Thursday and Friday – solo spoken word gigs. Thursday is the painter Ella Guru’s art show launch at a curious Kentish Town venue – Flaxton Ptootch – half hairdressers, half art gallery. Her portrait of me with the pelican and fox is one of those on wall. For the next few weeks, people will be having a shampoo and set while staring at my face.

I came up with the title for the painting – Pelican Blond. It’s a reference to a rather good song by Glasgow band The Orchids, on Sarah Records circa 1990.

Ms Guru’s own nom de plume is also taken from a song – by Captain Beefheart. Lately some new Liverpool band also christened themselves Ella Guru, and have been getting enough attention for Ms G to add a disclaimer to her website. Must be slightly annoying for her after using the name for years. At least her own music is under a different name – the Deptford Beach Babes – a rather good twangy surf-guitar band who also perform at her art launch.

I recall how Suede had to rename themselves “The London Suede” for the US, because of some other musical Suede already existing over there. Such a cumbersome and ugly sobriquet can’t have helped their Stateside progress. These days, when you start a group and give it a name, you really should spend 5 minutes on the Web to check if someone else is already using it in a creative capacity. Surely even Liverpool has the Internet now?

[August 23rd. Ms Guru writes: “The band Ella Guru has been going quite a while. Though i would agree not as long as I have been called Ella Guru – 1987 was the first time for me. But they got to the web before me – they took .com or .co.uk so i am an .org.uk.”]

In a nervous mood generally. I like being recognised at the art launch as one of the paintings, though (as with my slot at Hanky Panky the following night) I’m not too happy with my spoken word performance. I really do dislike my voice at the moment – spoken or singing – and it seems unfair to expect anyone else to like it. I feel very nervous and am unconvinced if I should even be doing it at all. Looking forward to future cabaret slots where I finally try different singers performing songs I’ve written. People who can really sing and actually enjoy singing, leaving me free to concentrate on playing guitar beside them. It’s be good to hear the likes of “Confused and Proud” sung by a vocalist who can really do it justice. Which definitely isn’t me.

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Talking of androgyny-obsessed frustrated musicians, I’ve had a bit of a Brett Smiley weekend. At the Hanky Panky cabaret, David R-P screens a tape of a 1970s Russell Harty TV chat show, featuring the delicately girlish teenage pop star wannabe Mr Smiley, flicking his long hair at the microphone as he sings a very Bowie-influenced number. Afterwards he chats with Harty alongside the louche Mr Andrew Oldham, who declares the boy to be the Next Big Thing. It’s all very Velvet Goldmine, of course. The clip ends with a shot of the typical 70s chat-show studio audience applauding. Their average age must be 68, and I notice about five Mary Whitehouse clones clapping away politely. Goodness knows what they made of it all.

I’d already been aware of the Brett Smiley story due to standing in Borders the other day, leafing through the recent book by Nina Antonia, “The Prettiest Star: Whatever Happened To Brett Smiley?”. It’s as much about her own life as it is a biography of the failed star. Seeing him on the Russell Harty programme was a pivotal moment in her formative years. My interest in picking up the book was entirely down to its rather striking cover depicting Mr Smiley in golden profile: young, beautiful, androgynous, doomed.

The next evening, I share my journey home from Emma J and Marie N’s shared birthday bash with Ms Lora, a friend of theirs I’d not previously met. She turns out to be the designer of the Brett Smiley book jacket.

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Packing for Edinburgh, doing my roots, listening to Boston’s Brechtian-punk-piano duo the Dresden Dolls. They’re playing Edinburgh on Wednesday, and I’m reviewing it for Plan B magazine. I say “they’re” but it now transpires the drummer can’t make it, so it’ll be a gig by The Dresden Doll, singular.