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"Hey Mark, I've always wanted to have a thorough snout through the contents of your head."

"Why thank you for asking, friend. Make yourself right at home"

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Mark has been suffering health problems since December 2006. We have had to postpone plans for touring and promoting the I Crawl Out album. We will post any news and updates as soon we have them.

He asked us to thank you all for your support. If you would like to send a message via the contact page we will see that he gets them.

Thanks
CTE

Poem Of The Day

Beyond all this, the wish to be alone:
However the sky grows dark with invitation-cards
However we follow the printed directions of sex
However the family is photographed under the flagstaff-
Beyond all this, the wish to be alone.

Beneath it all, desire of oblivion runs:
Despite the artful tensions of the calendar,
The life insurance, the tabled fertility rites,
The costly aversion of the eyes from the death-
Beneath it all, desire of oblivion runs.

Philip Larkin - 1950

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Positive Love Songs Wanted

Mark Evans Global Music Enterprises Incorporated in no way associate themselves with these heinous remarks from David Allan Coe – ho – ho – ho…

“What country music is supposed to be about is real life. OK? Now, you go to Nashville today and they say, ‘Do you have any positive love songs for women?’

And I look at ‘em and I say,

“Mother-fucker you’re talking to a guy that’s been married five times. I don’t know positive love songs for women. No. You know? I got songs about ‘Hey bitch – you know – why did you do this?’ I got songs about I Drank My Wife Away – that’s the kinda songs I got.

Because that’s real life, you know what I’m saying?

If you went and played Your Cheatin’ Heart for the people in Nashville now they’d say,

‘No, no. we can’t do a song like that.’

No drinking songs, no drug songs. Well – fuck – drinking and drugs and – I mean – bad relationships – that’s what hillbillies live. That’s what they go through.

Ain’t no hillbilly that I know that are living in that little heaven that you’re painting for ‘em.”

Thanks, David. There’s not many English hillbillies that I know living in that little heaven either.

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CD Launch

Thanks everyone who came out to the CD launch. We all had the best time. Saw loads of people I haven’t seen for ages – especially John & Pat Waldock who came to see my baby son and discovered he was 18 years old.

Andy and Robin – Phineas – for playing and promoting. Check their website in the links.

Rachel and Roz for playing, and sorting out what should happen when.

Jim for playing the lap steel - ‘cause I love sitting up there listening to it – and for thinking a 54 hour conversation about Hank Williams is interesting.

Dale for doing the sound.

Just put the photos up today, sorry there’s not more of the people who came out – we took a load but they disappeared somewhere in computer land.

It’s still kind of weird digging round for songs in these very private places and then showing them off to the world. Good weird – not Bad weird – but weird enough.

Let us know if you’re interested in booking us as a full band – we’ve been yakking about it for a while now.

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MaryE Yeomans – Sorefingers Story

There's a CD from my singer/songwriter buddy Mark Evans whom I met at Sore Fingers last year -- he's put out a CD called, "I Crawl Out," and it's a dandy, too. I was reading the liner notes and....there's my name, thanking me for giving him the song. Well, I did not. But it was probably meant to be (and I'm sure proud to see my name on his CD).

But I did NOT deserve it. See I was writing about a songwriting class he and 20 others were taking with Nashville songwriter Darrell Scott and there was this bit in the beginning where everyone had to go around the room and tell their "story" so to speak - you know, a kind of "getting-to-know-you" sort of exercise.

And most of these folks were a little sort of touchy-feely, talking about their muse and (oh my God!) emotions and things that few of the Brits I've ever met would dare even think about in the privacy of their own caves, let alone reveal to a roomful of other living souls! Pretty amazing.

So folks are telling their names and all this good stuff and maybe a bit about particular songwriting interests or bents. And toward the end of it there's this very sort of dark cloudy quiet guy who speaks very softly and doesn't really make eye contact and he starts telling about how there was a time some years ago when he actually went out and did an open-stagey kind of thing for songwriters and some media person really liked what he did and wrote him up large in the paper....and how he got kind of scared and "crawled back in" to his hole, cave, or wherever he was living at the time (kind of like that little teeny turtle I kept in that plastic container with the island and the palm tree used to do when you scratched him the wrong way).

And so I found that intriguing and took careful notes of just how he said it. When breaktime came, being naturally intrigued by my opposites - reticent type folks - I walked up to him and said something about how I enjoyed his story and knew what he meant - and how I hoped that now that he'd crawled out again with his songwriting that he wouldn't get scared this time - and would stay out for awhile and let folks hear what he has to say.

