Author Archives: karlhyde

Thursday 7th November

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FLASHMAN BY NAME #2:

We were there to rehearse for an album by Terri Nunn, a lady
I’d been introduced to by our publishers back in the UK.
We’d worked up some new songs for her album at the studio Underworld
had built to record ‘Change the Weather’. Terri had experienced the
full terraced- England experience, a kind’ve crash course in being an
impoverished student starting up a band, by staying in a freezing
box room in a back street Romford semi during our time writing together.
Now we were in sunny California, preparing to go into the studio to
record with legendary producer Steve Brown, whom I knew about from his
success with the Cult (a sound that was everywhere on American radio).
The band was in good humour, though we’d only met an hour before.
A young bass player, whom may have been chosen more for his
appearance than his playing, Randy Casteo from Ozzy Osborne’s band
on drums, myself on guitars & on keyboards (a close friend of the
producers) Andrew Flashman. The minute he walked in I took one look
& knew we were from different worlds. Long black wavy hair half down
his back, tight stone washed jeans, a fat belt buckle & Cuban Heeled
boots with silver tips – a true died in the wool California Boy.
“This is Andrew, Andrew Flashman. He’ll be playing keys on the session”
Said Steve.

“He-lo” Said the embodiment of soft rock LA, in the clearest, bell-like
plumb English I had ever heard. The room tilted, the picture didn’t
add up, all my preconceptions scuttled out under the door & I stood
open mouthed at an image that didn’t match the sound. He must have
clocked my derogatory expression as it was instantaneously evident,
by the look in his eye, we were not going to get along.

(K)

Tuesday 5th November

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STANDING AT THE EDGE OF THE WORLD:
 
Didn’t notice the past looking up as we stared down into 
a rhythm of fag butts, cracks & fallen leaves, but when 
we got home & reviewed the day there it was, squashed into 
the black top, waiting for the stars. Riding trains, listening
to the rhythm of conversations, English spoken in beautiful 
foreign tongues – roll their R’s like Boys Brigade drummers.
Dad always kept a steady beat at the kitchen table, chastised 
again for being ‘noisy’, but I loved it & the groove remains, 
absorbed into the bone, repeated habitually on table tops around 
the world. The wheels squeal beneath us as we slow into wind blown
stations, faces ashen, heads sunk deep into shoulders hunched 
to shelter ears gone numb. The afternoon sun is kind for once 
through dirty glass as we leave the Emerald City, I close my eyes 
& drift to the music of cell phone conversations, words 
discretely spoken into hands, discernible only from behind 
shuttered eyes. 
Cheap coffee on the platform, dark chocolate that kick starts & 
stings. The sugar hits, the coffee bights, the pocket vibrates,
your voice transmitting love & light in the face of relentless dark 
circling your side of town. We laugh, me alone, concealed in carparks, 
engine running to stay warm, you at home on the street where we lived 
& played & learned to kiss, kick balls, ride bikes & watch records spin 
in unlit bedrooms imagining we were someone else. 
 
(K)

Monday 4th November

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THE PHONE RINGS:
 
A familiar voice at an unfamiliar time of day is a stranger.
“You OK?”
“Yeah, I got a can of Stella”
“Oh!”
It takes me back to 90’s Romford, the boys in the back of the 
splitter van, the boys in the ground transport, Festival to 
airport, high on booze & laughter. It had been a strange gig, 
started weird, eased into euphoric & concluded drunk & flying, 
irreverently live to air in a radio truck up a mountain.
The boys from Essex were on form that night, fast track tongues 
that couldn’t be silenced. I climbed into the bus, wrapped in 
sweat soaked towels craving quiet, within seconds we were howling
tears of laughter, our insides hurting from the joy of it. 
Best comedy hour I ever spent was in that mini bus, driving 
late night mountain roads, coming down into Geneva, catching 
glimpses of the driver’s eyes in his rear view mirror wishing it 
would soon be over.
 
