Applying for Advertised Commissions aka The Mere ‘Possibility’ of Work
People often tell Emilie she is “lucky” to have many “exciting projects” on the go and possesses the ability to turn “shit into gold”.
It may appear Emilie ejaculates project after project, but this is an illusion.
The reality? Emilie works so hard and so long she makes herself ill. In fact, she rarely leaves the house. Family and friends are neglected in favour of her laptop; the supermarket is neglected in favour of rounds of toast, the occasional stale biscuit (still in its doggy bag from a recent choir gathering), and lazy days are abandoned in favour of sixteen-hour working days. Emilie spends her time studying for her PhD (in the vain hope she will achieve “respect” for her work), leading choirs, working on commissions and applying for commissions, all the while burying the rising sense of panic in her stomach. She applies for so many commissions she refers to herself in the third person.
Recently, Emilie applied for three commissions, unsuccessfully. In addition, a project very close to her heart, LIFTED, is not going well. Despite a great deal of interest upon its debut, plans to tour the work are looking less likely each time a potential venue displays concern over the risk of hosting a choir in a lift, or state: “it doesn’t fit with our programme”. Her only glimmer of hope is the one commission she has not formally applied for, which could launch her career, and which is hanging on a thread due to issues she has no control over. This does not sit well with Emilie as she is a control freak, and uncontrollable panic is starting to rise in her stomach.
Each time Emilie applies for a commission, she dedicates a week or more to the application process, providing a “unique”, “impactful” and “authentic” proposal, budget, timeline and many other requested items. She doesn’t mind applying to fund her own projects, or providing proposals for projects she has not formally applied for. No. But when she applies for an advertised commission, and the commissioner asks for a “unique”, “impactful”, “authentic” proposal that fulfils specific requirements, a budget, timeline, video interview, portfolio of work with images, mature wedge of Brie from Waitrose (strength 5), statements of “intent” from potential partners, and detailed quotes from potential suppliers who may be involved in a project which is, as yet, unconfirmed, but which need to be provided, regardless, at the risk of looking like a moron when the application is unsuccessful and she has to inform potential partners and suppliers of detailed quotes that she didn’t receive the commission but that their time was “gratefully appreciated”, albeit completely wasted, Emilie feels taken advantage of.
Today Emilie received a “no” from a commissioner she spent many weeks applying to, obtained detailed quotes for, and developed relationships with potential partners for, “just in case”. Adding insult to injury, the commissioner sent Emilie a standard “no” email seven times. Upon receiving the first email, Emilie felt sad. Upon the second email she felt upset. Upon the third, angry. Upon the fourth, pissed off. Upon the fifth, she shouted: “for ***** sake, I get it!” She controlled her reaction to emails six and seven. Each stated: “we are sorry but no feedback can be provided”. To the seventh email, Emilie replied: “as a freelancer who has dedicated a great deal of time to applying for your commission, please can you provide me with some feedback, however brief, so I can use this information to improve my chance of success in future applications?” Emilie hasn’t received a reply yet, and probably won’t. Commissioning bodies rarely provide feedback.
Emilie recalled a friend who spent two weeks applying for a commission that had already been awarded to someone, ahead of the application deadline. Her friend found out when she contacted the commissioner for advice. The commissioner was annoyed with Emilie’s friend for stating her dismay that an advertised commission no longer existed.
Until recently, Emilie avoided applying for commissions because she preferred to spend her time creating. But an artist has to pay their bills, until the climes of “success” are truly reached, through dedicating vast swathes of time applying for advertised commissions. This is usually difficult and unpaid work that takes place in addition to paid work, often filling weekends and evenings when artists would prefer to relax or spend time with friends, or the early hours of the morning when artists would prefer to sleep.
Emilie recalls spending years arguing that musicians should not play for too little, should certainly not play for free, and should definitely not “pay to play” unless fair terms or payments “in kind” are negotiated. Emilie finds her transition from gigging musician to artist to be a difficult one. She finds herself hypocritically spending hours and hours applying for the mere possibility of work; dedicating her time for free, providing commissioning bodies with “unique”, “impactful” and “authentic” proposals they might steal and use elsewhere (as has occurred on previous occasions), in return for an email saying: “sorry, you weren’t successful and we aren’t going to tell you why because 954 artists applied and we are very busy and important, and because you need us, don’t be rude and demand a reply, because we’ll cut you off, tell everyone you’re rubbish, won’t consider you again, and you’ll live on toast and biscuits forever”.
Emilie has a self-belief that keeps her persistent. She never gives up, always keeps trying, and often punches above her weight. But she is beginning to think she is shit, with no prospects, and little hope of “making it”.
The Xenophobe and I: Always Challenge, Never Accept
After a gig, my partner and I found an empty table on the High Speed train back to Ramsgate. At the adjacent table, Mr and Mrs Pleasance sat and conversed in a quiet and most pleasant manner. We took out our crossword, opened a packet of crisps and settled in for the journey home. That was until a party of bedraggled post-ACDC concertgoers embarked the train.
Dirty Dave collapsed inside the door, promptly passing out, while Chaz sat next to Mr and Mrs Pleasance, much to their dismay.