He looked a little puzzled at first and I believe I just happened to have my reporter's pad there and I read what he'd said verbatim. The light came on and he laughed self-consciously. Well I didn't think much more about it after that, but Mark did. I ran into him on the night after the final day of classes, just before we were all heading out our separate ways for home and he looked really really bad. Like sort of barely alive and I started thinking, uh-oh....what's wrong with this guy?

So he says he's been up for two or three days and nights straight working on this "I Crawl Out" song. [I'd been trying to finish Pass On By - I Crawl Out fell out in one piece] I asked if I could hear it and it was a KILLER song.

Hey, I lived in Nashville for 15 years among lots of talented songwriters. Made me cry the first time around. He put his whole self into it, you know. It's a great song. Anyway, I heard Darrell Scott walk by and I don't know him that well, but I went after him, snagged him, and BEGGED him to come and hear Mark do this song - "just give us 3 minutes, Darrell!"

I could tell that Darrell did NOT want to do this, but he was nice enough to come along (just to get me out of his face). But it was clear he was touched by the song as well and saw a lot of value in Mark's song. I sort of tried to give him an "easy out" now that he'd heard it - but instead he lingered asking Mark lots of questions. Pretty cool. If you read the credits on the CD you'll see that Darrell ended up playing dobro on it!

Next thing I know, Mark has taken his first trip to Nashville (pretty intimidating by anyone's standards, not knowing a soul there - and Mark being such a quiet character). And it wasn't long after that he'd made a second trip there....and created this CD which I highly recommend!

Anyway, I said all that to say this. I had absolutely nothing to do with this song - or, if I did, it was simply that I took note of what Mark said...threw it back at him - call me the messenger ..and the rest is his-story, if you know what I mean. Good on Mark. I should be so focused! I hope we'll hear a lot more from Mark Evans in the years to come. I love that "Pass On By" song, too. Gets you to thinkin'. Lots of thought and a pretty good share of darkness behind these songs. But it just goes to show you. Mark paid attention to what was there for him to hear and it turned into something good for him.

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Had a ball at The Loft last night.
I played early and late.
Not sure about Ms Jo Tompkins though
as she announced
"We'll put you on again last so we can clear the place."

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"Why the hell d'you keep putting Darrell Scott Plugs all over your website? 'Specially sticking his damn record there when yours is coming out."

"Cos without Darrell Scott I wouldn't be here to put Darrell Scott plugs anywhere."

"Well you're still off your head - get real for godsake."

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THE INVISIBLE MAN
Darrell Scott - available June 27th

Scott, a Grammy nominee and ASCAP’s 2002 Songwriter of the Year, has assembled an impressive team of players which lent itself perfectly to The Invisible Man’s without-a-net recording regimen. “We’re not making music to be music later; it’s going to be music right now.”

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Inspired by all the research on marketing and promotion I've been doing lately I scuttled off to the library and borrowed an audio book called something like How To Organise Your Life.
Needless to say I lost it.
Had to pay a fine.

Not much time to talk today.
I'm off to read A Million And One Ways To Ruthlessly Manage Your Time.
If I can find it.
If I can remember where the hell I put it.

Share your self-help stories here
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“Here’s a song. I wrote this myself.
Made it up out of my own head
and had enough wood left to build a guitar with.”
Porter Wagoner on the Friday Night Opry.

Yeah. Mister Wagoner gets to wear THAT suit AND sing with Ms Parton AND make you cry with his recitations. Jealous? Hell. No. I got me a rhinestone straightjacket, an imaginary friend, and the Doctor’s say if I quit with the recitations they’ll let me out one day.
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Glenn Sutton's too good to get away with a measly quote of the day. Anyone who can write What's Made Milwaukee Famous (Has Made a Loser Out of Me), and She Still Comes Around. Must have something to teach us plebs. Here's some more of his wisdom:

Demos
"If the song ain't no good, you can mix on the son-of-a-bitch for eight years and it won't be no better"

Co-writing
"He had a laptop. He kept saying, 'Yeah, I like that line.' And I was saying to myself, 'I got to finish this up and get the hell out of here so I don't have to come back. I don't want to have to work on this again with this guy and watch him with a laptop. He was too busy putting it in his laptop to even try to put a line in it."

Appointment Books
"Everybody would say, 'You got your book with you?' I said, 'I ain't got no fucking book. I can remember what the hell I'm going to do. I ain't going to write every day with three or four different people. I can remember what few appointments I have. I don't have to have a book"

"They all had a book. They cared more about their book than they did writing. If their book was full they thought they were doing something, wether they wrote anything or not. So the book thing drove me nuts."

