tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29607720981736978982024-03-17T02:15:17.185-07:00Just BackdatedChris Charlesworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05459094285776329847noreply@blogger.comBlogger993125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960772098173697898.post-59448175395057367222024-03-15T04:29:00.000-07:002024-03-15T04:30:30.748-07:00MM's NEW YORK NEWS COLUMN<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCvZxqmW8zFJz164E3OvSeVcqEIJXTzg-XiEH6YfPRrDEbTycl9dRvsIhwh29AROFEywFH9kPfZBSejIDtk4d-G70NfIhw7dpA2KvNwutcgLq6mLYYoZS93utoI-vtjfi7M6l8Sc17FyByMdSMFXKuxcB-l8K1soc6BVAYOr8loOEyAJbu9OW_JINm4w4/s4290/Artboard%202@2x.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4290" data-original-width="3182" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCvZxqmW8zFJz164E3OvSeVcqEIJXTzg-XiEH6YfPRrDEbTycl9dRvsIhwh29AROFEywFH9kPfZBSejIDtk4d-G70NfIhw7dpA2KvNwutcgLq6mLYYoZS93utoI-vtjfi7M6l8Sc17FyByMdSMFXKuxcB-l8K1soc6BVAYOr8loOEyAJbu9OW_JINm4w4/s320/Artboard%202@2x.png" width="237" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><p>Newspaper reporters have good memories, not least because they write things down. Still, I needed a bit of help while researching for my upcoming book of <i>Melody Maker</i> memoirs due out later this year and to this end managed to obtain scans of every <i>MM</i> published during the 1970s, which includes the period I worked on the paper, from June of 1970 to February of 1977. We’re working on a design for the cover that uses the same typeface as <i>MM</i>’s 1970s logo, something like you see here. </p></span><p></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Looking through them was like reading the diary I never kept. I’d completely forgotten about 50% of the interviews and show reviews I wrote, but when I re-read them they unlocked memories and most, if not all, came flooding back. You don’t forget your encounters with Beatles, members of The Who and Led Zep, or Bowie and Springsteen and, in any case, I’ve already revisited some of them on this blog, but you do forget the bread and butter stuff. I wrote hundreds of pieces, big and small, for <i>MM</i>, some of them dashed off quickly I’m forced to admit, others – generally the lengthier ones – written with more care. I felt there was a constant need to sustain my output in order to justify my role as <i>MM</i>’s man in America where, on Thursday mornings, I compiled a weekly New York news column, always the last job of the working week which began the previous Friday. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I compiled these weekly news columns from press releases, anything I could crib from the <i>Village Voice</i> or other NY culture mags and my own wanderings around the city’s music spots. I always tried to cram as many big names </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">–</span><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> always printed in bold </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">–</span><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> as I could into them and below is one that appeared in <i>MM</i> just over 50 years ago this week, in the March 2, 1974 issue. I somehow managed to squeeze Sly, Jagger, Dudley Moore, Dusty, Alice, Led Zep, Arlo and Woody Guthrie, Dylan, Purple, Elton, Elvis, Bowie, Leonard Bernstein and Andy Williams and more all into the name column. Shame I couldn’t manage to fit in a Beatle or two! </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj-C3I0ultvwcvHhwpwOzrl_BxXa8zAu03EvwljLSvfmBJieNfXqR7HeVC72LnzJ0fyXlczpVPY7Fabelz2MZMr-koJ2KkXpxj2nrQsxanc5Da8SOYTSQ_f7GQtL0iWqAprFCtXtFqcwUnl8j2e76d8ILY4PR28sfTSjvAU2in2ASn59OBdNS0mrMOgc7s" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="384" data-original-width="728" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj-C3I0ultvwcvHhwpwOzrl_BxXa8zAu03EvwljLSvfmBJieNfXqR7HeVC72LnzJ0fyXlczpVPY7Fabelz2MZMr-koJ2KkXpxj2nrQsxanc5Da8SOYTSQ_f7GQtL0iWqAprFCtXtFqcwUnl8j2e76d8ILY4PR28sfTSjvAU2in2ASn59OBdNS0mrMOgc7s" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><b>Sly & The Family Stone</b> have completed a new album but a release date hasn’t been scheduled yet. <b>Blue Öyster Cult</b>, too, have finished their third album which will be called </i>Secret Treaties<i>. This will be out in about a month.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><b><span> </span>Mick Jagger</b>, who went to see <b>Dr John</b> at least twice at the new Bottom Line Club last week, has now left New York for Munich with <b>Keith Richards</b>’ ace guitar maker <b>Elmo Newman Jones III</b> – or Ted to his friends. Ted has made a five string guitar which Richards will be using on sessions in Munich.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><b><span> </span>Isis</b>, the eight piece New York girl band, go into the recording studio next month to make an album with <b>Shadow Morton</b>, the <b>New York Dolls</b>’ producer. The band, which includes <b>Ginger Bianca</b> and <b>Carol McDonald</b> from <b>Goldie & The Gingerbreads</b>, have just signed with Buddah.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><b><span> </span>Dudley Moore</b> who with <b>Peter Cook</b> is appearing in a revue at the Plymouth Theatre off Broadways, begins an additional engagement in New York next week. He’s appearing in his musical capacity playing jazz at Michael’s Place from February 26. </i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span> </span><b>Sha Na Na</b> are recording a new album in New York with <b>Bob Ezrin</b> who produces <b>Alice Cooper</b> and <b>Lou Reed</b>. Like other Sha Na Na albums, it’ll be a mixture of old songs sprinkled with their own compositions.</i></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span> </span>Next week <b>Dusty Springfield</b> is expected in town to make her first new album for almost two years for ABC Dunhill.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> </i></span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span> </span>The new Bottom Line Club is to present a mixture of rock and theatre in the future. During the early part of the evening they will present a non-musical type Broadway show and follow with music from around midnight onwards. Also on the club scene, <b>Paul Coleby</b>, who was a partner in the famed Bitter End Club in Greenwich Village, has opened a new club called The Other End. It’s right next door to the Bitter End and, because of its small size, will concentrate on showcasing unknown talent.</i></span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><b><span> </span>Arlo Guthrie </b>and <b>Pete Seeger</b> are to play four concerts together next month, including a show at New Yok’s Carnegie Hall on March 8 which has already sold out. Seeger used to sing with Arlo’s father <b>Woody Guthrie</b> in the <b>Almanac Singers</b> in the 1940s. The other shows are at Chicago (March 9), Montreal (17) and Boston (30), and Reprise are to record three of the performances for a live album. Meanwhile, Arlo has a new album </i>I’ll Take That Pickle Now<i> out in April or May.</i></span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><b><span> </span>Deep Purple</b> are the latest band to join the list of élite who have – or will be – using Starship 1, the super-plane that jets rock bands around the USA. The plane has been used by <b>Bob Dylan</b>, <b>Led Zeppelin</b>, <b>Alice Cooper</b> and <b>Elton John</b> up until now and at present <b>Col Tom Parker</b> is jetting his way around the south on Starship 1 fixing up some dates for his only client, <b>Elvis Presley</b>.</i></span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span><b>Maggie Bell</b> will play three or four nights at the Bottom Line, leading up to her show at Howard Stein’s Academy of Music on March 16. Patti <b>Labelle</b> opens at the Bottom Line this week and others lined up in the coming weeks include <b>Rick Nelson</b> and <b>The Strawbs</b>. </i></span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>March is shaping up to be a busy month at the Academy with appearances by <b>Joe Walsh & Barnstorm</b> (March 8), <b>Rory Gallagher</b> and <b>10 c.c.</b> (9), <b>Argent</b> and <b>Nazareth</b> (23), <b>Renaissance</b>, <b>Soft Machine</b> and <b>Larry Coryell </b>(23, following the Argent show). West Coast music takes over at the venue during the first week of April with <b>Jefferson Starship</b> and <b>Quicksilver Messenger Service</b> (April 2) and the <b>Starship</b> and <b>Poco</b> (April 3 & 5 respectively).</i></span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><b><span> </span>Climax Chicago</b> begin recoding in New York this week with <b>Richie Gottherer</b> (correct!) producing. Gottherer, incidentally, produced ‘Hang On Sloopy’ for <b>The McCoys</b> and was also a co-write of ‘Sorrow’, as originally recorded by The McCoys and, more recently, by <b>David Bowie</b>. The band have spent the last two weeks rehearsing in Miami. </i></span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><b><span> </span>Jo Jo Gunne</b> have replaced guitar player <b>Matt Andes</b> with a new guitarist who goes by the name of <b>Star</b>.</i></span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span> </span>Shorts: <b>Wishbone Ash</b> expected to be recording in New York in April… <b>Chicago</b> preparing a one-hour TV special for screening this summer… <b>Leonard Bernstein</b> and <b>Andy Williams</b> to appear at a special dinner honouring CBS boss <b>Goddard Leiberson</b> on March 7… <b>Rick Derringer</b> currently working on final mixing of <b>Edgar Winter</b>’s next album… <b>Loudon Wainwright</b> recorded four new songs at a recent appearance at the New York Philharmonic Hall which will probably be included on his next album… <b>Liza Minelli</b> and <b>Charles Aznavour</b> doing a 60-minute TV special together. </i></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">That’s exactly as printed. I suspect that the ‘correct!’ in brackets after the name Gottherer was an indication from me to the subs desk at </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">MM</i><span style="font-family: verdana;"> that the spelling was correct, and someone forget to delete it before it reached the paper.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Details of my book Just Backdated: Melody Maker Seven Years In The Seventies can be obtained from https://spenwoodbooks.com/product/justbackdated/</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /><br /></span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal; white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal; white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal; white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p><div><br /></div>Chris Charlesworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05459094285776329847noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960772098173697898.post-4829076265924418512024-03-11T05:03:00.000-07:002024-03-11T06:21:59.380-07:00ROCK BOOKS<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwyD9vs2eTEgjgseeNzyRMKa3AiaxupaH4T-3d6VZJwzfBKY3o2spR7O2zS-PPTgdqULQHuFIrc_KToB8_9l8-bo-qrH6NU9XOIUCA9zsZK0d4-N7OpAT-mtYufCQ-sZ_jkHNxmGG56S2dVsXGoQQu2jMnnO2Pd_nnPRZAR2buHQeyCAjAHjYfSubxnJs/s640/image1%20(2).jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwyD9vs2eTEgjgseeNzyRMKa3AiaxupaH4T-3d6VZJwzfBKY3o2spR7O2zS-PPTgdqULQHuFIrc_KToB8_9l8-bo-qrH6NU9XOIUCA9zsZK0d4-N7OpAT-mtYufCQ-sZ_jkHNxmGG56S2dVsXGoQQu2jMnnO2Pd_nnPRZAR2buHQeyCAjAHjYfSubxnJs/s320/image1%20(2).jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><p>I live in a library. There are bookshelves in our front room, dining room, my wife’s study, my daughter’s old bedroom that is now my study and, most notably, the spare bedroom currently occupied by a lodger. Some of these bookshelves are overflowing, with books piled high on top of other books. I have no idea how many books there are in our house in total and, in any case, the number increases on a weekly basis. The last time I counted I had 65 books on The Who alone, and over 50 on The Beatles, but we have lots of art books and fiction too, everything from the Brontës, inherited from my mum, to F. Scott Fitzgerald and Graham Greene, to Ian McEwan and contemporaries; there’s also a shelf full of Sherlock Holmes, another of humour and another of cricket books, among them <i>Beyond A Boundary</i> by CLR James, a 1966 edition that belonged to my dad. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaHECJvDbhMQgtF-yV-EnjmN9f96eBG5j2oucO3mEHyhvAno1TNHqzHVaYq3kX-rKF2aPU3UT93gt7NnbRd_Vu8znH7WvPRMgyGB_C5sh6QjsWFECRrEdLzBJN8BnmaoqCnCAUb5sccp0X_CKIMNhRyOo1ZiDMWqZRJ0c0eb_qR1LuilMbxCHoioHLfpw/s640/image0%20(10).jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaHECJvDbhMQgtF-yV-EnjmN9f96eBG5j2oucO3mEHyhvAno1TNHqzHVaYq3kX-rKF2aPU3UT93gt7NnbRd_Vu8znH7WvPRMgyGB_C5sh6QjsWFECRrEdLzBJN8BnmaoqCnCAUb5sccp0X_CKIMNhRyOo1ZiDMWqZRJ0c0eb_qR1LuilMbxCHoioHLfpw/s320/image0%20(10).jpeg" width="320" /></a></div></span><p></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It will come as no surprise, however, that well over half the books on my shelves deal with the subject of rock music, be they biographies, reference books, encyclopaedias, genre books or picture books. The reason for this, of course, is that for 33 years I was the managing editor of Omnibus Press, a publishing company that specialised in music books, so I didn’t have to buy them and, as was the way in this trade, music books published elsewhere came my way for free too. About 25 years ago, when a cull was necessitated by a house move, I sold about 500 music books through Helter Skelter, the shop on Denmark Street that specialised in rock books whose proprietor was a pal of mine. To some degree I regret this now, or at least regret letting go of some amongst that 500 that I miss and would like to re-read.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyGQP-dU_gwXcNXajpXF0TIdgE4GZXRuRgccZmYr2uyB_EYVab6JdnfX-5Vy2Cy2SG03tpbwPeakow8QEXW1BSkcHWqJMUBgoMe14qi-uwJi-DKK_Zdd0glN_-INoE_xAbDTw_aQuRd7f6zCCxEmqVPPoMWhLWsFdjyNFnNcsXbjuKoLKv6pQlhPE6M0M/s276/download-2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="276" data-original-width="182" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyGQP-dU_gwXcNXajpXF0TIdgE4GZXRuRgccZmYr2uyB_EYVab6JdnfX-5Vy2Cy2SG03tpbwPeakow8QEXW1BSkcHWqJMUBgoMe14qi-uwJi-DKK_Zdd0glN_-INoE_xAbDTw_aQuRd7f6zCCxEmqVPPoMWhLWsFdjyNFnNcsXbjuKoLKv6pQlhPE6M0M/s1600/download-2.jpg" width="182" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana; white-space: pre;"> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Which brings me to one reason for this post – re-reading. This week I’m re-reading <i>The Restless Generation</i>, Pete’s Frame masterful account of what happened when rock’n’roll first reached the UK in the 1950s. This came about through a conversation I was having with Val Wilmer, the jazz writer and photographer, who to mark her appearance on <i>Desert Island Discs</i> was the guest of honour at last week’s <i>Melody Maker</i> luncheon for old staff members that I and four of my former colleagues organise about twice a year. Val was a regular freelancer on <i>MM</i>. Somehow or other <i>The Restless Generation</i> was mentioned during a conversation I was having with her and this prompted me to get it down off the shelf and give it a second, or maybe a third, read. It’s still as good as it was when I read it for the first time when it was published in 2007. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg91LeMUghsQ6MqTxGAHxaelhHvXTpq6b_ghLJtfx9xmV9RYEmYsGL0PrwogECWsGmv6I8pFWmvcGDeqvKs8XFaaKPR2bQqB6-Gn294CEJ6HzXsvs2N-JYYL47o0fzupYcLUSf9C4MH96rClDF0as8SQPwvNfBFOPe3zqzj2OEuTaJQhB_SW6vktpY6tI0/s280/download-4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="180" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg91LeMUghsQ6MqTxGAHxaelhHvXTpq6b_ghLJtfx9xmV9RYEmYsGL0PrwogECWsGmv6I8pFWmvcGDeqvKs8XFaaKPR2bQqB6-Gn294CEJ6HzXsvs2N-JYYL47o0fzupYcLUSf9C4MH96rClDF0as8SQPwvNfBFOPe3zqzj2OEuTaJQhB_SW6vktpY6tI0/s1600/download-4.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>The desire to re-read a book is surely the best possible commendation. I’ve read <i>No Surrender</i>, Johnny Rogan’s biog of Van Morrison, at least twice, ditto Ian MacDonald’s <i>Revolution In The Head</i>, his outstanding analysis of The Beatles’ music, and from time to time I still pick it up to check on what he says about this or that Beatles song. Another book of which I never tire is <i>The Rolling Stone Illustrated History of Rock & Roll</i> which contains essays on all the genre’s principal performers (up to around 1975) by America’s best music writers. A very big book (37x27cm, 382 pages) with superb pictures, someone at <i>RS</i> sent me a copy in early 1976, when it was first published, and I’ve held on to it ever since. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyjxoQWpGUVYI33uhFEHqqE2KhEMDD7BNxnuC4yGfKALpQQbWo2i_ljrFvym7wvzE00Dt4vdfA8Em-ZxmnAi1pBwJ-KLlwM0cbuw_99k5UFGxvZsEohKUPpQD1P9XYm2vBmcErzjztx6V8is431IF6dr9OiT6hn-t5OTfOA6bEdzl9Un_V91KfLZP6714/s259/download-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="194" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyjxoQWpGUVYI33uhFEHqqE2KhEMDD7BNxnuC4yGfKALpQQbWo2i_ljrFvym7wvzE00Dt4vdfA8Em-ZxmnAi1pBwJ-KLlwM0cbuw_99k5UFGxvZsEohKUPpQD1P9XYm2vBmcErzjztx6V8is431IF6dr9OiT6hn-t5OTfOA6bEdzl9Un_V91KfLZP6714/s1600/download-1.jpg" width="194" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana; white-space: pre;"> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>The first rock biog I ever read, in 1969, was Hunter Davies’ authorised biography of The Beatles but this was supplanted in 1981 by Philip Norman’s <i>Shout!: The True Story Of The Beatles</i> which I’ve also read more than once. This, in turn, has been supplanted to an extent by Mark Lewisohn’s <i>Tune In</i>, the first in his anticipated trilogy of definitive Beatles biographies. I say ‘to an ‘extent’ because the first of Mark</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">’</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">s books ends as 1962 becomes 1963, and I’ve read the extended two-volume edition of this a couple of times too, all 1,700 pages, a bit of a challenge but worth the effort. </span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Amongst the earliest and most read books on my shelves are Nik Cohn’s confrontational <i>Rock From The Beginning</i>, <i>Elvis</i> by Jerry Hopkins, the first serious Presley biog, and <i>Hellfire: The Jerry Lee Lewis Story</i> by Nick Tosches, widely acclaimed as among the finest ever written about a rock’n’roller. Talking of Elvis, I’ve also read Peter Guralnick’s <i>Last Train To Memphis</i> and <i>Careless Love</i>, his two-volume thesis on the life of Elvis, a couple of times too. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Of all those Who books, the one I consult the most is <i>Anyway, Anyhow, Anywhere: The Complete Chronicle of The Who 1958-1978</i> by Andy Neill & Matt Kent, 300 LP-sized pages of 100% accurate information, and when it comes to The Beatles you can’t beat Mark Lewisohn’s <i>Complete Beatles Chronicle</i> which is equally comprehensive and precise. I use both these books for reference whenever I post about the acts they cover, as I do with Dave Lewis and Mike Tremaglio’s <i>Evenings With Led Zeppelin: The Complete Concert Chronicle</i> (2021 edition) when I need to ensure my Zep facts are correct. For charts I consult the third edition of <i>The Complete Book of the British Charts</i> by Neil Warwick, Jon Kutner and Tony Brown, and for everything else I’m lucky to have copped the 10-volume <i>Encyclopedia of Popular Music</i> (4th Edition), which editor Colin Larkin kindly delivered to me at Omnibus and which I bundled into the boot of my car when I retired. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1VasX983XTVDu7WVcExOZA_RH7tRCk7lTBv2QiWiaC_1CvjvNu7uw2wYGNhH5FxNfOLYAc8vQN0wHkqLU7qdt4i7MjpjSWQD9R7V-Hqm4Kzv_TsCP2Lk3HbaNWvG9B7YOdlLFw2EhX2WJzCT52OZ3sczfbEdcxmBosG7B3isOUiLuO5gBKhpAffg5aXc/s335/download-3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="150" data-original-width="335" height="143" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1VasX983XTVDu7WVcExOZA_RH7tRCk7lTBv2QiWiaC_1CvjvNu7uw2wYGNhH5FxNfOLYAc8vQN0wHkqLU7qdt4i7MjpjSWQD9R7V-Hqm4Kzv_TsCP2Lk3HbaNWvG9B7YOdlLFw2EhX2WJzCT52OZ3sczfbEdcxmBosG7B3isOUiLuO5gBKhpAffg5aXc/s320/download-3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana; white-space: pre;"> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Talking of which, apart from the chart book, I’ve deliberately left out any of those Omnibus books of which I’m particularly proud, but back in 2016 I made up a list of 25 that can be found here: https://justbackdated.blogspot.com/2016/01/omnibus-press-personal-choice.html</span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And, of course, the books I mention here barely scratch the surface of the true extent of our library, rock or otherwise. I don</span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">’</span><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">t often visit houses where there are next to no books on shelves, aside from, maybe, a cookery book or two, but whenever I do I feel desperately sorry for the occupants, and even more so for their children. </span></span></p><div><br /></div>Chris Charlesworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05459094285776329847noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960772098173697898.post-67851159097257045952024-03-07T08:19:00.000-08:002024-03-07T08:19:48.894-08:00Lou Reed in 1974<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Fifty years ago this week I interviewed Lou Reed which wasn’t as onerous a task as I had been led to believe it might be. Lou could be a bit of a curmudgeon at the best of times but apart from when I asked him if he’d been to see Bob Dylan during his recent shows at Madison Square Garden, he was reasonably civil towards me. His response to the Dylan question comes towards the end of the piece I wrote for <i>Melody Maker</i> which I’ve now posted on Just Backdated, link below. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As it happened I became reasonably friendly with Lou in 1976, as my stint as <i>MM</i>’s man in New York was coming to an end. He was a regular at Ashley's bar & restaurant on Fifth Avenue at 13th Street, often in the company of Jonny Podell, his manager at the time, and Rachel, his girlfriend whose gender was always in doubt. One night, my friend Glen Colson – who was sleeping on my couch at the time – and I got talking to Lou at Ashley’s and I mentioned that I’d reviewed his show at the Palladium, and Glen offered to drop off a copy of that week’s <i>MM</i> at his apartment. </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>At Lou’s place on the East Side he was greeted by Rachel. She roused Lou from the bedroom and the <i>MM</i> was handed over. Their living room full to the brim with old black and white RCA TV sets that he’d used as the backdrop to the Palladium show and Lou offered Glen some. Glen called me and when I gave him the thumbs up he relieved Lou of three TVs which he loaded into a cab and brought round to my flat on East 78th Street. I think Lou had got them from a hospital where they were surplus to requirements. They didn’t work that well, probably because we had to use coat hangers from a dry-cleaners as aerials. I wasn’t that bothered. In the four years I spent in New York I never felt the need to watch TV. </span></span><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I liked Robert Stack as <i>Elliot </i></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Ness</i> and a news show called <i>60 Minutes</i> but most US TV was crap and, in any case, I was out and about pretty much every night. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Over to you Lou. </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="white-space: normal;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNYsSFAyTLHKhNeB0WYO8cv2wgBxdQnpP1XuEneasZ-_1kymCmFZtk-BUw6gCUHZcUDSEqH7-uavjuWn2m21DhqxEJLabPEg3nRhlsGZPtEereiuLvS-pCcm4xBgAuPaLXPorjOhrBvjWUB5yAsAQrHWJnAfu_m8Swx6LCtelhvvbwJLXFuq0asoRxyLg/s300/RocknRollAnimal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNYsSFAyTLHKhNeB0WYO8cv2wgBxdQnpP1XuEneasZ-_1kymCmFZtk-BUw6gCUHZcUDSEqH7-uavjuWn2m21DhqxEJLabPEg3nRhlsGZPtEereiuLvS-pCcm4xBgAuPaLXPorjOhrBvjWUB5yAsAQrHWJnAfu_m8Swx6LCtelhvvbwJLXFuq0asoRxyLg/s1600/RocknRollAnimal.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Lou Reed: Man Of Few Words</b></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">We’re up on the 37th floor of a Park Avenue office block that faces north and thus commands an extensive view of New York’s Central Park and Harlem way out in the distance. Lou Reed sits in a director’s swivel chair and looks uncomfortable.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>It’s not that he doesn’t like doing interviews, it’s just that it usually helps if he has a friend with him to smooth out the atmosphere and encourage conversation. Today no such friend is available and Lou seems a little lost for words, and rather than say something he doesn’t want to say, he doesn’t say anything at all.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>The continuing story of Lou Reed reached another chapter last month with the release of a live album titled <i>Rock And Roll Animal</i>, recorded at New York’s Academy of Music around Christmas It contains familiar Reed material, ‘Heroin’, ‘Sweet Jane’ and ‘Rock And Roll’ and the sound quality is really excellent for a live show.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>And, in keeping with Reed’s persistently changing image, his appearance has changed yet again. Today, and for at least the next few weeks, he has very short hair, almost a crew-cut, dyed black, and without any growth at all descending below the height of his ears. Last week he had Iron Crosses dyed into the black, but they’ve gone today.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>He looks, in fact, rather like a convict or a soldier. He is very thin. His blue denim jacket tends to drop off his shoulders and his jeans would be tight on others if not on him. He talks very quietly. Also very little.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>Thus when I inquired what motivated him to put out a live album of old material at this stage in his career, he replied quite simply that a mobile recording studio was available and he thought he might as well use it. And he was equally vague about the musicians who played with him on the concert and record.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>“There was Steve Hunter and Dick Wagner on guitars, Prakash John on bass, Whitey Glan on drums, Ray Colcord on bass and me on vocals. I don’t know whether I’ll be playing with them again, though. They all have private ambitions of their own.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>“I’ve almost got a band together of my own at the moment, but we haven’t rehearsed yet. It includes Doug Yule, who was in the Velvet Underground, and Steve Katz and I may play acoustic guitars or we may not depending on what happens.”</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>It seems that Lou had plans to go over to England to record with this new band during early May, but the power problems have put him off. “I think the English work harder in the studio,” he says, “but I can’t go there if there’s no power. The engineers seem to care more and they do more with less than the Americans do.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>“I’ve written plenty of material recently, more than enough for an album and I like it. I think it’s rock and roll. It has a drum,” he grins.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>I asked whether he preferred to work in the studio or onstage. Again his answer was vague. “I haven’t done either in such a long time that I really don’t know.” So why is it he doesn’t work too often? “My condition.” He was reluctant to amplify.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>I changed direction and mentioned David Bowie. “He’s very clever. We found we had a lot of things in common.”</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>I suggested his career took an uplift as a result of this flirtation but he wasn</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">’</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">t about to give Bowie any more credit than he felt was due. “David learned how to be hip,” he replied with a glint in his eye. “Associating with me brought his name out to a lot more people, too. He’s very good in the studio. In a manner of speaking he produced an album for me.”</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>But certain observers thought it was a step in the wrong direction for Reed. “People think a lot of things,” he replied.