A girl in her early 20s, daughter of Dirty Dave, sat opposite us with her reluctant boyfriend. The girl, Razza, wore an air of disdain. The boyfriend, Hunter - a posh boy, trying on rock n’ roll less he didn’t ‘fit’ with Razza’s brood - looked sheepish.
Chaz, with his long straggly hair, bulbous eyes and inflatable British flag guitar, shouted to a passenger: “Oi! Move your bags and shuffle up. My mate needs a seat!” Drunk, abrasive and self-righteous, Chaz, who had more ego than befitted his stature, manner and moral outlook, hawked a mouthful of sputum to the back of his throat and laughed loud and garishly.
The passengers sensed his disposition and promptly engaged themselves in ‘other activities’ such as checking email, reading, and pretending to sleep; a commonly utilised survival technique when confronted with twats on trains.
It started quietly, with Chaz engaging Mr and Mrs Pleasance in conversation. Chaz, with his booming voice, could be heard throughout the carriage. Mr and Mrs Pleasance smiled through closed mouths and mumbled occasional answers, cleverly designed so as to pander to, but not encourage, his inflated sense of self.
“There’s a lot of foreigners in Kent now isn’t there?” said Chaz.
My ears pricked, but the context was unheard so I continued to decipher an impenetrable crossword clue. Mr and Mrs Pleasance shifted uncomfortably and passengers twitched. Razza stared at our crossword, open-mouthed. Hunter, a clever young man, volunteered an answer to the impenetrable clue but stopped promptly under Razza’s ‘leave it’ glare.
But Chaz pushed on, as drunken gobby twats do. He was playing the do these people have the same views as me? game. As a child pushes the boundaries of accepted behaviour, Chaz pushed his xenophobic views. First, he gently prodded with his seemingly innocent opening question. He then proceeded to describe incidents where he had encountered foreigners in his home town of Dover. Occasionally he would presuppose a comment with: “You know, I ain’t got nothing against them, but…”
Ah, the blessed BUT. Friend of the naïve and comrade of the idiot. I’m not racist, BUT… I don’t mean to cause trouble, BUT… I’m not being funny, BUT… We all know what a BUT entails. I am racist and I’m going to say something racist now. I do mean to cause trouble and I’m going to say something rude now. I’m not being funny, but I’m going to tell you that you’re too fat to hire a canoe and expect you not to be upset with me because I presupposed my statement with “I’m not funny, BUT” (yes, this did happen to me, the canoe incident, that is).
“I’m fed up of people blaming immigrants for everything”, I muttered under my breath. Razza glared. Hunter smirked. My partner nudged me and mumbled: “Ignore them”.
Chaz, mistakenly judging Mr Pleasance’s appeasing half-smile as approval, pushed the boundaries further. “They take everything. Our jobs, our benefits, our homes. It’s got the point where we’re the minority. You know?”
And just like that, Chaz cackled loudly, a wide grin on his grubby face: “I’m not being funny, but sometimes I wanna crack their skulls on my knee cap”.
“I AM FED UP OF PEOPLE BLAMING IMMIGRANTS FOR EVERYTHING!” I said, with a raised voice. “It’s xenophobic, racist, bigoted, and it is not acceptable”.
“Why are you getting involved?” drawled Razza, chewing gum out of the corner of her mouth.
“It’s hard not to”, I replied. “What he is saying is highly offensive and I doubt most of the passengers agree with him. Their silence does not mean he is right”.
Dirty Dave woke from his stupor and wandered to the table. “If you walk down a street in Folkestone, or Dover”, he slurred, “Immigrants would grab you”.
“Really?” I said. “I was of the impression that there are dodgy streets everywhere, and there always has been”.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about”, said Chaz, growing frustrated whilst simultaneously amused.
“I live around immigrants”, I said, “And I don’t find immigrants to be a problem. Some people are just dicks. It doesn’t matter where they are from. When lived in Hackney, I was the only white British person on my street and I didn’t feel threatened”.
“You shouldn’t have butted your nose in. You should have stayed out of it”, drawled Razza, again.
“How can I not respond?” I said. “He’s talking very loudly in a full train carriage and engaging strangers in conversation. Loudly stating bigoted remarks isn’t acceptable and it would be wrong of me to listen to what he is saying without saying something. I think we should go”, I said to my partner, “I don’t want to sit with a bunch of bigots”.
“Yeah, you go, love”, shouted Chaz. One of his eyes was starting to twitch. “You don’t know what you’re talking about”.
“Yeah, you don’t know what you’re talking about”, echoed Razza.
“I DO!” I responded, before storming off to the next carriage.
I wasn’t born with an instinct for survival when confronted by twats, whether on a train or otherwise, and I have given many antisocial and bigoted people a Northern ‘what for’ before strutting off, large bottom bobbing in tow.
My partner was cross because he was worried that by speaking up one of us would get punched. Namely him. But later he admitted that secretly, he was proud.
Since UKIP plagued the UK, predominantly in Kent, I have witnessed an increase in people making openly xenophobic, bigoted and racist comments, as Chaz did. As the frequency of these remarks increases, the feeling that it is okay to state them grows.