These are from the book Guitar Pull - Conversations With Country Music's Legendary Songwriters, Philip Self.
Glenn Sutton
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"Look. I'm sixty-two years old. I don't want to spend the rest of my life begging some son-of-a-bitch to cut a song."
Glenn Sutton

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"Have you got a black eye?"

"No. Why?"

"That picture.
Looks like you got two black eyes...
And a carrot up your arse..."

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Looking for Human Remains?
Low prices, wide selection. Find exactly what you want today.www. ebay.com

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"My Uncle Used To Love Me But She Died."

Roger Miller

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I write a lot of prose. Here's a bit of fiction for ya.

Stacey shoved a last bit of Twix in her mouth, gulped the dregs of her tea, and banged her mug on the coffee table. She grabbed the burning Benson and sucked until the filter was wet. Stabbing the butt in the ashtray Stacey could almost – but not quite – imagine the hot coal drilling into Mrs Connor’s suety face.

She stopped to check herself in the hall mirror, tightened her ponytail, patted her dark roots. ‘Right!’ she said to her reflection and yanked the door open and stepped onto the pavement still wearing Gary’s moccasin slippers. She took a deep breath, hugged herself, turned left and walked the four and a half paces to Mrs Connor’s front door – a gloss yellow job with a brass knocker shaped like a dolphin. Stacey smacked the dolphins head against the paint work.

With a mighty rattling of locks and chains Mrs Connor’s unbodied head appeared in a two foot gap between the door and frame, like a pudding with a few doughy appendages slapped on as an afterthought. Her big scarlet lips parted slightly, revealing acrylic teeth, then pressed together as she recognised Stacey.
‘Will you look at you!’
‘Will he be . . . you know . . . much longer with that, Mrs Connor?’
‘Jesus, love, I’ve no clue. You know how they are when they’ve something in the head.’
‘It’s just with Gary on nights and the baby and all . . . you know?’
‘And how is the poor little mite?’
Stacey felt acid wriggle up her gullet.
‘He’s fine thanks Mrs Connor . . . it’s just . . . you know . . . the noise . . . d’you think you could?’
‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you, darlin’ – I’ll shout him again, how’s that?’
‘Thanks Mrs Connor . . . sorry to be . . . you know?’
‘Ah no problem love, no problem at all’

‘Jimmy! For the love of god will you quit with the hammering.’

Jimmy saw a wall-sized mahogany display case. Pairs of ears pinned, like butterflies, to the green baize backing board. Below each pair a descriptive tag written in copperplate script with an old fashioned pen and ink. He worked quietly and methodically, extracting each whisper from his head and pinning it – complete with ear – to the board. He stepped back, hands on hips, and looked at the display, pleased with his work. It was delicate work that took a keen eye and a steady hand, a knack for microscopic accuracy.

A bull was charging the bedroom door.
‘Jesus, Jimmy, will you be cutting the row out.’

Jimmy stood in front of a mess of pocked plaster and bent tacks. Stripes of black hair slicked to his scalp. A runnel of sweat slid from his eggcup navel to the waistband of his baggy y-fronts. He was coated in fine pink dust and speckled with grittier bits of sand and cement. A row of tacks were clamped between his teeth like a dental brace, he took one out, positioned it with finger and thumb, and gave it a belt with the claw hammer. Blood splashed his chest, dribbled through grey fur. Jimmy saw circular cuts, ripped skin, bone and gristle; and he saw another pair of ears displayed with scientific precision and a certain amount of flair.
‘Jimmy! Jimmy! Would you be stopping your wailing.’

Her voice worked on his flesh like a flensing knife. The whispers told him about her breakable skull. He began to grin, tacks falling from his mouth like heavy rain.

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So he says
“Stop writing all that crap on your website – people’ll think you’re off your head.”
And I say
“Nah, I’m hilarious.”
And he says
“Yeah – you think you are but no one else does.”
And I say
“What about Hank?”
And he says
“What’s he got to do with anything?”
And I say
“He’s my best friend on Myspace”
And he says
“Exactly – he died in nineteen fifty three.”
And I say
“How the hell do you know?”
And he says
“You never stop going on about it”
And I say
“Yeah – but I am hilarious”
And he says
“Whatever…”
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Ev'ry time I see The Doctor he says, "Go to the gym and stop smoking." I walk in with a chainsaw sticking out of my head and he says, "Go to the gym and stop smoking." He looks like a child and dresses like a tramp, but he does come free, and I ain't dead yet so hey ho.
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Ever get days when you're Henry Cooper's face and everything else is Muhammed Ali's fist?

Ali was my first hero. I memorised most of his poems.
They gave a small white boy some defence against playground charges that poetry was just for ponces who should be instantly beaten.
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