What is The Glass Chronicles?

What is The Glass Chronicles?

Where did it come from?

What does it mean?

Although its beginnings could easily be seen as the moment a decision was taken to arrange an alphabet of hand written letters into a circle, and within the circle place a wine glass, it’s clear to me that The Glass Chronicles began long before that. Indeed, if I had to choose a starting point it would be four years earlier, well before my fingers ever went near an upturned glass (I will refer to the glass as being “upturned” even though it may be more accurately described as being “upside-down”).

It was the late nineteen eighties, and I’d completed a circle of another kind, I’d returned back to my hometown in the UK after an eventful if not turbulent spell in Southern California. There was much to reflect on; after all the time and energy I’d invested in the music business, first in London and then the States, all the building blocks and networking – the contacts, gigs, studios, fellow musicians, – it all seemed to count for very little. In fact I couldn’t quite comprehend where that time had gone, or much of what I’d done during that time. It was as if I’d had it pulled from beneath me - with one year moving into the next when I wasn’t looking – being carried like driftwood, waiting for a place to land.

When I did land, it was back in the North West of England. And although it might’ve been natural to feel some degree of defeat, I saw it much more as a new beginning, an opportunity to reinvent and regroup. And to be able to do all of this within the safety of my parents' home, and with very little pressure was fortunate, and I knew it

Looking for a way to get back on my feet I took to the phone and went in search of gigs, mainly in pubs and folk clubs. I gave guitar lessons, privately, and in the form of night school classes at the local college. I took out a loan, investing the money in recording equipment, and step-by-step the wheels of re-invention eventually began to turn.

Of course, once such wheels are in motion, invariably they’ll roll towards circumstances that are unanticipated, one of which was being asked to run an “open mic” night each week, first at a public house called The Unicorn, and then later at The Bull and Royal seven miles out of town. Back then no one ever used the term “open mic”, and instead my Tuesday evening soirees were called "Singers’ Nights"

The usual format went like this: I’d begin the evening with a few of my own songs to get things underway, then one by one I’d introduce the singers, guitarists, accordion players and the poets, anyone in fact who turned up with an instrument or had a voice and who aspired to perform to an often noisy, sometimes even rowdy audience. 

During such an evening in June 1992, mid-song and with guitar in hand, my attention was drawn towards the figure of a woman entering the pub through the main door to my right hand side. I continued to sing and take an odd glance over in her direction whilst trying not to let my interest appear too obvious.

On that occasion there seemed nothing out of the ordinary–I'd always had an eye for attractive women–but it didn’t take me all that long to realise that here was something a bit different, and there was more to this than met the eye.

Though not obvious at the time this was certainly no ordinary encounter. An unexpected journey was about to unfold, one that inspired the creation of a musical album, a stage production, and now these writings.

The evening may well have been fateful, but it certainly wasn’t straightforward; through a whole mixture of reasons, nerves not being the least, it was some time before we spoke. When we did speak I learnt that her name was Carol, and over the weeks that followed, Carol would turn up on Singers’ Nights with a degree of regularity that very pleasantly surprised me, repeatedly offering further opportunities to make up for any lack of initiative taken during that first night.

And this is where it begins to get very interesting; fate seemed to have a hand in bringing the two of us together, and it chose a method that to this day still leaves me scratching my head in wonderment.


There would always be a raffle on a Singers Night, with the tickets being picked out of a hat at the end of the evening. Usually it would be two, sometimes three prizes, all donated by the pub landlord, Harry. It was all pretty standard; the first prize would more often-than-not be a bottle of inexpensive German wine, and the second a box of chocolates. On buying her first raffle ticket Carol met with immediate success, and out she walked from the audience to claim her winnings. Just a stroke of good fortune, beginners luck perhaps, but it certainly didn’t go unnoticed amongst the crowd and the other raffle participants when, the following week this stroke of good fortune repeated itself. 

Not only did this occur again on her third visit, but to the astonishment of everyone, and herself included, she picked up both the first and second prizes.

Now, over the years I have heard these stories about the winning streaks that some people experience, and OK, this was only a raffle, but I’d never seen someone winning as consistently–and almost as predictably–as this. There were shouts of “fix!” from the audience on that third occasion as she once again walked to collect her prizes.

I made a point of getting others, rather than myself, to pick out the tickets but still she would win, and this repeated scenario brought us into contact with each other over and over again.

Though my logic told me this was nothing more than coincidence, my theory was put to the test in no uncertain terms on the one final night when her ticket came up. The first prize had already been won, when Chris, a friend and fellow artist, announced in complete jest, “Tonight’s second prize is a night out with Ken”. And yes, the next ticket was Carol’s!

