All six titles are vocal based compositions and I'm particularly fond of 'Windswept' which has a jazz blues mood somewhere between the worlds of Billie Holiday and Chet Baker. (But still 'me' somehow. How could it be anyone else?) 'Always You' has a touch of Bobby Darin on Mars about it. Or a Vegas showtune from a parralel universe. Could this be the closest thing I've done to an easy-listening lounge album? Well...not quite, but close. 
The overall performance of these tracks is a little looser than the performances on 'Sailor Bill' but that is appropriate to the style. These are 'feel' pieces with improvised solos. They are not strictly jazz, of course, but just 'jazzy' or 'jazz inspired.' (Emiko described them as 'techno-jazz' but I'm not sure about that either!) As usual, I'm too close to the music to know what the hell it is. It's probably a curious side-project rather than a major statement. Other's may feel differently when they hear it. I will confess that there's some slick guitar playing on it though, if you like that kind of thing.

Working title for the mini-album is 'Return To Jazz Of Lights.' It may be a keeper.
I'm working through some visual concepts for the packaging at the moment, before sending images to David Graham for him to lay out and add typography. The path I'm pursuing is based around some old 1960's snapshots of Emiko. I've been going through her family album. She was a stunningly beautiful teenager and I couldn't have imagined myself landing a catch like her back then if we'd ever had the good fortune to meet. (Which would have been impossible anyway, bearing in mind the distance between Tokyo and Wakefield and my reliance on the bus at that time in my life!) 

One photograph I've selected for use is very odd. It could almost be a still frame from a dramatic moment in a movie. The young Emi is standing centre frame, gazing off to the the right and slightly up into the sky. She is surrounded by people, nearly all of whom have their back to the camera, looking over the edge of a railing, beyond which a white statue stands, its back also to the camera. Emi is dressed in a fashion that wouldn't look out of place on a young teenage girl of 2006, low slung skinny jeans, a tight fitting Japanese boy-scout shirt with embroidered badges, a large white bag. She looks, to use the well worn vernacular, 'cool.' The photograph's colours have faded over the years since it was taken, so I've scanned it and subjected it to a long sequence of colour, contrast and filter manipulation, giving it a vintage cinematic quality. It's an enigmatic picture, achieved without artifice. Whoever took the photo did it quickly and unthinkingly...the camera angle isn't straight but this adds to the tension. Only one person in the crowd is looking at the camera, a plumpish Japanese lady sat at a table in the middleground. She has an inane grin on her face. Its an intriguing photograph. Using it, (and the other's I've picked), is not an obvious choice for the style of music on the album, but then again, it twists the album concept in a slightly surreal, ironic way. As the songs are all love songs, using Emi as an iconic image is perfectly apt anyway.

Guitars have loomed large in recent months. I may have mentioned on the Dreamsville site a while ago that Campbell American Guitars have been working towards a signature guitar for me. Dean Campbell has sent various drawings and ideas over for me to add my own input. I've sent drawings and suggestions back to Dean and a limited edition Bill Nelson signature model is not only on the drawing board but currently being developed in prototype form. It's all under wraps for now but all will be revealed when ready. Like all Campbell American guitars, it will be a hand made in the U.S.A. instrument.

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Wednesday 26th April 2006 -- 9:30 am 

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Perhaps I shouldn't be writing a diary entry right now. I certainly don't feel in the proper state of mind to do so but I desperately feel the need to write something down, if only to help me to work through some of my grief. I couldn't imagine, last week, that today I would be in such a state and for such an unforseen and unwelcome reason.

On Sunday, 23rd of April, I was taking my usual morning bath when I heard the 'phone ring. I hadn't brought the cordless 'phone into the bathroom with me as Emi was at home. I thought it might be one of her Japanese friends calling, as often happens at weekends. But then I heard her rushing up the stairs and her footsteps coming along the corridor towards the bathroom. I realised that the call must be for me. She came into the bathroom with the cordless 'phone in her hand, holding it out to me. She was in tears and could hardly speak. With difficulty, through the tears, she said "It's your mum on the 'phone...it's bad news...Ian's died..." 
I felt as if the whole world had ground to a sudden, violent halt and then I began to shake and weep uncontrollably. I felt as if my guts were being wrenched from me.

My mother was crying on the 'phone as she told me what had happened only a short time earlier that morning. She had telephoned my brother Ian sometime around 11 am to wish him a happy birthday. (Sunday the 23rd was his 50th.) Ian's wife Diane had answered and told my mother that Ian was still in bed, having a lie-in, but that he really ought to be getting up as they were going out soon. She asked my mother to hold the line whilst she called up the stairs to Ian to tell him that his mother was on the 'phone. There was no answer and when Diane went upstairs to wake him she found that Ian had passed away in his sleep.

The shock has been terrible. Feelings of disbelief, denial, sudden realisation, sickness and bottomless black pits of emotional despair. A violent assault on the depths of our hearts and souls. And it keeps on hitting and hurting. I'm battered and exhausted by its brutality. I feel as if a precious and essential part of my life has been suddenly ripped out of me. And, of course, it has. 

