me.

The other artist is Josephine Oniyama, whose music manages to be simultaneously unsentimental and extremely moving. It is her first record but she is an incredibly accomplished singer. It is a huge relief when, hearing someone sing for the first time, it becomes clear that instead of having to really work to get a good vocal performance, you will be choosing between ‘very good’ and ‘sublime’. Musically, I’m going to try and follw my engineering hero Tchad Blake’s approach – schizophrenic contrasts between sounds, extreme panning, and no reverb. a guy called Fred Thomas is playing on both records. He plays piano, double bass and percussion – all extravagantly well. He has many projects of his own, my favourite of which is Magic Lantern. Check ‘em out!

A few years ago I played with Brian Eno at the Fuji Rock Festival in Japan. It was the best time I’d ever had on stage, until last month when I was lucky enough to be a part of his Pure Scenius concert at the Sydney Opera House. The actual concert has been exhaustively documented elsewhere (improvised, 3 concerts in a day, tea-making facilities & tent on stage, etc) so here are a few observations from the ‘inside’.

I arrived feeling bleary and made my way into a very brightly-lit room containing lots of equipment. Everyone else in the band was extremely nice but obviously we were all somewhat nervous. The 2 days ‘rehearsing’ were actually more of a way to get acquainted with each other’s musical personalities. A few general pointers did emerge though, often based on Brian’s ability to spot people’s strengths and create space for them to be highlighted. The best example of this was the piano duet, which came about after Brian mentioned Jon Hopkins’ extraordinary ability to echo very complex chords. So like a beautiful little musical tennis match Chris Abrahams would play sparse, beautifully Feldmanesque chords, and Jon would softly and perfectly reiterate them. Karl Hyde and Brian acted as ‘frontmen’ with a difference, and whereas they each had texts to deploy at will, the manner of deployment was no more planned than it would have been had there been no rehearsal at all. The heart of the band was The Necks, whose experience with large-scale improvised music lent a coherence and assurance to the music. Their sense of space seemed to radiate out across the rest of us, and it was extraordinary how sparse and deliberate much of the music sounded, considering how many musicians there were, and how many ideas must have been going through everyone’s heads.

There was rather a strange atmosphere at the start of the first concert I remember, and for a few minutes it seemed that some of the confidence and invention that had been overflowing in rehearsal might have gone missing in the cavernous concert hall. But we felt our way into our new surroundings after a little while. It was interesting to witness the effect of playing 3 concerts in a row on the psychology of the performance. During the first I felt like we were all on our ‘best behaviour’; the second was probably themost successful, a good balance struck between nerves and assurance; the third felt more like the rehearsals because we were so used to the environment. This meant there were some brave things that worked brilliantly, and some that meandered. Personally I felt that it was really saved by the brutal encore, with everyone utterly determined to end on a high. The decisions to remain onstage while the audiences came and went, and to have tea-making facilities and sofas, were both witty and extremely clever. I shall never forget drinking tea whilst watching The Necks in front of a packed Opera House, chatting to Brian and Jon, my old schoolfriend, about how we thought the gig was going. What please me most was that Brian enjoyed it. He deserved to – for taking a huge chance with a brave concept, for being able not only to compose but more importantly to create space and conditions for good things to happen, and for making what could have been an intimidating engagement nothing other than fun and fascinating. Thank you Brian.

Returning from Sydney at 5am after a sleepless 26 hours (4 babies doing tag-team tantrums), I had to get straight on the Eurostar to Paris for shows with Marianne Faithfull. The other guitarist was Marc Ribot, who I had never met and who is the guitarist I admire and love most in the world. It was distinctly odd meeting him when I was in such a dishevelled state, but (predictably) he turned out to be a lovely, generous, witty person. He played so well that on a few occasions I had to choke back tears. It’s just a wonderful and humbling thing to witness someone so good at what they do, and it has inspired me to really make an effort to get better at my instrument. It was one of those times when, feeling like you’re at the bottom of a mountain, instead of getting discouraged by the prospect of the climb you just see beauty. And knowing that he liked some of the stuff I did gave me a simple, innocent satisfaction that no amount of applause from a crowd ever seems to bring.

