Turn it up to eleven...

Last night saw the installation of a PA system in Big Fish, a restaurant in Vashisht. I was reunited with Axle, a French singer songwriter lady I met in Goa and we both played sets in the fresh air on the rooftop restaurant. It was an unexpectedly nervous experience. I suddenly realised I hadn't played an electric guitar for nearly a year or sung into a microphone. The microphone stand, at a makeshift position just a bit too low for comfort, had me standing awkwardly, legs stretched. I would fiddle forgetfully with the guitar pedals that were at my feet. What is a good electric fuzz? Can I make this orange button do something good to my guitar, so it doesn't sound like a ball of wool being set on fire?

Two haphazard attempts at trying to play - and indeed sing my songs - on this electric thing were put to rest and I took Sonny's gorgeous Takemine classical guitar to make traditional sounds.

While I played I managed increasingly to keep from falling over while I closed my eyes. Balance is also a problem it seems. I had little mid-song banter and the night remained civilized and enjoyable and yet often I would imagine my rapping friend, Scorpio, whipping up a collective frenzy with his infectious assault of pure energy. I know I can do this too.

As I waved Effie off on a trip to Manali to run errands for the day, I resolved to get down to work. Intermittent bouts of scribbling and random chord playing. I would go speak to Anand, my guesthouse owner for some inspiration. A middle-aged, honest man who like every guesthouse owner in Manali, will try to sell me some hash. It's honest fun. Conversations with him are a joy: discussions about Krishna, local mafia and different qualities of his honest supply. He asks me on a few occasions if I have anything I can trade with him. Like my dictaphone or a Maglite. Good quality things from abroad. No, I can offer him nothing. I have some worn rags, a collection of books, a traveller's cheque and a carimba, my exciting wooden instrument purchased in Bhagsu. Did I mention it? Well, it is a pumpkin shell with a wooden top hosting ten metal strips which make a beautiful plinking sound. Quite special to this handcrafted design are the two holes in the shell that allow you to create a warble sound on the note. It looks like this. Nice. I bought it from a German guy who would walk the streets playing it and then sell his personal stock for 900 rupees. Just over a tenner. I won't be swapping it for drugs any time soon.

No, the conversation ends disappointingly for us both I guess and I go back to humming melodies to predictable chord changes.

Songwriting has become a job. I have to make a special effort to find a private place each day and go do it. Otherwise the evening cannot be fully enjoyed. Evenings are almost always social. Playing in restaurants or meeting others. So the day must be productive. Once each bus trip and adventure is completed, there must be an immediate routine of creativity initiated to ensure constant production. The piecing together of songs, though often quite a frustrating experience, requiring of patience is becoming more enjoyable. The constant doubt that plagues your mind - of cliche, of irrelevance, of just being plain boring begins to be less of a shout. It's no longer "YOU'RE SHIT. YOU'RE SHIT." It's more "this might be shit, but fuck it, it's another song. Someone might like it." It's a start. Though I wonder if it's healthy to have the words "THIS SOUNDS FOOKIN' MINT!" rattling constantly through your mind. Then you sound like Oasis.

On counting up songs that nearly sound like songs, and songs that are clearly only one or two ideas strung into a mumbled verse or two, I discovered I have made the half century mark. My next task for England is to make these songs not even sound like songs anymore, but sound like aural collage meditations. Instruments other than guitars would be nice.

Congratulations on such a self-indulgent post. Did I make myself sound well important? Boss. I don't feel like discussing Israel just now.

Besides, the English woman on the phone next to me is talking in a very cautionary tone. She's holding the door open with her knee so that her conversation with her mother about the restrictiveness of the pension she shouldn't be on can be heard to all. She holds the door open to get some fresh air. It's a hot day today. Whenever I look over in amusement (and let's be honest, it's an evolutionary necessity to be aware of large objects making so much noise nearby) she closes the door. We smile in awkward agreement.