Worryingly, Razza, a young person in her 20s, belongs to a family with such views. Whether these views are also hers is unknown. Be it poverty, ill education or circumstance, Razza’s family believe their thoughts to be well founded and true. In my 20s, I thought that racism was a thing of the past; a rarity, even. As a child, growing up in a predominantly white Northern town, race wasn’t something I was even aware of, with my black dolly and British born best friend of Bangladeshi heritage. But that’s progressive upbringing for you, and I thank my mum and dad for that. Despite being poor and not having the best education I am thankful that I didn’t grow up with such views.
The plague that is UKIP attracts the support of extreme right-wing groups such as Britain First and the BNP, and has once again brought race and immigration to the forefront. While such extreme right-wing political groups exist, racism will never go away, and will be present in our younger generations.
I cannot sit quietly and ignore people who loudly express xenophobic, racist or bigoted views. These people should always be confronted, calmly. You should not be too shy, or intimidated, to challenge them. Unless people stand up and say that this behaviour is not acceptable, it will only grow. Public acceptance of stupid and nonsensical comments spreads like a virus and we’ve got to stop it.
Leaving Whitstable
I am leaving Whitstable. The seaside town with The Old Neptune, beautiful sunsets, pebbled beaches, quaint streets, lovely shops, award-winning restaurants, festivals, friendly people and real community spirit. But most of all, I am leaving the town with the amazing ‘feel-good’ vibe. If you’re reading this and thinking: “Fuck me, it sounds perfect”, then you’re right. It is.
This is the town where only 8 months ago, I was nominated by the Whitstable Times as a ‘Whitstable Pearl’. When asked: “What do you love about Whitstable?” I responded with: “I love the community and the artistic people here; there seems to be a lot happening and I never find myself bored. There is also a fantastic balance of caring and privacy in this town and I like that I can walk up the street and easily bump into people I know. It feels easy to be myself here”.
So, what the hell happened?
To be honest, I don’t know.
I started thinking about leaving three years ago, but found myself entangled in an awful marriage with a self-confessed social-anxiety-ridden narcissist. If having social anxiety means being forbidden to walk up the street where he worked, manoeuvring through Whitstable’s alleyways, like spies, to avoid being seen together, and being forbidden from socialising with his friends, then he sure as hell had ‘it’.
Or maybe it’s the feeling of being gradually strangled in a small house full of bad memories: three disastrous relationships (two with the same man), rising damp and leaking chimneys I can’t afford to fix, a mortgage I struggle to make every month and a holiday let next door which has welcomed an array of impolite house guests. There was the couple whose children frequently wound my dogs up by barking at them over the fence, then there was the party weekend that ended badly when the 12 teenagers who partied until 5am were rudely awakened by me screaming “YOU CUNTS!” through the letter box at 7am, followed by drum practice until 9.30am, and then there are a multitude of couples who leave their dogs in the kitchen, for hours on end, whining and crying because they are in an unknown place while their owners sample the delights of Whitstable.
Nearly all sit in the back garden, getting steadily pissed as the night draws on, until 3am hits. That’s when the fun really starts and activities go one of four ways: outdoor sex, loud indoor sex, arguing or a full on regurgitation of life’s woes, often leading to an argument. I’ve heard it all when lying in bed with the bedroom window open, because it’s to hot to close it. Grunting, giggling, “Oooh Barry! You are naughty!” Talks of miscarriages, cheating husbands, children who won’t do as they’re told. Sobbing, shouting, screaming. From April to October there is a live Jeremy Kyle sex show beneath my bedroom window. EVERY NIGHT.
Perhaps I’m a glutton for punishment and don’t want to allow myself to be happy for too long. I really like living in Whitstable. I’m comfortable here. I like my neighbours and I have enough in-built bookcases.
Maybe it’s my ego? I really get off on telling people I live in Whitstable. ‘Emily Peasgood from Whitstable’. It has a ring, don’t you think? I love that this town has celebrities and artistic oddities living within its midst and I like to think that I’m one of the eccentrics, with my musical stunts and large collection of rubber chickens.
For weeks I fought it. I tried not going out to avoid looking at the pretty houses and streets of Whitstable. Instead I stayed in and packed, or watched ‘The Next Step’ on BBC iPlayer. I didn’t go to the Duke of Cumberland because I knew I would pine for its beautiful beer garden, live music and Asahi on tap. Instead I gorged on cool flavour Doritos with a cheese and chive dip. I avoided walking up the High Street because the “hello’s” from friendly local faces would leave me in tears. The Black Dog. Wheelers. The Sportsman. The Smack. The Whitstable Produce Store. Even frigging Costa Coffee. I love it all. Instead, I read a trashy romance or answered my email. I considered buying a beach hut or a caravan so I could enjoy weekends in Whitstable, get pissed at the Black Dog and stumble home. Silly ideas. I have lived in Whitstable for 9 years and I’m scared of leaving. But I also need a change.
I now find myself three weeks from completing on a property purchase in Ramsgate, a town of extremes: beautiful sunrises, cafe-bar culture, grand architecture, sandy beaches and a host of established musicians. Paired with a struggling town centre, a messy town council, poverty and the very real possibility of UKIP’s Nigel Farage as local MP, Ramsgate has it all.
Ramsgate reminds me of my hometown, Grimsby. A place I never felt comfortable in and almost always felt on edge. Rough and not for the fainthearted, parts of Grimsby are rife with poverty and crime. The suburbs, where my family live, are nicer. It has been several years since I visited for more than two days but this is how I remember it. It may have changed. I know Ramsgate is on the ‘up’ and I know that Ramsgate isn’t Grimsby, but still I am scared.