Ian was my 'little' brother. I'd known him all his life and, despite those silly sibling rivalries that all brothers experience from time to time, loved him deeply and respected him far more than he probably ever realised. Far, far more than he realised...Oh, Ian, if only I could tell you.

Even though Ian had survived a stroke, nine years ago when he was 41, I always expected him to outlive me, to always be there with his warm smile and dry sense of humour. Ian had become a physically big man, partly as a result of the diabetes he suffered from in recent years, but this largeness suggested solidity, a rock that would stand strong, despite the surrounding waves. He seemed indestructible. Perhaps he felt that he was too.

I saw him last a few weeks ago on Mother's Day, in March. Emiko and I had driven over to my mother's house in Wakefield with a gift and some flowers for her. Not long after we'd arrived, Ian arrived too, to give mum his gifts. I think it was actually the first time I'd seen him since the start of the year. I'm always so intensely, stupidly busy with one project after the other that family relationships and friendships regularly suffer as a result. Ian too had been busy with his freelance career as a funding consultant for arts projects. Both of us had been feeling a lot of stress, under pressure, the usual outcome of trying to keep things together on an unpredictable financial income. But Ian seemed cheerful, he'd recently got himself a new car and proudly led me outside to show it to me where it was parked in the drive of my mother's house. We chatted and joked freely for a while, just the two of us. I asked him if he fancied coming along to this year's Nelsonica convention in October, to play his saxophone with me as part of my solo performance there. I also asked him if he would like to perform with me at a special concert being planned for next year as part of a contemporary music festival at Leeds University's school of music. He was happily enthusiastic and positive about being involved in both projects so I promised I'd keep him up to date with progress for each event. (I've always enjoyed the instrumental duo's we've had in the past, feeling much more comfortable in those situations with Ian alongside me than being up there on my own.)

Eventually, Ian had to leave for a prior appointment and we waved him off from my mother's doorstep. I had no idea then that that would be the last time I'd ever see him. Remembering that day now, Emi has pointed out to me that Ian had seemed really pleased to see me, his face being lit up with one of his warm smiles when he saw that I was there. I'm so pleased to have that pointed out to me because I needed his love more than he realised. More than I realised.

The next few weeks will be hard too, particularly the funeral which is to be held on the 2nd of May. I have no immunity or resistance to grief. It comes in sudden waves and drowns me every time. All composure gone. I want to say something about him at the service but know that I wouldn't have the strength, that tears and sobs would be all that would escape me, words buried beneath fathomless anguish. But we will have to get through these next days as best we can, together. 

I'm sure that Ian would have poured scorn on any solemnity. He wasn't a particularly religious man, in fact, almost the opposite. He often took a cynical stance regarding my own 'spiritual' foraging over the years. 
I remember, one late lost summer back in the early '80's, when I lived in West Haddlesey, the two of us sitting atop a haystack in a field outside the village, discussing various philosophies as the warm harvest sun sank towards the horizon. I was heavily involved in Rosicrucianism and esoteric occultism at that time and had been enthusiastically propounding its theories and principles in the hope of firing up Ian's imagination. I could, as they say, 'talk the hind leg off a donkey' in those days, such was my passion for the subject. But Ian remained scornful and humourously cynical about the whole thing, as he was about ever other 'ism' I experimented with. He couldn't see the point of all that and was far more down to earth and pragmatic than I ever was. It may be that, in this respect, as in so many other things, he had a better grasp of reality than myself. He might have been my 'little' brother in years but he was strong and stubborn and independent too. And sharp and bright and witty. There was so much in him that I admired. I was, and always will be, proud of him. He was his own man and lived his life the way he wanted to live it, and damn the torpedoes.

I have so many fond memories of Ian. I couldn't possibly recount them all now but here are a couple: Back in the late 'seventies or early 'eighties, I was visiting my mother in Wakefield when she was still living on Eastmoor Estate, where I grew up. Ian, I think, was living there too at this point in time but had gone into town. Suddenly the 'phone rang and my mother answered it. It was a local corner-shopkeeper who knew my mother. He was telephoning to say that Ian was in his shop, injured. I jumped into my car and drove the half mile to the shop and found Ian in a bad way. He had been on his way home to my mother's house and had walked through a subway en route. In the subway, a gang of youths were trying to mug an elderly lady and were shoving her around. Ian had stepped into the situation and tried to stop these thugs from continuing their actions, trying to reason with them, asking them to leave the lady alone. The gang violently turned on Ian and beat him up before running away, leaving him to stagger to the nearby shop where the lady explained to the shopkeeper what had happened. He recognised Ian and rang my mother. 

I rushed Ian off to the hospital to have his wounds attended. I then set off in my car to search for the bastards that had done this to him. I drove up and down every street on Ian's route but couldn't find them, which is probably just as well as they would have more than likely done damage to me too, had I challenged them. But I was so angry that they'd done this to my little brother, I just wanted to beat the shit out of them. But this incident was a measure of Ian's public spiritedness and bravery. Many people would have left the old lady to her fate and kept out of danger but Ian's compassion wouldn't allow him to walk on by. He had to try to stop what was happening. He had principles and the guts to do something about it. 

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