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>“I enjoyed those shows I did in London at the Rainbow, but I kept thinking, Frank Zappa fell 17 feet down into that pit. I hate Frank Zappa, and it made me so happy to think about that.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>“I like the direction my career is going right now. It has more direction and cohesiveness. I don’t think I’m a singer, with or without a guitar. I give dramatic readings that are almost my tunes. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Did you know that my real voice has never been heard? What they usually do in the studio is to speed up the vocal track and make my voice higher. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">I scream, when I play live because when you scream your voice goes up...like this – Sweet Jane,” he yelled.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>He paused: “I liked Mott The Hoople’s version of that song,” he went on. “I did a reference vocal for them. The one I really liked was Brownsville Station’s version of that song. I loved that. I hope they release it as a single.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>“I liked ‘Walk On The Wild Side’, too. I found the secret with that one. I was supposed to write a play called <i>The Walk On The Wild Side</i> and I read the book and wrote the song. Nothing came of the play but I wasn’t going to waste the time and energy I put into the song so I put it out.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>“People don’t deserve good lyrics because they never listen to them these days. That’s why the melody has to be good, When I have a lyric that I think everybody will like, I won’t drown it out, though. If it’s a secret lyric I’ll bury it. I don’t print lyrics on record sleeves, except with Berlin and then they wrote them with a quill pen, the stupid fuckers. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">They wrote them out in longhand because they thought that was chic. I could have killed them.”</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>Reed says he listens to very little music other than his own and The Kinks. He is a great admirer of Ray Davies. “I liked the Great Lost Kinks album where Ray stands revealed. I’d love to see them in a nice little cabaret setting singing their nice little songs.”</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>Reed says he is continually changing his appearance through boredom. “I found I couldn’t really solve the boredom by changing my appearance but at least I could stop some of the hassle. I don’t have to comb my hair now because there isn’t enough.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>At this stage in the interview, Steve Katz walked into the room. Katz, the former guitarist with Blood, Sweat & Tears, produced Reed’s live album, so I asked how he came to be involved with Reed.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>“I admire him as a person, musician and organiser,” said Reed. “I can’t organise anything. I have a lot of problems when it comes to organisation.”</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>For no apparent reason, Reed then launched into a seething criticism of Jefferson Airplane, expressing the view that they represented the worst in everything, both musical and ideally. “I hate everything about them, the way they dress, the way they look, the way they play, the cute name. I despise every San Francisco group except Moby Grape and they broke up.”</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>So I asked whether Lou had been to see Bob Dylan on the recent tour. “Are you kidding?” he replied. “I know what Bob Dylan looks like and he’s too short to see anyway. I saw the back of his head once. I didn’t want to go to see him, especially if he is giving his money to Israel. If he gave some to Israel and some to the Arabs it would be different.”</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>I mentioned the New York Dolls a band I thought Lou would like. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>“You know, I tried so hard to like the New York Dolls but I couldn’t. I like the titles of their songs. It’s such a shame. They’re just another glitter trash band.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>“I’m still mad that Fats Domino never made it properly. He could have been a blues artist in the tradition of Bessie Smith.”</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>And with that last comment, Reed offered a limp handshake and disappeared into the afternoon.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p></div><p><br /><br /><br /></p>Chris Charlesworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05459094285776329847noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960772098173697898.post-65077770623113339522024-03-03T05:52:00.000-08:002024-03-04T05:07:20.685-08:00ROCK & ROLL HALL OF FAME 2024 <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcjXWQb492hSqKcul5k50OvGp18vTI4x-vOZjWXakz0m2YFtWBkcrxUURNsI-L8yBh73XIlk6qogLMMNNj-qusVP8QqxVd0O-5v8zwDpEdOhI6fk2e_R-178ZNDpG3aq6YB-0iZLA07XXXjmweCZHZPRKC1qMri3LgX2k6V9sefLNXLmRsdFjItauCTk8/s640/image0%20(10).jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcjXWQb492hSqKcul5k50OvGp18vTI4x-vOZjWXakz0m2YFtWBkcrxUURNsI-L8yBh73XIlk6qogLMMNNj-qusVP8QqxVd0O-5v8zwDpEdOhI6fk2e_R-178ZNDpG3aq6YB-0iZLA07XXXjmweCZHZPRKC1qMri3LgX2k6V9sefLNXLmRsdFjItauCTk8/s320/image0%20(10).jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">For the first time since 1992, the year I was first invited to nominate inductees into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, I feel unable to select the required seven artists or groups from the list of nominees for the induction ceremony. This is partly to do with my belief that several of them don’t deserve to be in a Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, this because they have about as much to do with rock & roll as Pat Boone, or my own ignorance of their work, or that the music they produce is not to my taste.</span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Anyone who’s read any of my earlier posts on the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame will know that over the years I’ve become disillusioned with the quality of the acts inducted and the motivation of those who control this increasingly archaic institution. The former is conditioned by the latter insofar as this annual extravaganza seems to be fuelled by a need to sustain its commercial potential and this can only be done by opening its doors to more and more acts of lesser merit than those that preceded them. The inevitable result is a lowering of standards. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I apologise if that sounds a bit pompous, a bit ‘it was better in my day’ but that’s the way I feel and I don’t think I’m alone in this. Either way, as it has done for donkey</span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">’</span><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">s years, the nomination form landed on my doormat last week. For 2024, I am asked to choose seven acts from the following 15: Mary J. Blige, Mariah Carey, Cher, The Dave Matthews Band, Eric B & Rakim, Foreigner, Peter Frampton, Jane’s Addiction, Kool & The Gang, Lenny Kravitz, Oasis, Sinéad O’Connor, Ozzy Osbourne, Sade and A Tribe Called Quest.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So, let’s begin a process of elimination by ruling out those who don’t belong in the R&R HoF. Eric B & Rakim and A Tribe Called Quest are both successful hip-hop acts who certainly qualify for the Hip-Hop Hall of Fame in New York but not for the R&R HoF (any more than Ozzy would qualify for the Hip-Hop HoF); Mariah Carey and Sade are smooth MoR/pop acts with contrasting voices and Mary J. Blige a smooth soul act (and pretty damn good too). Next come those about whom I am ignorant. I confess to a 100% unfamiliarity with the work of the Dave Matthews Band, whose profile in the UK is limited, to say the least, a 75% unfamiliarity with Lenny Kravitz, and, not much liking heavy metal (at least since my 1970s flirtation with Led Zep and Deep Purple), haven’t bothered much with Foreigner or Ozzy away from Sabbath, not that I was much a fan of them either. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>With nine eliminated I am left with six, one less than the seven I’m supposed to nominate: Cher, Frampton, Jane’s Addiction, Kool & The Gang, Oasis and Sinéad. Cher has been knocking around since 1965 when she and her former husband Sonny Bono topped the charts with ‘I Got You Babe’, sort of entry level Dylan, which I rather liked, and I approve of her association with Abba in the second of their <i>Mama Mia!</i> films, so she’ll get my vote. Peter Frampton, too, has been knocking around for ages, and I happen to know he’s a nice bloke, so that’s vote number two. Jane’s Addiction are nicely alternative and what I’ve heard leads me to believe their hearts are in the right place, so they’ll get my vote. Kool & The Gang are also veterans and I remember seeing them in the US around 1975 or ’6, another of those soul acts with so many members funkin’ it up on stage you didn’t know where to look. They persevered and I can still hum two slightly later songs of theirs, ‘Ladies Night’ and ‘Get Down On It’, so they’ll get my vote.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Which leaves Oasis and Sinéad. To a certain extent I’m swayed by nationalist pride in lending my support to Oasis (not least because the HoF traditionally favours Americans) but the real reason why I’ll vote for them – and the reason why they probably won’t be inducted – is because Noel and Liam are likely to come to blows on the rostrum, which I’d love to see. Also, they’re expected to perform together <i>in their original line-up</i>, which might prove troublesome too.