The whole process of both selling and buying a house has been a nightmare, from struggling to obtain a new mortgage, losing one buyer, finding another and then nearly losing the property I am buying, twice. I am drained, exhausted, confused and sad. I have felt the desperation of losing my first buyer - who, coincidentally, was a proper twat - and of feeling that I might lose my Ramsgate house. I have cried when a new buyer has been found for my house in Whitstable and the reality that I am leaving finally sinks in. I have considered pulling out more than once and have analysed my feelings more than perhaps I should have. Common thoughts range from: “The pain of nearly losing my Ramsgate house surely demonstrates that I want to move there? Maybe I’m just a spoiled brat who wants, wants, wants?” to “Am I ignoring my gut? Should I stay in Whitstable?” and “Maybe this is just cold feet?”
I feel like I’m going through a bad break up. One minute I’m crying and regretting my decision, pining for a town I haven’t yet left, while simultaneously feeling scared of moving to a town where UKIP may have a stronghold. The next, I feel excitement and picture myself wandering down to the beach and harbour that lie only 20 feet away from my Ramsgate house.
It doesn’t help that whenever a Whitstable resident hears my news they respond with an assortment of negative responses such as: “Why? That’s a step back!” or “What are you doing that for?” Occasionally the response is more positive, but the negatives outweigh.
I have always loved Ramsgate. The first time I played at the Churchill Tavern I remember saying to a band member: “If I had found this place when I was thinking of moving to Kent, I’d have moved here”. And I probably would. Compared to my previous homes in London, Ramsgate has a great feel; a community spirit and openness that I did not feel in London. It is ‘real’ yet contained and has a roughness to it that is both scary and appealing. But I found Whitstable first, on a day trip with a friend, and fell in love with its uber-safe insularism, appropriately nicknamed by residents as ‘The Bubble’. I bought my Whitstable house on a whim, self-certified for a mortgage far larger than I could afford and took out loans to pay the 10% deposit.
A sea view. I always pictured myself sitting at a writing desk on the top floor of a Whitstable house, watching the sea ripple as the sun set, but I was £20k short of affording the property I wanted on Island Wall. I settled for a little house near Harbour Street with no sea view or parking, but with a garden and great access to Whitstable town centre. Now, the house I wanted on Island Wall is on sale for a cool million and I can’t afford to move elsewhere in the town. Even my little house is worth far more than I paid for it, despite its rising damp and leaking chimneys.
I fell in love with Ramsgate, for the second time, when I started falling in love with my new partner. We would sit outside the Belgium Bar after choir rehearsal, drinking beer and talking about our lives. The sound of the boats groaning in the harbour, the fresh air and the open landscape appealed to me, as did the easy smile of my partner and, well, everything about him really. We walked up the windy pier to the Brasserie, often in appalling weather, so that we would feel warm and smug inside, enjoying the amazing view of Ramsgate’s coastline, a mug of coffee in hand.
The house I am buying in Ramsgate also has rising damp and a flat roof that until recently leaked for 18 months. Parking is a nightmare and the garden is on the roof. But it has sea views, expansive ones. And it is light, airy and spacious with a basement for a music studio and a balcony for drinking beer. My mortgage is cheaper and I will have a little money left to fix the damp. I hope I will be happy there but it pains me to think that I might not. Maybe this is all sentimental bull shit and I should just get over myself and take a leap of faith. Grab life by the horns and all that crap.
Either way, one thing I do know is that I will finally sit at a writing desk, on the top floor of my house in Ramsgate, and watch the sea ripple as the sun rises.
Two Dogs, One Poo Bag
Taking our regular walk from Victoria Street, past Pizza Express and via The Fountain, he squatted. Django Reinhardt that is; my retarded Shih Tzu. Reaching inside my bra for a poo bag, I found what I was looking for. I scooped, welcoming the warmth on this mellow but mildly chilly night, tied a knot, and continued along my way.
Rounding the top of Harbour Street we entered the Harbour.
“Hi!” She called. It was a lady from choir; quite a respectable lady who had just joined and who was taking a walk with her husband.
“Hi”, I responded.
What followed were the usual pleasantries, during which an unfortunate odour omitted. She made her excuses and left; after all, I had only known her for one week and it was unlikely she wanted to witness her new choir mistress picking up Dave Brubeck’s shit.
I reached inside my bra and the shit bag dispenser (bra) was empty. Usually in circumstances such as this I look for a recycling bin and have a bit of a root around for a sufficiently suitable receptacle with which to scoop the poop. Only this time, on the vacant Harbour, there wasn’t one. Thankfully, I still had on my person the now-cooling bag of poo. Opening it, I managed to position its contents and angle appropriately to top it up.
We headed home, past the New Inn and The Fountain, and I felt a gentle tug. In times such as these, such a tug elicits anxiety in the humble dog walker; especially when their sole poo bag is already full with not one, but two rounds.
Django, my aging - but bountiful - Shih Tzu was going in for a dreaded number two.
“You alright?” He called. It was John, a mate of mine, having a fag outside the pub.
“Yeah, I’m good!” I replied.
“You been busy?”
