Following my return to Wellington in the year 2000, I moved to the suburb of Eastbourne to live, on the eastern side of Wellington harbour.
As mentioned in the Dizrhythmia section, it gave me an opportunity to rekindle some form of interest/association with music and song writing and before too long, Simon, Greg and I were regularly rehearsing at Greg's home in Rawhiti Terrace, Kelburn, operating under the name Drip Dry Jones.
There were plans to record as Greg had a digital programme on his computer and although we did indeed make some rough recordings of some old original favourites, nothing of any real significance eventuated.
Largely, I was house-bound during the day with three pre-school children, so Greg installed Cool Edit Pro on my compute and suddenly I was like a cat with a large bowl of cream.
Initially, I set about recording a back log of songs from bands going right back to Walrus days, that hadn't seen the light of day in any studio.
Before too long though, new compositions were presenting themselves and I chose the pseudonym of Piccolo Attic to record under.
The name actually comes from PA. Once, during the Pagan days, he and I were wandering through Cuba Mall in Wellington and we heard the sound of someone playing a piccolo trumpet, which sounded like it was coming from the fourth of fifth floor of a building and being carried along on the summer airwaves.
Most of my time was consumed being a house dad, but by 2005 I had collected enough new demo's to think about releasing a CD, which I called Ghosts in Fun City.
Rupert, Verity and Dorian in 2003, at home in Eastbourne.
I had been listening to a lot of the 1960's American folk/country/rock outfit, The Byrds, fascinated by their unique harmonies and came up with a composition, which naturally enough sounded like The Byrds, so became Byrds Tribute.
Lyrically, it was written for my darling daughter Verity, who was already (aged 5) displaying all the hallmarks that would later manifest themselves in adulthood.
I was extremely happy with the outcome of the song, which seemed to encapsulate the sound of The Byrds perfectly, while also addressing my inherent love for my little girl.
Through an old acquaintance, I started working in the film and television industry. I did a few TVC's for Air New Zealand and made a few appearances as an extra on TVNZ productions, such as The Strip and Karaoke High, Paradise Cafe, The Killian Curse, plus a few lead roles in student and film school projects and Raising Cane, a 48 hour film challenge.
I had missed the whole Lord of the Rings event by being based in Christchurch and when an opportunity arose to work on King Kong, I was ready to go, excited to be involved. The photo above was taken in the Opera House in Wellington, during the filming of the Vaudeville scenes, which are right at the start of the film.
In 2006, the whole family would be involved in a TVC45 for New Zealand's Interislander ferry service, which operates between Wellington and Picton, at the top of the South Island (below).
AT THE COAL FACE
He's dressed by Rixon Groove, works down town in Lambton Quay.
A million dollar deal dispels the myth of poverty.
Expresso in the morning, for his life is at a stage
where technology advances and only wine improves with age.
There's a killer in the cellar waiting.
Debate it at the coal face.
That aromatic vapour is the smell of sweet success.
Without dreams he's nothing, keeps him at the cutting edge.
Expresso in the morning, for his life is at a stage
where technology advances and only wine improves with age.
There's a killer in the cellar waiting.
Debate it at the coal face.
The bottles almost empty and the tide will ebb and flow.
He tries a liquid dinner as the dollar hits a low.
Expresso in the morning, for his life is at a stage
where technology advances and only wine improves with age.
There's a killer in the cellar waiting.
Debate it at the coal face.
(c) Carlton McRae, 2001
FLY ON A WALL
If I had a crystal ball, what would I find?
Would you make a leap of faith?
Is that piece of mind?
If I could be a fly on a wall,
a fly with a crystal ball.
If I could be a fly on a wall,
I'd see it all.
Sally in the check out lane,
she shrinks her world down.
Cut price is piece of mind,
that's life in a small town.
If I could be a fly on a wall,
a fly with a crystal ball.
If I could be a fly on a wall,
I'd see it all.
Here comes those days of future passed.
Mercy, the evening sky.
The colours of the summer sunset
in the season of the fly.
(c) Carlton McRae, 2002
WHEN WINTER TURNS TO SPRING
People zipped inside, all safe and tea cosy.
The tide of thought can make a man rosy.
Like a Cat on a wall, you can have it all.
And could the chasing clouds care
what the season will bring?
And will they still be there,
when winter turns to spring?
Smoke from the chimneys in the charcoaled night.
There's rain on the rooftops and no stars tonight.
And could the chasing clouds care
what the season will bring?
And will they still be there,
when winter turns to spring?
December ripened, dressed in summer green.
Rush hour traffic, man and machine.
The busy keep running, a train moves through my sleep.
Insubordination; still waters run deep
And could the chasing clouds care
what the season will bring?
And will they still be there,
when winter turns to spring?
(c) Carlton McRae, 2002
BYRDS TRIBUTE
(for Verity)
For one so small, you have it all,
in the palm of your hand,
there's no need to stall
and I can see that it won't be long,
before you feel the need to write
a love song, all of your own.
No one knows, where time goes,
but you can tell
by the way the wind blows
and I know that it won't be long,
before you feel the need to write
a love song, all of your own.
You are my world,
you're my little girl,
said the oyster to the pearl.
And I know that it won't be long,
before you feel the need to write
a love song, all of your own.
(c) Carlton McRae, 2002
I JUST LOSE MY HEAD
That poisoned taste is in on my lips,
the dagger plunged in deep.
I've not eaten anything,
I'm not getting any sleep.
My character is strong and true
and I see some strength in you,
but I can't hide my feelings,
I'm not even trying to.
I just lose my head,
when I should lose myself instead.
You can't lose what you have never had,
is of no comfort until
what you've had is what you want.
I'm patient, I've the will.