When I got home from all that, I got stuck straight into my new record. To my surprise I am really enjoying singing and writing lyrics. It takes effort and a little courage to persuade myself to set up the mic and give it a go, but once I’m there I can get into it more, and listening back afterwards it seems to be getting closer and closer to what I’d imagined. There’s always a lot of tidying to do towards the end of a project, so for every day performing or recording other people there seem to be another 2 spent editing. But my plan to ‘force’ myself to finish by booking other musicians in has paid off and it’s nearly finished.

In fact it might even be finished next week were it not for Marianne’s tour, which has just started. My plan to minimise the insanity of constant air travel and hanging about involves a Russian language course and about 8 hours of audio from the Scenius concerts and rehearsals, which I am going to try and edit into shape. I find that if I can get something worthwhile done in the day, then I really enjoy the concert at the end of it – which of course is how it should be.

I had another improvised gig this month, with Leafcutter John. As with Scenius, it was partly guided by verbal suggestion and partly by a moving graphic score. Notes are not specified, but approximate pitch, velocity and attitude are determined by coloured shapes that scroll across the screen. John is brilliant at devising these and it is surprisingly tricky to follow well. It’s particularly fun for the audience to see the score I think, because there is an intuitive understanding of how it works, but some things remain a mystery. I seem to be doing more and more improvised gigs; I played one with Seb Rochford and Tom Herbert from Polar Bear a while back which was the most fun I’ve had in ages. It seemed to allow me to play more like ‘myself’, and later in the year I’m going to try and capture some of that in the studio.

I also did a couple of sessions for a great tv and film composer called Daniel Pemberton. Those sorts of sessions, whith an orchestra, are run incredibly precisely and session lengths are strictly enforced. If things go even 30 seconds overtime the atmosphere perceptibly changes as technically, musicians are meant to be paid overtime. It is so completely different to the usual ‘turn up at about 11, set up, have lunch and you should be free by 9′. On the one hand it’s quite fun because I get to feel like a ‘professional’, but on the other it seems a little ‘jobsworth’-y at times. Many of the musicians have crosswords or books on the go suring the session, I guess because they find the music so easy compared to what they were trained to do. I guess it’s not that different to me having a glass of wine on stage. And they always sounds great. But the emotion comes from the musical score, via the players’ technical competence, rather than the musicians as individuals. By contrast, in a band situation everyone is essentially a soloist, and expected to contribute more than a somple rendering of the notes, no matter how efficient or sympathetic (when there are ‘notes’ to render at all). This leads to 2 different kinds of ego problem!

Lastly, for Pure Scenius one plan was to try and come up with new musical forms, that we would present in concert as if giving a lecture from even further in the future. That didn’t quite work out, but here were my ideas anyway:

Communist Pointillism (most notably manifested as North Korean StutterPop): planned harmony is rejected as bourgeois. Musicians are each required to play no more than one note at a time – minimal deviation from which is tolerated. the resulting ‘chords’ and ‘melodies’ will be true products of the people, a musical triumph of collectivism.

Sub-Club: a nightclub playing loud mechanistic dub where no frequencies between 200Hz and 10000Hz are permitted, enabling civilised conversation to occur at the same time as furious pumping.

World Serialism: the music of the Second Viennese School has finally become part of the populist vernacular, and serialism is valued as a true artistic reflection of post-lapsarian liberation. Particularly popular in conjunction with Persian rhythms.

Dynamic Incongruity: an exercise in group- and self-regulation; playing with maximum musical aggression at the lowest possible volume, and conversely rendering the tenderest phrases as brutal sonic assaults. Gradual and sudden collective shifts between the two, with a conductor acting as a human ‘master fader’.

Practise Rooms: a recreation of what it’s like to walk through the halls of a music college – each player absolutely in their own world, creating a cacophonous melange of styles and tones (perhaps only a short demonstration would be desirable).