“Ah, ya know. Busy as always…”
It’s funny how when you can’t really talk you become embroiled in situations such as this.
I was tempted to just walk away and leave it, but Django had deposited a proper Cleveland Steamer right outside the pub door and John was sole witness to the event. He’s also a decent person, which doesn’t help. On past walking occasions, when I have found myself in this situation and with no access to recycling bin fodder, I have just walked. Only OCCASIONALLY though, like twice a year, and not for at least a year because one year ago I was caught short by St Peter’s Church on Sydenham Street and scooted off, hoping no one had seen me. But when I returned the following morning, someone had stuck a tiny home-made flag in the staling turd with the words: “I’m watching you” scrawled on it. This made me paranoid.
I sighed. There was nothing for it but to open the already brimming bag and go in for the kill. Angling appropriately, I couldn’t do it. My only option was to empty the entire contents onto the street and start again. Bent over, at 90 degrees, my arse in the air and desperately trying to prevent my long hair from dangling in it - something which has, unfortunately, also happened on a few occasions - I was caught short when an elderly man came out of his house.
“You had better pick that up!” He shouted. “It’s disgusting!”
“You don’t have a bag do you?” I asked. “I’m caught short. They’re shitting for England.”
“I do not!” he replied. “And watch your language, young lady!”
I tried this angle, and that, narrowly avoiding my thumb. I looked a state, stood there in the dim light of The Fountain; two dog leads under my left foot, using both hands to scoop a mother load of shit into one small poo bag. Django looked like he was smirking and Dave didn’t give a shit, as always.
I managed though. Thank fuck. And now I’m having a cup of tea and writing this. So there.
P.S. I promise to never leave a poo in the street again. Yes, I have seen the ‘anti dog poo’ posters on Regents Street and I fully support them.
P.P.S I have only left a poo a few times, and never in the middle of the street.
P.P.P.S Are you the person who left the flag in Dave’s turd?
The First Fag
It was a moment of clarity; I had niggled for days, asking friend and foe alike: “do you have any tobacco?” Only this time, when I asked the response was yes. Stood atop the Hotel Burstin, kitted out in climbing harness, having just returned from the ledge, it was bright and hot and the moment was rife.
I rolled and it fit; fingers dextrously folding tobacco, filter and rizla into a thin, neat, ‘prison’ roll, just the way I like it. Sweet mother of fuck! It tasted good. Hitting the back of my throat, stinging as it entered, I thought of him and held it a while before exhaling slowly.
Three and a half years since the last fag and so much has happened. Well, of course. My dear mum, who still sniffs me when she leans in for a hug, will be mortified.
I purse and pop it in; round, shiny, phallic and fulfilling. I write. I compose. I smoke. This will kill me, but so will living.
Hixter Bankside Calls for Free Musicians
From: Peasgood Emily <publicemilie@gmail.com>
Subject: Call for Musicians
Date: 12 September 2014 01:52:57 BST
To: manager@hixterbankside.co.uk
For the attention of the Manager at Hixter Bankside,
I am responding to your CALL FOR MUSICIANS advert for musicians to perform at your London restaurant in return for food, water and exposure.
First of all, thank you for this opportunity to perform at your restaurant. However, I must decline as I am a professional musician, and as such, I need to charge for the work I supply to my clients. As do other musicians, whether in training, starting out or professional.
I am sure you appreciate that working without pay is not economically viable. Whilst I appreciate your offer of food and water, this is a standard requirement of a musicians basic rider when employed to work within a restaurant or bar, and it is expected as a matter of courtesy.
The exposure a musician may (or may not) receive by providing their services free of charge will not pay their business overheads, let alone provide an income to live on. Additionally, offering services free of charge more often results in an increase in requests to provide more services for free, and not in future paid work, as you allude to through your offer of ‘putting your name out there’.
Being a professional service provider yourself, I am sure that you will understand my position on this issue. I am confident that you do not provide your professional services to your clients free of charge, as you too have to make a living from your business. When you ask musicians to work for free in this way, I think it would be a valuable exercise to think about whether you would offer a dedicated, individual package of your professional services to that musician free of charge, should they approach you in the manner you have approached them through your ‘call for musicians’. Should I be wrong, I have copied my personal ‘call for restaurateurs’ below. If you feel you would like to gain exposure and an opportunity to promote your restaurant, do get in touch.
I appreciate that there are many amateur musicians who may be willing to provide the service professionals offer, free of charge, but I am confident that you will agree that the standard of service they provide would not be of a professional standard that would reflect the standard of services your restaurant offers its patrons.
I have pasted below some helpful and informative links on the matter and look forward to your response.
The Musicians’ Union’s ‘Work Not Play’ campaign
The 24 Hour Musician: Rights, Respect and Exploitation
Why Musicians Shouldn’t Work For Peanuts
Current Gig Rates for Freelance Gigs in London
On Perceived ‘Exposure’. A Case Study - The Olympics - Musicians Need To Be Paid Too
Best wishes and have a lovely weekend,
Em Peasgood
Return from the Edge: ‘This is reality. Dirty dishes, house that needs cleaning, dog that smells of sick, nonchalant cat and fingers that smell of dog shit. Reality is not Vigil. Reality is here’…
I wake early, put on my climbing gear and stand in front of the mirror. Surveying my harnessed self for the final time; Batman T shirt, hat and a hint of developing bicep, I feel like Lara Croft from Tomb Raider, only quite a bit chunkier. All in all, I think I look alright.