(K)

Saturday 2nd November

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STRATFORD EAST:
 
Dipped into Stratford East the scene of another thing.
I remember the shock if seeing what had happened to the place,
how it had changed, is it good? – you’d have to ask the locals. 
I remember the poetry of streets being strong here, the sounds, 
smells & sights on the original side of the tracks being 
so much richer than the sanitised shopping experience on the 
other. A young lad sits cross legged on a concrete slab, his back 
against a lamp post, widly improvisiting an electric guitar next 
to a colour picture of Lou Reed above a poem in bold type which 
reads, ‘It’s a Perfect Day’. I nod in passing, counting cracks 
around the rim of the ring road, passing under the curvaceous bones 
of the civic art tarting up the same facade of the old shopping mall. 
It’s opalescent faces reflect the sky like the backs of scarabs. 
It may not be the Tate but it cheers me on a grey day & I’m grateful 
for the contribution. Check the map in my pocket, make a mental note 
to come back & sing the names of streets that recall the people 
& the trades at the root of this community.
 
Tonight, at Stratford Circus, our friends from Frantic Assembly 
create an exciting piece of theatre, offering hope & opening the 
door to a new world of endless positives. They are doing great 
things, putting energy into community & showing how lives can change 
direction. These guys do brilliant work, investing love & passion. 
How do you feel about giving them support & checking them out tonight? 
 
(K)

Friday 1st November

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WINTER 2012:
 
I turn the engine off, parked up in the dark of early morning.
Watch the sun struggle to make any impression in a big sky of 
heavy clouds. Unloading my bag & guitar from the back seat I’m 
stopped by a curious sound. Standing outside the rehearsal room,
knuckles already white with cold, I’m rendered motionless, 
baffled by a strange sound emanating from within – laughter!
How can that be? I have no memory of ever standing in this spot
hearing that beautiful sound, yeah, there it is again, laughter.
It’s freezing, but I don’t want to change a thing, standing 
listening to the music of happiness, remembering that time in 
New York when rush hour was the most fabulous music I’d ever 
heard, knowing that if I moved a muscle it would blow way & 
never return…which of course I did & have never heard it 
since. So I stand there, the weight of bag & guitar like 
feathers lifted in the euphoria of the laughter of friends 
gathered together to enjoy making music. I step forward, 
pop the latch on the door, dogs bark, rush to greet me smiling. 
Warm air in my face, wrapped in the rich aroma of toast & coffee. 
Faces turn to greet me, happy, smiling.
 
“Hey, Karl!”
 
“Is this Iowa?” I ask, kinda dazed, like maybe I’ve stumbled in 
through the wrong door.
 
“No, it’s Essex” They laugh, believing I’m joking.
 
“Strange, I coulda swore it was Iowa”
 
(K)

Thursday 31st October

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THE TRAINS RAN BACKWARD TODAY:
 
Burger & chips in St John’s Wood & an open fire in the company 
of a wise hand & guiding light. Leaves scattered swept into 
piles, the perfume of sweet rot follows us. Down into the holes
beneath the city, the poetry keeps it’s own company, coil back 
in corners, hissing. We double back, forgetting.
Catch an overground out of the city of dreams, slip concealed 
between humourless faces, phone batteries waining, you brought the 
wrong glasses “that’ll learn ya!”. Strangers sat next to smell 
‘different’ wrapped in fogs of exotic aromas, free papers opened 
distractedly reveal something red, congealed, sticking the pages 
together. I recoil, flip it onto the flap on the back of the seat 
in front, folding it up with a steely squeal. 
Look out the window at the world getting grey & blue, sliding fast 
on the other side of the glass with a familiar continuity of 
joined up rhythms. 
“ladies & Gentlemen, we’re sorry about the late arrival of this 
train, this was due to it’s late departure”
One nation united, raises an eyebrow to one another & smiles.
 
(K)