"It's easier to bone the President's wife than to get a movie made." Ray Charles.

How a cult music book became a cult music documentary, and it only took ten years.

Tuesday, April 19, 2005

I’m sitting in Dublin Airport, looking out at a slate-grey day, feeling dead tired. I haven’t managed to blog very regularly recently, and there’s been a hell of a lot to blog about. Luther will have had his Mississippi wedding ceremony by now, and another friend, Joss Hutton (late of Bucketful of Brains, currently running the reputedly unsurpassable Sonic Reducer night) is getting hitched in Memphis in a few days. Me, I’m untroubled by thoughts of matrimony. The only burning passion I feel is the need to get this damn film made, along with the three other things I’ve been working on, lo, these long months and years past. All are sailing forward under their own, admittedly unpredictable, momentum, but until I’m standing there behind the camera I won’t believe any of it.

With ICFM in particular, things seem to be getting very interesting. I had a wild idea right when we started this whole thing, an unconventional approach that seemed right for this oddball affair – I won’t go into details for fear of, I don’t know, contempt of court? Prejudicing the witness? Whatever. Anyway, having tried the obvious routes without success, we ended up going straight to the top of this organisation, which is of course where we should have started, and were met with great and immediate enthusiasm, an unfamiliar response where ICFM is concerned, sad to say. Today I’m flying back to London for a meet with somebody important who will be able to make things happen if we convince him that that’s the best thing he could possibly do. By the time I get home and post this, I might have some idea of our chances. I might even add a postscript, if I can be arsed to after an evening spent at the Barbican watching the Sun survivors go through their rockabilly paces. My date for the evening is Michael Dillon, the owner and resident shaman of Gerry’s Club on Dean St. - my favourite Soho drinking refuge. I have a feeling we may just end up having a glass or two of something or other afterwards. Maybe we’ll manage to bring Cowboy Jack Clement back with us. Judging from the clips I’ve seen from Robert Gordon’s new documentary on the man, he’s pretty stimulating company. Johnny Cash certainly thought so.
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