I visit the ledge for the final time and brave the protruding middle platform. I sit, with my legs swinging back and forth, a 180 ft clean drop below and an expansive view of Folkestone Harbour and the English Channel beyond. I can’t believe I am doing this. I’m shaking; only 7 days ago I had a phobia of heights and now I’m here and doing it.
I leave the ledge, climb the ladders to the balcony and enter the room where I collect my things. I walk to the elevator, press ‘G’ and descend to the ground floor. As I leave Hotel Burstin, now affectionately known as The Grand Burstin Hotel, I look up. I can’t believe I was there.
I have a fry up at the nearby Cabin 'Station’ Cafe and once again look to the place I have just been. I actually did it, and now I have handed Vigil over to an artist named Paul Smith. Although I am glad he is going to experience what I have, I am jealous that it is him who now sits on the ledge, swinging his legs back and forth as he surveys the world from my Vigil.
Exhausted, full of grease and in need of sleep, I stumble to the car park and throw my bags in the boot; my rubber chicken is relegated to the dash board where it will likely remain until I return on October 25th.
I wrinkle my nose. My car stinks of shit. Located within the vicinity of the front passenger seat, I had forgotten about Django Reinhardt’s deposit, the day before Vigil. In the midst of pre-Vigil excitement, I hadn’t time to fish it out and hoped it would have dried out, losing its odour, by now.
I spot the offending item down a small crack between the passenger seat and gear box. Grabbing a tissue I have a good root around. It’s no good; it is well and truly wedged and the tissue only adds bulk to my fingers. I go in bareback and rummage around until my finger alights on the offending article. Why the fuck is it still sticky?! Prodding here and pushing there I gently ease it out until it emerges betwixt index and middle finger; a fucked up trophy, of sorts. Thank you Django, I curse before opening the door and tossing it into the car park.
Even after I have cleaned the shit off my fingers, they still smell.
God, I am tired, and my head thuds as I plug in the sat nav and start the engine. I turn round and out and I am off. On the drive home I ring Grandma.
‘How was it up in the pod?’ She asks. Grandma is a fretter; so much so, she elicits genuine panic in many an unfortunate family member on the receiving end of her daily fret-a-thon. She often rings to remind me to do things I already do. ’Remember to check your insurance covers your new mobile phone’ or ‘I was just thinking, has that chip in your car window been fixed yet?’ are such examples.
So, when I decided to go and sit on the Vigil ledge, 180 feet up, in an exposed and seemingly precarious location, I told quite a big lie. Grandma thinks that for the last 5 days I have been inside a pod, a bit like one of the London eye pods, with a double bed at one side - covered up, so the rain doesn’t get in - and an open ‘balcony’ area the other, where I can sit and watch people. ‘Oh, a bit like David Blaine, then?’ She asked. ‘Yes Nan’, I replied. She even thinks there’s a fridge, running water, radiator and a ready supply of warm meals.
‘How was it up in the pod?’
‘It was great Grandma’.
‘Was it worth it?’
‘Yes. It was amazing. I got heaps done.’
‘Now, don’t forget to get that chip fixed in your car wind screen,’ she frets, clearly un-phased by my week in the ‘pod’. Just wait until she gets the postcard.
I arrive back in Whitstable, and pull up outside my house. Sally and Dierk from across the street come out. ‘Well done!’ they say. They are ace; I really couldn’t ask for nicer neighbours. As I unload my possessions, I hear the dogs snuffling by the front door. ‘I bet they have missed you’, says Dierk.
When I open the front door, they look at me with tilted heads. Dave Brubeck asks for a belly rub and Django Reinhardt licks my shin. Dave then wanders into the garden, to lie in the sun, whilst Django goes to sleep on the sofa. Is that it? ‘What kind of a home coming is that?’ I ask, incredulous. Usually, they yap with excitement, following me from room to room; my own personal cheerleaders, telling me how awesome I am, how much they love me and how they never want me to leave them again. Today, it seems they don’t give a shit.
Matilda pads down the stairs, looks at me, makes a ‘brrp’ sound and runs out of the back door.
I sit on the sofa. It smells of dog sick. So does Django Reinhardt, come to think of it. And so does my house. I have a sniff around, lift up a cushion and find a puddle of congealed, fresh, doggy puke.
Opening my mail there are five bills and a Notice of Intended Prosecution from the Metropolitan Police for speeding. For fucks sake. I only just took two courses: What’s Driving Us and the National Speed Awareness Course. I still drive like a total twat, it seems. I sign the acknowledgement form, scrawl ’I am really sorry' on the letter and shove it in an envelope.
I look around. Possessions, things, stuff, everywhere. My house needs a clean. There’s a pile of junk mail on the window sill and two-week old dishes in the sink. The dishes in the dishwasher have black mould growing on them and a rank odour wafts from the bin. This is home. Reality. Dirty dishes, a house that needs cleaning, a dog that smells of sick, another who hasn’t missed me, a nonchalant cat and fingers that smell of dog shit. Reality is not Vigil. Reality is here.
I feel emotional.