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Finally, Sinéad. Sufficient to say that if I was required to vote for one artist from all 15, she’d be the one I’d pick. Sinéad has, in the vernacular of the constabulary, been a person of interest to me ever since I first heard (and saw the video for) her breath-taking reading of Prince’s ‘Nothing Compares To You’ and I know I’m far from alone in this. Early in her career I went to see her at the Royal Albert Hall and was mesmerised by this waiflike creature, especially when she produced a beat-box and danced a jig to one of her songs, arms straight down her sides, high stepping <i>Riverdance</i> style. Her first two albums, <i>The Lion And The Cobra</i> and <i>I Do Not Want What I Haven’t Got</i>, have been favourites of mine for years, and I tried to keep up with her music while her antics made headlines, not always for the right reasons.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>But all of this can seem virtually insignificant against her fearlessness, most especially her stance against the ills of the Roman Catholic church in her home country and much else besides. A true heroine for righteous causes galore, Sinéad ought to have been nominated for the R&R HoF in 2012, 25 years after <i>The Lion And The Cobra </i>arrived, this being the length of time required to elapse between the release of an artist’s first record and when they become eligible. Far be it from me to suggest that since Sinéad O’Connor left us in 2023, and is consequently no longer around to be awkward, to say something people might not want to hear on their stage, this is what prompted the R&R HoF to include her amongst the 2024 nominations. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> Finally, if you go on to the R&R HoF</span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">’</span><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span>s website you can place a fans</span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">’</span><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> vote. I</span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">’</span><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span>ve already done this for </span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Sinéad but she languishes in 10th place from the 16 nominees. Ozzy is top, Foreigner at number two, Frampton at three and Matthews on four, a bit predictable I suppose. I am given to understand that this vote influences who will be inducted but is by no means conclusive. </span></p><div><br /></div>Chris Charlesworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05459094285776329847noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960772098173697898.post-48500785965991672492024-02-28T04:00:00.000-08:002024-02-28T04:46:21.099-08:00<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitYuW81pHg16xbQ-wo7dmTZhiGd_ESel4l7lnC-Djla2NQi1dZ-VPbcMaSlZFxIS6p0Fs0qPRLBP8HgNMeaE_3jpUCIqYAmxGbG7gsBIzrzVjJ7qfzJLZmSg2-NN-0rdm_nR6C2n68E1_7oya91fzbMrOUlgZIC1nh0Ju5PVlaiD3q50BuIJsEIbMm0B8/s225/download-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitYuW81pHg16xbQ-wo7dmTZhiGd_ESel4l7lnC-Djla2NQi1dZ-VPbcMaSlZFxIS6p0Fs0qPRLBP8HgNMeaE_3jpUCIqYAmxGbG7gsBIzrzVjJ7qfzJLZmSg2-NN-0rdm_nR6C2n68E1_7oya91fzbMrOUlgZIC1nh0Ju5PVlaiD3q50BuIJsEIbMm0B8/s1600/download-1.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><p><i>The New York Dolls presented me with a dilemma when I was </i>Melody Make<i>r’s man in America. My predecessor in that role, Roy Hollingworth, adored them, declaring them the future of rock’n’roll, and such was his enthusiasm that it seemed churlish for those that followed not to share it, to some extent anyway. There was much to admire about them, not least their us against the world attitude, a stance that was respected by all music writers who harboured a militant streak, but at the same time they could be very loose, almost to the point of incompetence. </i></p></span><p></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>They were social animals, hanging out in New York bars like Max’s Kansas City and Ashley’s where musicians gathered, and I got to know their singer David Johansen and his girlfriend Cyrinda Foxe, a beautiful blonde who left him for Steve Tyler, the singer with Aerosmith, whom she married. My pal Bob Gruen loved the Dolls too, and this only added to my dilemma when it came to writing about them. </i></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><i>Fifty years ago last week I watched them headline over Elliott Murphey at the Academy of Music in New York, and this was my rather orthodox review for </i>MM</span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-style: italic;">’</span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-style: italic;">s Caught In The Act page, dated February 23, 1974. </span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">A noticeable aspect of the current rock scene here is the number of artists who are very directly influenced by musicians from the sixties. Generally, these fall into two schools – those with Dylan leanings and those with Rolling Stones leanings.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>The Dylan school encompasses a string of “thinking” lyric-writing electric guitar players who front their own bands and seem to be reliving Dylan’s <i>Blond On Blonde</i> era. The Stones school includes hordes of bands who are out to shock and outrage and whose musical ability is far surpassed by their physical appearance and apparent enthusiasm.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>Elliott Murphey belongs to the former school and the New York Dolls to the latter. Both appeared at the Academy of Music on Friday evening, the Dolls headlining in front of a sell-out crowd that was partisan to say the least.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>Enough words have been written about the Dolls in these pages recently to encircle the globe, but it seems only fair to point out that their prowess as musicians does seem to have increased since the last time I saw them – four months ago at the Whiskey in Los Angeles. Nevertheless, of course, there isn’t a shadow of originality about their entire performance, based so obviously on the Rolling Stones that one tends to think that maybe it’s some kind of Mike Yarwood of rock and roll up there on stage.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>The early half of their set – which began with a film of themselves – was surprisingly tight. They’ve obviously been rehearsing recently and taken instant courses on how to play guitars. The latter half, however, descended into a deafening musical abyss, all stemming from David Johansen’s vocal work which gradually lost its pitch amidst his enthusiasm. By the end he was yelling his head off.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>But the Dolls are the Dolls and in New York it doesn’t really matter how well or badly they play.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>Elliott Murphey, on the other hand, had to work hard but even then his music seemed lost on the Dolls aficionados. While Murphey’s band does have its flaws, the man himself has star quality. He plays an electric guitar well, writes some good songs and stands squat about the stage as if he means business. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>Murphey’s band includes an excellent drummer, his own brother on bass and a keyboard and rhythm guitarist. The second guitar player might as well not have been there – his contribution was a big zero – while the organist, too, seemed held back. Murphey, in white suit and shades, is the obvious star of the proceedings and some of his guitar licks were both tasteful and original.</span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Chris Charlesworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05459094285776329847noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960772098173697898.post-81611780548115543202024-02-22T06:26:00.000-08:002024-02-22T09:47:45.436-08:00JOE COCKER, Sheffield, January 1971<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Fifty-three years ago last month </i>Melody Maker<i> got word that Joe Cocker, who’d spent most of 1970 on the road with Mad Dogs & Englishmen, had returned to his home town of Sheffield and, unlikely as it might seem, was back living with his mum and dad. Editor Ray Coleman suggested I drive up to Sheffield, find out where ma and pa Cocker lived and pay him a visit. </i></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Joe was a big star then. In the current era it is unheard of for a music writer to simply roll up at a big star’s home uninvited and knock on the door. It was taking a bit of a liberty even then but Ray liked to subvert convention so I did as he suggested. I drove up the M1 very early on a Saturday morning, discovered his address in the Steel Bank area of Sheffield by inquiring at a music shop where, luckily, someone knew him and knocked on the door. He was still in bed but his mum and dad roused him. While his mum made him breakfast, we spent about an hour chatting before strolling down the street to his local pub and chatting some more. I left him on the corner of the street where he lived and drove to Skipton, spending the night at my dad’s house before driving back down to London. Back in the office on Monday, this is what I wrote for the January 16, 1971, edition of MM. It was trailered on the front page as Joe Cocker: What Can I Do Next? </i></span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5XVvkwEGUG8W2OF94dImugWR6aALZbHe9-cjMiT6IFzZpd1z4fGKHTwYXvF_L53Q_vDcRkSpk92URjGwYMELgPvGSjfCaDAmK5C2JTQhZHi_RKOU-5KLybV2ltnY3NvLowzdyqLby1vKgXkHdhMvpipUz8PMWT-Et61XdQP8NsYdqHztA81Zs71zR15Y/s230/download-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="230" data-original-width="219" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5XVvkwEGUG8W2OF94dImugWR6aALZbHe9-cjMiT6IFzZpd1z4fGKHTwYXvF_L53Q_vDcRkSpk92URjGwYMELgPvGSjfCaDAmK5C2JTQhZHi_RKOU-5KLybV2ltnY3NvLowzdyqLby1vKgXkHdhMvpipUz8PMWT-Et61XdQP8NsYdqHztA81Zs71zR15Y/s1600/download-1.jpg" width="219" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Joe Cocker’s turned full circle. Los Angeles, the Mad Dogs & Englishmen, the Woodstock nation and bad trips are a far cry from the backstreets of Sheffield. But Joe’s come back. He’s living at home with his mum and dad and that’s where he’s content to be – for the time being at least.