Putting the ‘fun’ into album funding!

What an incredible weekend!

We busked for 24 hours, raised £750, one Stroud pound, one euro, a bag of mushrooms, a bunch of carrots and some hot apple cider.

We played our own songs, sang songs by everyone from Neil Young to George Michael to Cyndi Lauper to Daft Punk, and we were joined by some special guests who eased the strain on our vocals. Special mention goes to Wallis Bird who was with us Friday evening and all day Saturday and made the whole thing 100 times more enjoyable with her incredible energy, mad guitar skillz and rousing renditions of Eddi Reader’s Per-er-er-er-er-er-fect.

We were also asked to do a last minute interview and song with Paul Moss on BBC Radio Gloucestershire, which you can listen to here for the next few days, and we’ll be appearing in the newspaper Stroud Life next week.

Phew! Thanks to everyone who helped and donated, there are some great snaps up on our facebook page, and remember, if you donated you get to have your name in the album credits – if you didn’t manage to give us your name, please email heronstheband@gmail.com.

Update: Thanks to our ‘Donate’ button, we’re now on £800!! This is amazing, thanks again.

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Help us record our next album!

Join the facebook event here.

Hello there, how are you?

Herons! is an independent band. We’re not signed, we have no manager or publisher or any type of investment, but we don’t see that as a bad thing. There’s a lot of work involved in managing our own band, but it also means that we have complete freedom and control. Continue reading

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Stroud, The Prince Albert & Sam Shepard

Why, hello there.  Haven’t spoken to you in a while.  Just thought I’d say hi and let you know some of the more interesting things we’ve been up to lately.

After trading the crushing monotony of London for a life resembling real life in Gloucestershire, Anna and I have finally settled in.  The Stroud area, where we’ve made our home, is an old industrial hub of the Cotswolds, making it less posh than other Cotswold towns, and also quite a bit more gritty and interesting.  Its 40,000 (or so) inhabitants are as varied as any city I’ve been to; so as well as Wurzels and Fred Wests, you also find coffee experts, brilliant anarchist letter-press artists and poets, dozens of young bands, old beardy legends, my favourite brewery in the Cotswolds — and the greatest farmers’ market that just about takes over the entire pedestrian-friendly town every Saturday.

When we first arrived, I was skint and in need of a beer.  Hence, I arrived at The Prince Albert pub, on Rodborough Hill.  From experience, I’ve learned that playing music is the best way to make friends, and if you’re skint it’s also a good way to get people to buy you beers.  When I rocked up to the Albert’s open mic night, I killed a few birds with one stone.  Between songs, I admitted to the audience my need of work; when I got off stage, three people offered.

The Prince Albert has become a kind of Mecca for other London expats seeking clean air and cheaper rent in the area.  Herons! have been lucky enough to collaborate with some amazing musicians who’ve found themselves situated cosily in the Five Valleys.  Last weekend, we performed at our beloved Albert with cellist and producer/arranger extraordinaire Jo SilverstonEmily Barker also graced us with her dulcet tones, when she, Anna and I brought the set to a finish with a cover of Crosby, Stills & Nash’s “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” — not without trepidation!  As an encore, special guests Vena Portae (Emily Barker & Dom Coyote), joined us on stage to sing “The Old Triangle”, which sounded great with Dom’s wonderful bass harmony.

In other news, I was lucky enough to work with actor Jack Tarlton and director Simon Usher on a short theatre piece entitled Making The Sound Of Loneliness, which explored the work of American poet, playwright and actor Sam Shepard, set to music that I composed for the piece.  The performance used extracts from a large cross-section of Shepard’s prose, and was performed by Jack Tarlton and David Beames.  The performance took place at the Arcola Theatre in Dalston on the 22nd of September as part of the Side Orders festival, courtesy of Actors Touring Company.

Making The Sound Of Loneliness counts as my first musical foray into theatre, and I hope it won’t be the last.  The experience was doubly rewarding for me, as I’d never really heard of Sam Shepard (besides as Patti Smith’s ex-boyfriend); I spent the whole workshopping week being blown away by this great American writer whose whole body of work I can look forward to reading.  Luckily, there is a possibility of Making The Sound Of Loneliness getting a full run in the New Year, so watch this space for more info.