What am I to do now? There are no hourly logs to post, no people to count as they wander around Folkestone Harbour, no observations to be made of the weather, tide or sea state. I sit and observe my own reality. There are changes to be made. I recall the opportunities which have been presented to me since taking part in Vigil; opportunities I am going to accept. Yes, there are changes to be made.
But for now, I suppose I better go and wash my hands.
‘To make matters worse I have no edible food and I’m down to just seven sachets of mayonnaise…’
This is my fourth day on Vigil. Four days of sitting on a platform, 180 feet high, with my 1987 Casio, harmonica, melodica, pineapple shaker, 10 pairs of knickers and a shag load of sweets. I am exhausted, bone-weary, frazzled, dog-tired and WEAK from being kept awake at night by a) seagulls b) rock n roll music c) pubs keeping their doors open during massive discos which last until 3am and d) Sharon screaming: ‘Gemma, Gemma! You get your arse here now, you fucking slag! I’m gonna fucking kill you!’ and ‘Gemma! Gemma! Don’t run away from me. Get you arse here. Now!’
I have reached a whole new low. I migrate from platform to platform, in a daze. I unzip the tent, stare at its contents, and zip it back up again. Occasionally I take a pair of knickers - now a designated handkerchief (in hindsight, taking ten pairs of knickers for a 5 day stay was rather hopeful) - and blow my nose. I’m so tired my hay fever is playing up and one of my eyelids won’t fully open. When I’m tired my lazy eye becomes an exaggeration of its former self. And the quizzical eyebrow above my normal eye - caused by a plucking mishap, aged 16, when I plucked from the top, something you must never do - doesn’t help. It’s been wonky ever since and today I look more like Sloth from The Goonies than my actual self.
To make matters worse I have no edible food. I’m down to seven sachets of mayonnaise, which I pilfered from Googies last week, and found, just now, lightly coated in handbag crust at the bottom of my purse. But after a quick dusting, they’re good to go.
I always thought it would be fun to fill an empty mayonnaise jar with natural yoghurt, and walk up and down Whitstable high street eating it straight from the jar with spoon. But I also thought it would be funny to go into the butchers, slap my breast on the counter and say: “that much ham, please”.
Forget the false jar. I am now eating actual sachets of mayonnaise. I have seven and I’m going to eat them all. The first one tastes good; it is thick, and creamy, with a light tang. I squeeze it into my mouth, mush it around a bit and swallow it down with a swig of stale water. The second is a little harder; it seems thicker and sweeter than the last. But I manage. The third… WOAH. I just can’t. I don’t want it. It’s like a slow form of hideous torture.
‘Don’t make me, don’t make me’ I plead with my gut.
But it replies: ‘GRSRSBRRBBRBRBR’ and I submit.
It’s not that I don’t have other food to hand. I do. And I can easily obtain fresh food. This is more a combination of psychological factors and sheer laziness. I actually have bread, cheese, pickle and an absolute shag load of M & S Sours and black jacks to hand. I just don’t want to eat any of these things ever again. EVER. AGAIN.
I’m pretty sure my sweetie aversion is a transient feeling like when you get really pissed, feel the full throttle of a force ten hangover, say you’ll never drink again, and then repeat the experience the following weekend. I’m hoping that’s what it is, anyway; I used to gain so much enjoyment from the pinch and pucker an M & S Sour elicited. And how I adored the bitter gag of aniseed as I popped another black jack in. Then there’s the laziness. I’m just too tired to obtain fresh food. My arse is a lead weight, pulling me back to Vigil. I can’t leave.
So for now, I am sucking mayonnaise out of the sachet, because I have no other choice but to.
I’m leaving tomorrow and the first thing I’m going to do is sleep in my own bed, followed by toast. Shag loads of it. With butter on. Then the next day I’m going on a diet and exercise regime to challenge the toughest of tough. For reals. If I can sit at 180 ft high for four days, with a fear of heights, I can sure as hell get my fitness on. You watch me. By the time I return to Vigil in October - yes, I signed up to do this TWICE - I will be as buff as batman.
‘When I went to bed tonight, getting into that sleeping bag was like trying to climb inside a regular sized condom during an MRI scan’
If you’ve never tried to get into a sleeping bag ~ which is clearly designed for men with slim hips ~ whilst wearing a climbing harness which is attached to the roof of 180ft high suspended tent, with only a foot and a half width to play around with, and no room to manoeuvre, you’re lucky.
When I went to bed tonight, getting into that sleeping bag was like trying to climb inside a regular sized condom during an MRI scan. And when I eventually wrestled the bag into submission, and was in up to the waist, I realised with utter dismay that I couldn’t pull it any higher because my harness needed to be hook into the red ropes above me. ’FUCK' I cursed, trying to find something to put under the remaining part of my body, so I wasn’t lying hips higher than head.
I sat up and experienced what can only be described as ‘the butchers shop’ experience. My climbing hooks hit me hard and square in the forehead. It was like waking up on a butchers table in a horror movie, with hooks and meat cleavers swinging above me.
I tried to lie back down but couldn’t because my harness had now dislodged and was riding inappropriately high. I wrestled with it for a while, loosening and retightening, with no luck. The harness won out and I lay there awkwardly, until I drifted off to sleep.
———-
I wake up to the gyrating grind of my hips.