It was as though we had no choice. We began to see each other, at which point her run of good fortune abruptly ended (in raffles, I stress) and during the months that followed we spent an increasing amount of time in each others company.

And so, from the summer of 1992 to the Christmas of 1993. Carol’s three children were away staying with their grandparents in Stoke-on-Trent; the two of us sat in the kitchen of her home, drinking wine and enjoying a rare moment of peace and quiet. We were talking and–as the wine flowed–the subject matter moved naturally from the somewhat superficial to the philosophical. We began to discuss issues such as religion and life after death, subjects I'd spent a good deal of my life asking questions about, especially since the death of my sister Brenda almost two years earlier. 

During the course of our conversation we discovered that, as teenagers, we had both been involved with separate groups of friends who’d dabbled with what we then called the Ouija Board. More recently I’ve seen it described as the “Talking, or Spirit Board”, but our version was nothing more than a wine glass turned upside down on a smooth surface with a circle of letters surrounding it.

Many people are, of course, familiar with this process, and there are no end of opinions as to why a glass with fingers placed upon it would move about a table top, appearing to be controlled in some way by an invisible or “supernatural” force.

Carol and I discussed our teenage experiences and how we’d found them both exciting and sometimes a little frightening.

We shared the same feeling - the suspicion that everything was being orchestrated by one, or maybe more than one of the participants - basically that the glass was being deliberately pushed. With so many fingers involved it’s next to impossible to eliminate such a risk, and it does seem a quite natural thing to assume.

Although our conversation did interest me somewhat, I can't say that at that particular time I was especially fascinated by the “occult” or “paranormal” as such, certainly not in a dark or an eerie way.

Of the Ouija board, plenty of people out there certainly seem to condemn this practice, especially those who have what could be described as religious leanings. Some will tell you that the board attracts evil spirits and that there is a danger of becoming “possessed”. I've also heard it said that the board can end up controlling you, and can render you incapable of making a decision without consulting it first. 

But I was very much interested in what I’d call the realm of possibility, a "wanting to know"–in life as well as the Ouija Board–just what was real and what was not. It's probable that my interest in psychology and that my tendency towards self-examination had led me to consider that much of what we perceive as “real” in the outside world is very much an extension of our inner, subjective world. For years I’d carried this fascination toward the idea of eliminating or reducing as much misconception as possible, and trying to establish–if indeed it is possible to–what might or might not be true in life. 

This was pretty much the nature of our discussion in Carol’s kitchen that evening, and when eventually I suggested that we give the Ouija a try I did so thinking that in retrospect it might end up looking like a foolish idea.

The kitchen table had a smooth surface. We searched for a suitable glass. We cut out small squares of paper. We wrote a letter of the alphabet on each square and arranged them into a circle on the table and we placed the glass upside down in the centre. 

Sitting on opposite sides of the table, we each put a finger on the base of the upturned glass.

I wish I could describe the atmosphere as one of trepidation and suspense, or write of a kitchen that became strangely colder, or indeed convey a sense of drama that might send a chill down the spine, but if there was any drama at all it was outweighed by a feeling that we might be sat there like fools for quite some time, eventually deciding to throw the letters away and move onto some other topic altogether.

Nevertheless, feeling just a little foolish, I tried to find a way to begin."Is there anybody there?" I asked, predictably.

Then, with much feeling and with eyes closed, I continued: "Is there somebody who might like to communicate with us?". The minutes were passing and nothing was happening, but my determination to give this my best shot was growing. 

Then – eventually, slowly – the glass began to move. 

It was only for a few seconds, and then it came to rest again. I immediately looked with suspicion at Carol, but before I could say anything, she asked: "Were you pushing?".

I assured her that I was not – well, not knowingly. I even felt slightly defensive.

It is an odd feeling, thinking you might be doing something so overtly without realising you’re doing it, and stranger even, trying to convince yourself (not to mention others) that you’re not doing it.

Of course, a great number of people would automatically brand anything like this as nonsense, and that would certainly be the more likely view of those not experiencing it first hand. Others, such as many I’ve described these events to, and who’s reactions I’ve witnessed, appear to accept the idea at face value; that one is being spoken to, or contacted, by those in the realm of spirit. 

So this “one-thing-or-the-other” view is no less polarised than many other subjects that are perceived to have an element of gravity or controversy about them. But I found myself trying to consider all possible causes that might fall in-between these absolutes; the question: was it one mind, or were our two minds colluding in such a way to manufacture the movement of the glass? - was just one such consideration. 

Whether or not such unrelenting “questioning” or alternatively, unquestioned “acceptance” are indications of either “self doubt” or of “healthy curiosity”, I was eager at this time to know if Carol was as willing as I to exercise the same level of self-scrutiny. 

To be continued ...