My character is strong and true
and Christ, I see some strength in you.
But I can't hide my feelings,
I'm not even trying to.
I just lose my head,
when I should lose myself instead.
(c) Carlton McRae, 2003
PIMLICO
You say today, I'll think tomorrow,
walking down Grosvenor Road.
This city never sleeps, just self destructs,
half way round the world from all I know.
'64, my life is full of memories,
all familiar faces I don't know.
Some art lover's house in the country.
It's how much time I spend in places though.
Hey-ho now Pimlico.
There he goes, fat ol' Uncle Charlie,
from killer doctor country, yes I know.
I once spent a month one weekend there,
but that was almost thirty years ago.
Hello, this is Copenhagen calling.
Chicago checking in, now where you been?
Results are in from the Danish jury;
"God save the Kinks and Village Green".
Hey-ho now Pimlico.
(c) Carlton McRae, 2003
MIND THE GAP
Standing in the station, waiting for the train.
Lost deeply in my thoughts, barely noticing the rain.
Timt to launch the sarin gas, it's been too long.
Standing there waiting, hoping that you'll come along.
Please watch your step and mind the gap.
Train is coming, one step back.
Please watch your step and mind the gap.
I've fallen in this space before
and I don't want to go there no more.
I've been trying to get off this train since 1964.
I don't know if I can even get on it anymore.
Am I getting lazy? Am I getting old?
I need something new to break the mould.
Please watch your step and mind the gap.
Train is coming, one step back.
Please watch your step and mind the gap.
I've fallen in this space before
and I don't want to go there no more.
My name is of no importance.
My age of no account.
I wish for someone to inspire me, To ride with me
as we circle through this lonely underground
and head back to the top beneath the blue skies,
leave the rush hour crowd and loosen our ties.
Am I getting lazy? Am I getting old?
I need something new to break the mould.
Please watch your step and mind the gap.
Train is coming, one step back.
Please watch your step and mind the gap.
I've fallen in this space before
and I don't want to go there no more.
(c) Carlton McRae, 2003
LONDON, THOU ART THE FLOWER OF CITIES ALL
How do I love you, let me count the ways.
'Till the sun grows cold and the stars grow old.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height,
where my should can reach when feeling out of sight.
This sceptre-d Isle, this earth of majesty.
with sunlit fields of demi-paradise.
The pale green Thames of rippled jade,
the sun has closed with summer rain.
London, thou art the flower of cities all.
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now.
A chaffinch sings on an orchard bough.
If my love were in my arms,
tired of London and her charms.
You have no compare O' towne of towns.
London, thou art the flower of cities all.
'Twas well to wake the theme of love,
let none despise her merry cries.
Inordinate love, insatiate to find,
a dulcet ill, an evil sweetness blind.
Blue is the sky in the mind of men,
glimmering and vast the cliffs of England stand.
To the south I shall return
but when I fall I'll send back my urn.
London, thou art the flower of cities all.
(c) Carlton McRae, 2003
DON'T COUNT THE DAYS
Disappear in the city, between the rock and the roll.
Plant your own garden to decorate your soul.
Don't count the days, make the days count.
There'll come a time when the sun won't burn,
don't count the ways, make the ways count,
with every goodbye...there's a lot to learn.
In walks my fantasy, should I make her my wife.
I'll only borrow this body for the course of one life.
Don't count the days, make the days count.
There'll come a time when the sun won't burn,
don't count the ways, make the ways count,
with every goodbye...there's a lot to learn.
Summer on the doorstep, I need some time to call my own.
I'm caught waxing lyrical, but I'm a loner, I'm not alone.
Don't count the days, make the days count.
There'll come a time when the sun on't burn,
don't count the ways, make the wats count,
with every goodbye,,,there's a lot to learn.
(c) Carlton McRae, 2004
SID CITIZEN
He cruises around in his BMW,
to obsessed with himself to trouble you.
To obsessed with his own behaviour,
convinced himself he's a national saviour.
Sid Citizen.
His friend got done for insider trading,
he's off to the pub to do some spading
with a woman who says his moons in orbit,
but he's too highfalutin to absorb it.
Once upon a time there ws a thing called scruples,
now all the lawyers are looping for loop holes
to jew up the coffers with their personal worth,
now it's every fucking batard for himself.
'Cept Sid Citizen.
(c) Carlton McRae, 2005
The first demo recorded that I was happy with was When Winter Turns to Spring, originally intended as what would be termed the lead off single.
I took the photo for the cover looking through the wrought iron gates at the entrance to the Botanical Gardens in Thorndon, a popular playground for me during the Pagan days especially.
Trips with the family to the gardens and the adjacent old pioneer cemetery were always special.
Drip Dry Jones in 2003; Myself, Greg Pugh and Simon Dibble, photographed outside Simon's flat in Hataitai, Wellington.
In 2003, I wrote (what I intended to be) a TV series or TV special called The Lumpea Trotts (phrase coined by Simon), which was in essence a comedy, detailing the events that went down in mine, Greg and Simons' flat in Thorndon during the late days of The Pagans.
I peddled the work around a few TV producers I knew at the time (I had started working in the film and television industry on a part time basis) and while it met with some interest, it was summed up by one mogul as; "I have to admit it is very funny in parts, but other aspects are just a little too far fetched..."
I turned to him in honesty and said; "everything in the script is totally factual, it all happened just as it says."
I wrote a song called I Just Lose My Head, deliberately indie commercially sounding, perfectly in the Drip Dry Jones (who were to do the soundtrack) vein.
As usual in NZ, money was the main issue, but another friend who was the producer of Country Calendar, suggested I consider converting it into a radio play, which very nearly happened.
Ghosts in Fun City CD cover circa; 2005