Bum, bum, you look at that body, I WORK OUT!
I’M SEXY AND I KNOW IT
Motherfucker!!!
What twatting twat, in twatsville, has decided that it’s cool to have a MASSIVE disco, in a pub on the harbour, with the doors wide open?!
I sit up. CLONK. There go the meat cleavers again, right in the middle of my forehead. I take my mirror out and have a look. No bruise. Thankfully. But what stares back is not pretty. When I went to bed, I looked like this:
Now I look like a wretched old sea hag with ringed eyes and sweat dripping down my nose. It’s 4am, I can’t sleep and I’m so tired I feel nauseous. I open the tent and stare out at the night. Oddly, the music doesn’t seem so loud anymore.
————
Yesterday was an odd day. I mostly spent it creating LIFTED, swaying between moments of introspection and day-dreaming unexpected scenarios.
In one, a street lothario called to me: “Emily, Emily, let down your hair!” I relinquished my long blonde wavy locks into his extended arms. Only they didn’t go down much further than a couple of feet and I realised I was fucked.
In another, the kindly old white-haired man I saw through my binoculars earlier stopped and looked up at me. Only now, after he waved he put his hand in his pocket. He fumbled around for a bit until he touched it and removing a Werther’s Original, he winked. To my amazement, his arm extended go-go-gadget style, all the way up to my ledge. “Thank you!” I shouted. “Do you want me to come up?” He asked. “I have more where they came from!"
"No thanks”, I replied, “but thank you so much for the sweet!”
—————
Apparently, each of the 12 pins which support my wall-side camp hold 3.5 tonnes in weight. Despite this knowledge, I still thought I’d be too heavy for the platform.
I also thought my derrière would be too big for the harness.
I was wrong. The harness hugs my rotund derrière, just so, emphasising and highlighting its fullness and providing a little added lift. My butt looks almost proud. It’s quite a fetching look, yes?
—————
I’ve been typing for an hour and it’s 5am. I need a wee. I’m seriously contemplating pissing into my spare bottle. Don’t worry. I won’t. Not unless I’m REALLY desperate. Nope. I’m joking. I won’t. Please don’t text me, Vigil management team, and tell me not to. I’m not going to really. Well, maybe…
I’m going to try and get some sleep. Ha! Fat chance. But I can but try. I have an eye mask and tissue for my ears. And this is for the twat who thought it was OK to leave the door of the pub open whilst hosting the most chavtastic disco I have ever heard. You twat.
It’s 2pm. I’ve been here for 3 hours and I’ve already eaten my emergency Bounty
It’s 2pm. I’ve been here for 3 hours and I’ve already eaten my emergency Bounty, half a bag of M & S Sours, 6 black jacks and a cheese and pickle sandwich.
What was a fear of heights has become a session of euphoric, high-flying, sugar consumption, accompanied by Steve Reich’s Music for 18 Musicians. Sugar + Reich + sitting on 180 ft high precarious-platform-suspended-from-side-of-super-high-building for art installation and creative inspiration = fucking trippy.
An elderly lady has been watching me from the street for ten minutes now. I wave but she doesn’t respond. I pick up my binoculars to check she isn’t simply cock-eyed and I’m right, she IS staring at me. I wave, bigger sweeping gestures and still no response. She is perhaps 80, has two hiking sticks and looks like she got kitted out at Mountain Warehouse. She even has a full set of waterproofs on, and gaiters from her hiking boots to her knees. It’s a sunny day and we’re in bloody Folkestone, not the Andes.
I reckon she’s staying at Hotel Burstin, a place where the menu is designed with dentures in mind; white bread sandwiches with the crusts cut off ~ less a morsel of outer crispiness catches, rudely removing an old dears set of falsies ~ followed by blancmange for desert. Soft, waxy, jellied, no-need-to-swallow-because-it-slips-right-on-down blancmange.
Hotel Burstin ~ the place I am suspended off of, for Vigil ~ is an odd place. The average patron is 80. The carpet is a deep stained red. The furniture is second hand and plush, with occasional smearings of mush. Probably blancmange.
It reminds me of Wes Anderson’s Grand Budapest Hotel; just out of its glory day, a haven for old-timers, cheap and cheerful and kind of skanky, albeit lovely, way.
_____________
IF IT ISN’T RED YOU’RE DEAD! They told us that at rope training.
Everything is tied to something else.
As I write this journal, my pen is attached to a bit of string which is attached to a carabina clip, which is attached to a red rope. My notebook is similarly attached to a bit of string which is attached to a carabina and then to my harness. There are two large ropes coming out from my chest which are attached to more red ropes - one inside the tent, and one behind me.
IF IT ISN’T RED YOU’RE DEAD!
I spend most of the day looking down, occasionally waving at passers-by. Sometimes I write and sometimes I try out melodic ideas. Most times I eat sweets, sips tea, contemplate going to the toilet ~ before deciding not to, because it’s too much hassle ~ and then I find a nifty retro beat on my Casio and laugh to myself, like a crazy person.
It’s 4pm. I look down. The sea is calm; mid tide. It’s cloudy and warm. The harbour is noisy, the seagulls noisier. The children scream, the old ladies sit inside Hotel Burstin, sipping blancmange, and I see invisible ropes between the people who pass me by.