Until next time, keep your chins up this autumn.  Port and Stilton help.

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Folk in a Box

Herons! are very excited to be involved with Folk in a Box at the upcoming Stroud Fringe, sponsored by The Prince Albert.

What on earth is Folk in a Box? Some of you may ask. Well, it’s probably best described as ‘Britain’s smallest music venue’ (if not the world’s). It’s one performer, one audience member, one song, all in a box about the size of a luxury shed. Possibly the most intimate performance you could ever experience!

Herons! will be joining forces with Folk in a Box veteran Emily Barker, plus the excellent Johnny Barlow, (no relation of Gary, sadly) Tom Jacob out of hermes, and a couple of ‘celebrity guests’, plus more acts to be announced. We’ll all be buzzing about the box in Stroud on Saturday the 3rd of September at the Shambles Market, between 10:00 and 15:00; and Sunday the 4th of September at the Cornhill market place, between 13:00 and 17:00. We’ll be serving tea and coffee and wearing silly hats and ‘the craic will be mighty’ as they say.

See you there!

In other news, we now have a facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/heronstheband

Please ‘like’ us. Oh please oh please oh please! We ‘like’ you!

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Playing at the River Cottage Canteen

Anna and I are Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall fans — big time.  We can watch a whole series (or more) of River Cottage on 4od in one sitting.  It’s embarrassing.  We often refer to the man behind River Cottage on a first name basis, as though we share saucepans with him:

“What shall we have for dinner tonight?”

“How about Hugh’s nettle gnocchi?”

Or:

“How do you reckon I should cook this saddle of venison?”

“I don’t know, check with Hugh.”

So you can imagine the heart palpitations and buckets of anxious sweat when Anna told me that the River Cottage team tweeted for bands to play at their River Cottage Canteen in Axminster.  Anna responded in a flash, and a date was set. Having followed the progress of the River Cottage project from the beginning, a trip to the River Cottage Canteen promised to be a kind of pilgrimage for us.

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Beatroot Rendez-vous Date Change

Unfortunately, our good friend Pepe Belmonte, who organises the Beatroot Rendez-vous evenings at the Old Queen’s Head in London, suffered an accident and has had to cancel a bunch of planned events.  Luckily, he’s recovering quickly, and for this we’re really happy.

For those of you who were planning on coming to the Beatroot gig on Tuesday, the 26th of April, please be aware that it has been moved to an all-day fundraiser for Pepe on the day before — so please come to this special event on Monday, the 25th of April, beginning at 13:00.  Herons! will be performing at this event (as will a bunch of others, including our best buddies Aidan and Jenny Lindfors) at 17:00.  Please check our gigs page for times, addresses and other details.

Do check out the gig on Monday night, as your support for Pepe would be tremendously appreciated!  Sorry for any inconvenience caused by this last-minute announcement.

-Ben

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Scorched Earth, Four Years On

Four years ago, I was living in Dublin. It was the winter of ’06 coming into ’07, and it was bitterly cold. Well — it doesn’t really get bitterly cold in Ireland. What happens is, it gets sort of cold and really damp, which makes the cold feel much worse than it really is.

Winters are pretty tough for me. I’ve never been a winter person. I’m not sure if it’s the lack of light or the lack or warmth, or the combination of the two, but it gets grim and feeling like it’ll never end. The damp winds blow right through all the layers of clothes and my big navy P-coat and my longjohns, and all I can think of doing is curling up by an open fire and sleeping until the snowdrops and crocuses pop up their little heads to announce with a chorus of whispering the arrival of spring.

But, of course, come hell, high water, weather or winter, everybody’s got to put their shoulders to the wheel. Luckily for me, the wheel was spinning in Dalkey, south of Dublin City on the bay that was once referred to as “The British Bay of Naples”. Now, I’ve never been to Naples or its bay, and Ireland isn’t part of Britain anymore, but I think I get the gist. You would, too, if you saw Dalkey: they’ve got one of the best vistas in all the-world-that’s-known-to-me.

Down at Bullock harbour, you can visit the seals, who always pop their noses up hoping that a friendly reveller will throw them something by way of comestibles. Up the road was Vico Road, one of the most beautiful agglomeration of extravagant housing a person could hope to see without being stared at strangely for being there. It’s a rich area, but I get the feeling that because it’s so nice to look at, nobody there really blames you for gawping.

