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last updated 3 June, 2008
Knock, Knock.
We live in a remote part the world – at least by UK standards. The lane that goes past our house wanders picturesquely for a few miles and ends up precisely nowhere. It’s barely wide enough for a car but that hardly matters as only the first few hundred yards are drivable anyway. It’s the equivalent of living on a dirt track in downtown Bumblefuck.
Our nearest neighbors are up the track a stretch, and though it can feel isolated at times, it’s perfect for me as a musician as I can be as loud and as uncompromising as I like without fear of annoying anyone except my extremely tolerant wife and the sheep who inhabit the surrounding fields.
As you might imagine, we don’t get many passing or casual callers. Even people we’ve been expecting have, on occasions, failed to turn up in spite of my graphic directions. Some have never been heard from again. Which does worry me a little - but perhaps not as much as it should – which I guess is even more worrying. I digress. Nothing, it would seem, excites people to come this far out into the wilderness.
Nothing, that is, except religion.
Now I have absolutely nothing against God. Any God. But I fiercely believe that that any relationship with the Almighty should be a strictly one-to-one affair. Yet, time after time, the representatives of some branch of religion or sect manage to find their way to my door to offer me the promise of a better life – or, more correctly, a better afterlife.
Recently Evelyn was briefly back in Kington and came over to record some new demos. We had about two hours to get the take we needed. No sooner do we get ourselves warmed up and the equipment humming than there’s a knock at the door.
Outside were two of the oldest human beings I’ve ever seen ( – why are there always two when only one ever speaks?) There’s a brief moment of silence while we size each other up and then her lips part in that totally insincere, holier-than-thou smile they seem to have spent a millennium perfecting - and my heart sinks.
“Hello”. (deep breath) “I expect like most men you’re interested in science?” This wasn’t a question but just the opening gambit of a long diatribe. It was clear she didn’t expect an answer.
Now my parents bought me up well and I try to be polite to people, I really do. But I have my limits. I hate the fact that these people never, ever come right out and say which religion they represent and why they’re standing on my doorstep.
“Actually, no,” I interrupt. “I’m a born Luddite.” I see a quizzical look pass over the woman’s face – is Ludditism some obscure sect she hasn’t heard of?
“And a musician,” I add.
“Oh, music,” she says, her face brightening.
“And I’m very (significant pause) very, busy.”
“Well maybe I can give you…’ She’s reaching into a bag stuffed with literature printed on the cheapest paper imaginable.
“I won’t have time to read it. Sorry.” I begin to close the door.
“What about other members of the household? The young lady.”
Have they been watching the house for hours?
“I’ve said: we’re busy.” I’m beginning to get desperate – I can hear Evelyn sniggering in the living room which doesn’t help. I don’t exactly slam the door, but I do close it abruptly, leaving them standing there distorted in the frosted glass like extras from a particularly unpleasant episode of the X-Files. Eventually they turn and go. I realise I’ve been holding my breath.
“John from Titley” (a neighboring village) is much less pushy – he’s called four times now and I still have no idea which branch of Christianity he’s from. We sometimes engage in some chat about music. He’s clearly playing the long game. I don’t mind his calls. Except he always has this teenager with him who just stands there.
When I was 17 or so I saw this girl in a south coast town handing out books to passers-by. She was stunning, and I’m as much of a sucker as the next teenager for a pretty face and well turned ankle, so I make sure I walk by her nice and slow.
“Would you like a book?”
“That’s kind of you.”
“My pleasure,” she said with a smile that would have had Helen Of Troy reaching for the number of her plastic surgeon.
The book was about the Ba’hai faith. I’ve never read it, but still have it and if I ever succumb – that’s where you’ll find me. See, I was impressed that she didn’t try to convert me. She treated me as if I had some intelligence – just gave me a book and left me to make up my own mind. That shows true faith in a religion.
In the meantime though, I suppose I do already have a religion of sorts. It’s called music. And from now on I’m adopting a new tactic. Anyone who comes to my door looking to drag me into their own particular guilt-complex is going to be invited in, sat down and forced to listen to me expounding on why I belong to this strange sect of ‘musicians’, and I shall play them, very loudly, the early demos of the tracks I’ve written for Mermaid Kiss. And consider this carefully – on these demos, I sing.
You have been warned.