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Rainer

Rainer, I turn over in the night, wake to the dull gloaming of dawn — a duck egg inside of which I lay with a numb arm (they say it’s fallen asleep). A light glows from outside, throwing pale blue all round the room, while pins and needles carve up my limbs, and the mournful seagulls moan like dinosaurs outside. Rainer, I’m inside the egg. What about you? Is it you holding a light to the surface of the shell, casting shadows on the mornings? You who put the lumps in my bed? You who put the sound of airless laughter in the voice of birds? Is it you who made the radio silent, pondering the six o’clock news and whether it’s important enough to turn on and tell me? Is it important enough?

I get out of bed, Rainer, and notice the grumbling of cars and lorries, early-rising people on their way to whatever it is they do. One morning is no different than another — but for each person shifting hours in this pool of half-light, the morning is broken into pieces — and to each their own.

To each their own — did you understand that all too well, Rainer? Did you find yourself with a shard of morning, sharp and broken like a little protest, glinting in the half-light in your palms? Maybe that did it. Maybe the jagged edge cut you — maybe your hands formed a network of scars, telephone wires zig-zagging, a map showing the way from one morning to the next, a network of duck eggs, isolate, electric, like a soft fleshy thing cocooned in a bedroom at dawn, its face lit by a sickly glowing pool that reflects what happens outside.

And outside, all the while, was the morning, pale but unbroken, where flying dinosaurs screech with the ecstasy of flight, and lorrie-drivers whistle between deliveries, and children sleep, dreaming of the internet, and the blood comes flooding back into my arms like a riot of pins and needles, an unbearable reminder of how long one part of myself lay buried under the unconscious rest of me — cut off, and then suddenly awake. Pins and needles, Rainer, that make moving and sitting equally unbearable. An absence that is painfully present.

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Fishy Business

By Anna Jacob

Hello there, gorgeous!

Ben and I have recently been feeding our obsessive man crush on the one and only Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall (or Huge Furry-Witty-Man as my Dad has hilariously christened him).

So along with cooking droolsome food, being gorgeous and lovely and clever and oh, bloody hell we just love him so much – he’s been taking on the dumbass EU fishing laws which mean that idiotic quantities of beautiful delicious fish is being thrown back into the sea dead instead of feeding the world. Watch the excellent series of three programmes he’s made here.

I don’t have a television.  There are so few programmes I would be interested in watching, it simply wouldn’t be worth the license fees. However, I’m glad iPlayer and 4od came along so I can enjoy programmes like this from time to time on me ‘aul MacBook. This is what the power of television should be used for in my opinion – making positive changes and educating ig’nant people like me. Not endless D-list Celebrity Come Eat Kangaroo Eyelids In The Jungle Whilst Jigging With The Stars or whatever series they’re on at the moment.

I’ve just signed the Fish Fight petition and I suggest you do too. You can find it here.

So don’t flounder about, you sprat, sign now! Convincing you to sign up is my sole porpoise in writing this blog, you won’t find any red herrings here, I cod you not.

Enough fish puns for ya? I’ll stop carping on now and let you mussel in and sign the petition.

What a lovely pair.

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New Year Resolution: The End

by Benjamin Kritikos

A year ago, I made a resolution to read only women authors.  The thinking behind this act of positive discrimination was that I’d read far fewer books by women than by men, and I felt like I was missing out.  While I knew there were shitloads of excellent books written by women, I somehow managed to pass 30 years without reading very many.  The year 2010 was my chance to redress the imbalance.

Boy, am I glad I did.  I’ve spent a good deal of this past year catching up with the millions of people who read and loved the Harry Potter books — for which I was mercilessly teased by haters.  That always happens to great works that happen to garner popularity, though; even Ovid‘s Metamorphoses had its haters.

Of course, most people who actively voice a dislike for Harry Potter have never read the books, but only seen the films (or sometimes not even that).  I thought the films were rubbish — but hating on these books means you should pre-book a room in an old people’s home … No, I take that back.  Old people are not, generally, as embittered and old-at-heart as you; and we wouldn’t want to upset them.  Go read Ivanhoe or Dan Brown or whatever it is you like, and leave the rest of us alone.

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