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>Tasker Road is stretch of terraced houses. Mr and Mrs Cocker and their son Joe live at number 38. There’s a brand new Rover 2000TC standing outside. The shiny new motor looks a bit of out of place against the shabbier ’64 models parked around it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>Joe’s dad answers my knock. He is surprised to see me which isn’t surprising because he didn’t know I was coming. Neither did Joe, who is in bed, and is equally surprised that <i>Melody Maker</i> is visiting him at his Yorkshire home. “He was a bit late in last night,” explains father Cocker. “Went to a friend’s house. Unusual for him. First time he’s been out in a while.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>Five minutes, a chat with dad about the weather and Joe appears, grinning. He’s grown a beard and his untidy curly hair reaches his shoulders. The pot belly is still there. He seems genuinely pleased to see <i>Melody Maker</i> on home ground. In his red polo neck sweater and blue cords – no familiar tie-dyed vest up here – he confesses he hasn’t much to say. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>We’re in the small living room, huddled around a gas fire. It’s one of those houses where the front room is reserved for weddings and funerals only. <i>MM</i> interviews aren’t in that class.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>“I came home about three weeks ago,” Joe tells me. “I had been in the States since March. I wanted to come home for Christmas. I don’t know why.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>“Tell me about Mad Dogs & Englishmen,” I say.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>Joe lights a cigarette, his first of the day. “Well, the reports in the papers about it were pretty true,” he says. “I just went to America to meet Leon Russell with the intention of getting a group together. I met Chris Stainton and Leon and they got all their buddies to join. It finished up with us all going on tour together. Somebody filmed it and they are supposed to be putting this two and a half hour film out. They had 60 hours of film.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>“I don’t know how many cities we visited. We just worked seven days a week and kept going. They kept putting in dates here and there. The band kept changing because nobody could stick it all the down the line. At times there were about 40 of us, musicians, socialisers and choirs going from place to place in a plane. A girl in the choir had a dog that used to come up on stage with us most of the time.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>“After the tour we made the album. Somehow, I can’t think it about now but everyone made a big fuss about it at the time. I liked the idea of getting a big band together to make a living with but everybody got too closed in about it.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>Joe sits in silence, his mind somewhere far away. It seems he doesn’t really want to talk about the Mad Dogs. It’s over – according to Joe – and it won’t happen again. After Joe’s mum had served us another cup of tea I asked Joe about his plans for the future?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>“I’ll be living in England for a while now,” he says. “I’m looking for a house near London and I’ll be rockin’ on all right. Right now, I’m having a rethink. I seem to have gone the full circle and now I’m back in Sheffield.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>“As far as playing goes, I’m just not there at the moment. These days everyone seems to analyse lyrics and that annoys me. I start singing and people pick up the lyrics and make side-waves (sic) from them. I despair when people are thinking too much about what you are singing. Audiences will say anything, no matter what you are. I’m going to try and sharpen up my diction a bit so people can hear me. I don’t know when I’ll go back on the road again. I’m getting my own things together but there’s a bit of a delay. Just before I came back to England I was in the studio at Muscle Shoals doing some new stuff with Chris. There as Wayne Perkins, a nephew of Carl, on guitar and Jim Keltner on drums. We just composed as we went along.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>Any chance of you teaming up with Leon on his upcoming British tour?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>“No, there’s not much chance of that. I don’t fancy the idea of just getting up and messing about. He’s touring right across the country and I’m sure to see him somewhere along the line. There was talk at some time that Leon and the whole Mad Dogs crew would all fly to Britain for some shows but it didn’t work out. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>“The feeling at the end of the tour was entirely different from the start. My attitude changed a lot. If you have a group of five people, they are all on the same thought wave but when you have that many people on stage everybody is thinking different. I mean some people’s heads weren’t on stage at all times. When it was finished I was quite happy it was all over.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>“The change in me will show eventually but I’ve got to sit down and think about it first and I don’t know how long that will take. I know I don’t want to go out and do the same songs again, although the audiences expect me to sing them. I want to write some new stuff. We must have performed some 60 dozen times and that’s too many times for me.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>By now it was opening time and the pub down the road seemed inviting. Joe is no stranger to the Mason’s Arms. Old men twice his age greet him over the racing pages of the daily papers, puffing at pipes and frowning into the froth on their pints.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>“Now then Joe lad, o’reet?” says the chap behind the bar. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>“Aye, not so bad,” Joe replies.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>“On ‘oliday Joe lad?” asks another gent.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>“Aye, that’s right,” says Joe.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>We take our pints to a corner table and talk about the current music scene. Joe doesn’t seem to have any favourites at the moment. “Nothing has zonked me out recently,” he says. “Although I saw Procol Harum and they made a big impression on me.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>We discussed a few bands, the Who, Deep Purple, Beatles and the wave of heavy groups who all seem to sound like Led Zeppelin. Joe doesn’t say much, just nods, grins and smokes cigarettes. After three quick pints he’s ready to go. He used to play in Sheffield pubs like this before the world heard about him.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>I don’t think he’ll ever sing in places like this again. In fact, it may be a long while before he sings anywhere again. But don’t worry about Joe. He’ll get by – with a little help from his friends.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Chris Charlesworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05459094285776329847noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960772098173697898.post-85147043035006570122024-02-09T10:59:00.000-08:002024-02-12T02:31:59.963-08:00The Last Dinner Party – Prelude To Ecstasy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH2v8dkifhSmTqda8B3Q5nkhaUDnQ5_PS8My_5N9Bkq1pLxTe1bKihyphenhyphenCEm5p6oYa03OfDu221XbbKINNI3CbqNZExm5eXPjNM3n6CRni7jTE9yM2SzUi91IDTzYz4QolxL0UuLVl7gzoqdkTP1mwtsulqT_dte1GETaIGLmBiX4-0Z3cTnrCuMFS4xKho/s225/download-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH2v8dkifhSmTqda8B3Q5nkhaUDnQ5_PS8My_5N9Bkq1pLxTe1bKihyphenhyphenCEm5p6oYa03OfDu221XbbKINNI3CbqNZExm5eXPjNM3n6CRni7jTE9yM2SzUi91IDTzYz4QolxL0UuLVl7gzoqdkTP1mwtsulqT_dte1GETaIGLmBiX4-0Z3cTnrCuMFS4xKho/s1600/download-1.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I am far more than 10 minutes fashionably late for this particular dinner party but until I read about The Last Dinner Party, a quintet of women who perform, dress and behave most extravagantly, I was unfamiliar with the term ‘industry plant’. Turns out it is a derogatory expression meaning an act that has been calculatingly nurtured for instant success by power brokers in the music business, managed by a heavy hitter, signed to a label with clout and given the sort of VIP fast-lane treatment that assured wealthy Tory spivs of lucrative contracts to supply PPE equipment during the 2019 Covid outbreak, the most prominent of whom is the shameless Baroness Michelle Mone. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>In my day ‘industry plant’ was called hype, and once this label attached itself to an act they had a hard time overcoming it. It took Brinsley Schwartz several years to live down the decision to fly music writers to New York to see them at the Fillmore in 1970, and among others that spring to mind are Sigue Sigue Sputnik, Transvision Vamp and Gay Dad, all of whom fell by the wayside pretty quickly. Then again, when you look at the circumstances surrounding their arrival, Led Zeppelin had all the advantages of an ‘industry plant’: powerful management, Atlantic Records and plenty of publicity. The big difference, of course, was that Jimmy Page and John Paul Jones were seasoned musicians. And they did it the hard way, by gigging like fuck. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>The members of The Last Dinner Party sound like seasoned musicians too. Their guitar player Emily Roberts paid her dues in a Queen tribute band while keyboard player Aurora Nishevci – and I hope to hell that’s her real Christian name – sounds like no stranger to the conservatoire. The focal point, however, is singer Abigail Morris, a Helena Bonham Carter lookalike, who channels Kate Bush and Florence Welch in athletic grace while reaching for high notes like Dusty, who always seemed to me like she was plucking them from the air above her beehive. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>They’ve been around since 2021, sensibly putting in the work – and gathering a following – before recording <i>Prelude To Ecstasy</i>, their debut album, which was released to some fanfare earlier this month, and it’s shot into the album charts at number one, hence the ‘industry plant’ allegation. By all accounts, however, they honed their craft during Covid lockdown and emerged as fully-grown birds of a feather, drawing attention to themselves with their flamboyant period dress sense, all flounce and ladylike, Bennet Sisters meet Emma Stone in <i>Poor Things</i>, with added quirkiness.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>The music they produce is as flamboyant as their look, a careful blend of prog rock, sweet(ish) harmonies and songs with unexpected twists and turns, Sparks meets early Roxy Music with Kate Bush taking over from Russ and Bryan. The first time I heard ‘Nothing Matters’, their single rising in the charts, however, I thought it was Abba, or at least Frida, letting loose on a variation of ‘Our Last Summer’, until it reached the chorus, a rip-roaring singalong that’s quite irresistible. “I will fuck you, like nothing matters,” sings Abigail, and I’m still trying to work out whether this means she’ll do so with extreme vigour or without a second thought, or both. Either way, it’s an impressive, seductive debut, and for safety’s sake they deliver a more decorous G-rated version – “I will hold you, like nothing matters” – where appropriate. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>I first saw TLDP performing ‘Nothing Matters’ on Jools a couple of weeks ago and was struck by their look as well as its hook. I’ve now invested in the album and I’m not disappointed. It opens and closes with dramatic, orchestral fanfares, a bold start, like arriving on stage on a zip wire, which I wouldn’t put past them, or something like that. The songs that follow are produced to an exceptionally high standard of clarity by James Ford, whose CV reads like a Who’s Who of the best of this century’s British pop, and who has injected a dollop of Florence </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Welch</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">’s</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> melodrama in</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">to TLDP. There’s a gothic, slightly tragic quality to the lyrics, plenty of blood, some throat ripping, and while none of the choruses are as immediate as ‘Nothing Matters’, it’s growing on me, especially ‘Our Lady of Mercy’, ‘Burn Alive’ and ‘Beautiful Boy’, with its lilting melody and a touch of </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">Godfather</i><span style="font-family: verdana;"> soundtrack in its haunting intro. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">‘</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Gjuda</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">’, sung in Albanian, is a choral wash that leads directly into the pulsating </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">‘</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Sinner</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">’</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">, another likely stage favourite. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>A glance at TLDP’s website tells me they’re booked up to October when concerts at what used to be the Hammersmith Odeon (it’s called the Eventim Apollo now and holds 5,000) are already sold out. Before that they’re touring heavily in Europe and the US, all of which leads me to believe that they are approaching their calling by performing anywhere and everywhere. I take my hat off to them for doing it the hard way. As Led Zeppelin and a few of their peers knew, nothing matters beyond gigging like fuck. </span></p><div><br /></div>Chris Charlesworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05459094285776329847noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960772098173697898.post-78169538756512696872024-01-19T01:02:00.000-08:002024-01-19T02:30:26.633-08:00MUIREANN BRADLEY – I Kept These Old Blues<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPKp1PWEiAZx8ZORfv3cQykK0EAXuDxexkawLGPcfs5HINBxw93EmyaYNPbcST-LQQyb5xjxOGgCbGdroCeZlqP9izLaF_L9WcyFLmb98m3WUZtPrjpCAvIK02LVQ0HSwk7NSrX5vN495j6vonefxyVoNl1-Lp0ka09m9IHbXVwUeHHvsWs5pi2gP9R64/s225/download.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPKp1PWEiAZx8ZORfv3cQykK0EAXuDxexkawLGPcfs5HINBxw93EmyaYNPbcST-LQQyb5xjxOGgCbGdroCeZlqP9izLaF_L9WcyFLmb98m3WUZtPrjpCAvIK02LVQ0HSwk7NSrX5vN495j6vonefxyVoNl1-Lp0ka09m9IHbXVwUeHHvsWs5pi2gP9R64/s1600/download.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">If, like me, you were out on the lash on New Year’s Eve and as a result missed Muireann Bradley on Jools’ hootenanny I can only hope that, like me, you took the trouble to record it in the hope that a gem might be lurking among the more predictable turns. Seems I did the right thing for about half way through, after Rod Stewart and others, the stage was cleared and the lights dimmed for a single spotlight to pick out a shy looking teenage girl sat on a stool, her long dark hair solemnly centre-parted, her acoustic guitar looking way too big for her. </span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Moments later she was picking away like a lonesome old blueswoman, midnight on a Mississippi porch with nuttin’ but a jar of moonshine and a hungry bobcat for company. </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">‘</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Candyman,’ she sang in a high-pitched, girly voice, ‘salty dog,’ repeating those lines two or three times, shifting up to a higher register now and then, while her fingers did the business. Three and a half minutes later she closed out the song with a nifty little bent note up on the fifth fret. ‘I wish I was in New Orleans, just sittin’ on a candy stand.’ The applause was the loudest of the night.</span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Muireann turned 17 in December. According to her notes on <i>I Kept These Old Blues,</i> her debut album, which I ordered on January 2, she grew up steeped in old blues thanks to her dad, who played this style of music on his guitar and, starting when she was nine, taught his daughter to play too. She honed her skills during Covid when her preferred pastime of combat sports was curtailed by lockdown. Beyond the health benefits, it’s hard to pinpoint how lockdown advanced lives but Muireann’s accomplished guitar picking is certainly among them. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Researching ‘Candyman’ I got confused. It’s the title of a song by Mississippi John Hurt (1893-1966) but what Muireann played was ‘Candyman Salty Dog’, a tune by the Rev Gary Davis (1896-1972), a blind bluesman much admired by Bob Dylan and others. It’s the opening song on her record, 12 tracks in all that show off her dexterity and, to an extent, playfulness among blues and ragtime classics by Hurt, Elizabeth Cotton and others, her arrangements inspired by Stefan Grossman, Dave Van Ronk and John Fahey, whose records I’ve savoured since the early seventies when I was given one to review. In an era dominated by bland televised talent shows, there’s something enormously reassuring about how this music has been interpreted so wholeheartedly by a teenage girl from Ballybofey in County Donegal. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Grossman has evidently given Muireann the nod of approval, which isn’t surprising as her Travis picking style is way up there on the instrumentals ‘Vestapol’ and the quicker ‘Buck Dancer’s Choice’. Also, it’s rather charming to hear one so young sing, “All my life, I’ve been a travelling gal” on ‘Police Sergeant Blues’, while the expressive strength she brings to ‘Delia’, a song about the murder of a 14-year-old girl covered by Bob Dylan and, of all people, Pat Boone, belies her age too. The closing track is a beguiling take on ‘Freight Train’, ever so cleanly picked, which I first heard in 1957, aged ten, by Chas McDevitt’s Skiffle Group, sung by Nancy Whiskey. On the internet, though not on this CD, you can see her tackle ‘When The Levee Breaks’ by Memphis Minnie and Kansas Joe McCoy, famously covered by Led Zeppelin, not that their version sounds remotely like Muireann. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>While the CD might open Muireann to accusations that her work is little more than an imitation of the musicians that have inspired her, her friskiness suggests otherwise. Here and there she jumps out at you with an unexpected lick or vocal tease. To me, the record is more a tribute, while her skills suggest it won’t be long before she creates her own body of work in this style. If I’m still on the porch with my moonshine I’ll be buying it.</span></p><div><br /></div>Chris Charlesworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05459094285776329847noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960772098173697898.post-54911046741816376192024-01-16T05:09:00.000-08:002024-01-16T07:05:44.868-08:00BEE GEES: Children Of The World by Bob Stanley<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkaB6J3aPtXF-F6RLIHuL58qGUAf0pBp191IGRJTvyWtRV5cZKZhWAydIPrAZjNeuVPRV7-nmowneg03sICTglewm2fSP22l8FTBjnq_lC4XGcjFL_FTAzpOLZxE30T9Y9Z8UacnAhHb4KZ08si8OrLrI5TMdUVdCaL2I4Gm1xoGNS6viDlTJpNYg9YhU/s275/download.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="183" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkaB6J3aPtXF-F6RLIHuL58qGUAf0pBp191IGRJTvyWtRV5cZKZhWAydIPrAZjNeuVPRV7-nmowneg03sICTglewm2fSP22l8FTBjnq_lC4XGcjFL_FTAzpOLZxE30T9Y9Z8UacnAhHb4KZ08si8OrLrI5TMdUVdCaL2I4Gm1xoGNS6viDlTJpNYg9YhU/s1600/download.jpg" width="183" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">“The Bee Gees didn’t fit in,” observes Bob Stanley at the start of <i>Children Of The World</i>, his new biography of the Gibb brothers. He’s quite right. In my own dealings with them for <i>Melody Maker</i> in the first half of the seventies I felt they were removed from the mainstream of pop life, in a parallel world but somehow apart, somehow cloistered by their familiarity with one another. This created within them an ‘us against the world’ attitude which, coupled with an adolescent, slightly naïve, arrogance, meant they would never be fashionable, never cool, never given the respect their hit-making track record deserved. “In spite of their great success, they seemed somehow easy to mock,” writes Stanley, drawing attention to a lack of self-awareness that invited cynicism, especially from music press staffers who enjoyed bursting balloons. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>Bob Stanley knows his pop. A founder member of St Etienne and a dedicated convert to all things indie, he writes about music with the air of someone unafraid to offer judgements unlikely to sit well with accepted theory, ever keen to challenge, ever keen to seek out an undiscovered gem. To write a substantial book about The Bee Gees that analyses their music admiringly, most especially dozens of songs that weren’t hits, might be considered courageous – but for me to say that is to slip into the trap that Stanley identifies early in his book, the back-handed compliment, the suggestion that whatever good reviews the Bee Gees received were “distant”. “No other group has had to consistently defend themselves, their approach and their music,” he writes.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><i>Children Of The World</i> does its best to rectify this. Stanley is clearly a fan but is unafraid to investigate the fault lines in a musical career that began on a Manchester stage in 1957 when Barry was 11 and twins Robin and Maurice eight, and continued until 2003 when Maurice’s death brought the curtain down. In between times they sold more than 250 million records in all kinds of styles, wrote numerous hits for others, filled the world’s biggest stadia on the road and, until Michael Jackson’s <i>Thriller</i>, were the principal contributors to world’ best-selling LP, the soundtrack to <i>Saturday Night Fever.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>In 2001 I commissioned and edited <i>Tales of The Brothers Gibb</i>, a 730-page doorstopper whose three authors investigated every facet of the Gibb family to produce what I thought was the definitive Bee Gees book that couldn’t be bettered. What it lacked, however, was the critical nous that Stanley brings to <i>Children Of The World</i>, and also his literary ability to compress the endlessly fascinating biographical details of the Gibb’s life into a book just over half that length. Furthermore, his understanding of the bigger picture enables him to place The Bee Gees into context, comparing their fate with fellow-travellers, to which end he opens each chapter with the top ten for that particular moment, and to draw judicious comparisons with that other group of three brothers, The Beach Boys. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>We follow the Gibb family from extreme poverty – Barry, Maurice and Robin really were juvenile delinquents – to unimagined wealth that enabled them to sue manager Robert Stigwood for $200 million in 1980, only to be countersued for $300 million. (It was settled out of court.) We learn about their nomadic early life, from Manchester – where the family often did a midnight flight to avoid the rent man – to the Isle of Man to Australia and back to the UK, to London, thence to LA and finally Miami. We learn about their lack of education – Maurice and Robin left school at 13, as did tragic younger brother Andy – and how this contributed to the slightly disjointed lyrics in their songs, which – as with Abba – did them no harm at all. We learn about their brotherly intuition, how they were able to finish one another’s sentences, and the occasional fall outs, usually instigated by Robin’s stubborn diva tendencies, or Barry’s oppressive ‘big brother’ controlling manner, with Maurice often in the role of calming arbitrator. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>But most of all we learn about their resilience, how they were able to mould their songs to the times, to pick themselves up and start again after setbacks and, most importantly, to fall back on their skills as songwriters to see them through periods when it looked like we’d seen the last of them. “We’re durable, persistent little buggers,” says Robin. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>It’s an epic tale of highs and lows well told, not without the odd error but a book those slightly strange, deeply sensitive, immensely talented Gibb Brothers deserve. It contains 27 pages of discography but no photographs, for which I’d dock it one star, but this is no doubt due to financial constraints on the part of the publisher. </span></p><div><br /></div>Chris Charlesworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05459094285776329847noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960772098173697898.post-70643715126442744112023-11-13T03:53:00.000-08:002023-11-13T06:28:28.058-08:00FLY AWAY PAUL by Lesley-Ann Jones<p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZrGMXcmRks3gh5WMxqaVjlunn3uJ58pKyT-kfEZPS1ejFCVnIavMH17o7UZ9K4inBPKYCeH8Jf0P5Aas9lWTfI-BwbQO3A3qWcI3d7Kqo2da7iuctRKl3dHmNVPdf7V4AttXj_WrvFXcMwFOfxXhxHfEmf-xNIFXfiS6gLz8P0kGNVpzsIpXx-eq7_3k/s279/download.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="279" data-original-width="181" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZrGMXcmRks3gh5WMxqaVjlunn3uJ58pKyT-kfEZPS1ejFCVnIavMH17o7UZ9K4inBPKYCeH8Jf0P5Aas9lWTfI-BwbQO3A3qWcI3d7Kqo2da7iuctRKl3dHmNVPdf7V4AttXj_WrvFXcMwFOfxXhxHfEmf-xNIFXfiS6gLz8P0kGNVpzsIpXx-eq7_3k/s1600/download.jpg" width="181" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Earlier this year I reviewed <i>The McCartney Legacy Volume 1 – 1969-73</i> by Allan Kozinn & Adrian Sinclair, a 700+ page book that covered this period of Paul McCartney’s life in extraordinary detail, perhaps too much so, though I was sure obsessive fans would love it. Now along comes <i>Fly Away Paul</i> which, to a certain extent, covers the same period, albeit in a far more reader-friendly fashion, with less emphasis on the minutiae of recording sessions and more on how events, both past and present, shaped the life and personality of the former Beatle who turned 81 in June, most especially how he coped with losing the group he loved.</span><p></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Not too well, according to Lesley-Ann Jones, a prolific writer of books about musicians in which she seeks not so much to tell their story as psychoanalyse their characters through scrutinising their past, their loves and their music. Paul McCartney, robbed of his mother at 14, precociously talented, ever anxious to please yet somewhat of a control freak and foil for the caustic jibes of John Lennon, serially promiscuous until he found The One, offers fertile ground for investigation, Jones’ speciality, inherited from her journalist father, a distinguished sports writer, and honed during an ongoing career writing feature articles for national dailies. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>To this end, Jones delves deeper into the personal and domestic life of the McCartney family than is to be found in other McCartney books on my shelves, which serves to make it considerably more interesting than the album/tour/year off and around again cycle that fills page after page of too many duller rock books. Thanks to Jones, I now know all about the history of ownership of High Park Farm, Paul’s Scottish hideaway, a remote and austere abode, its climate unforgiving, where the first Mrs McCartney not only coped with Spartan furnishings, but nursed her man back to life after a nervous breakdown brought on by all the fussing and fighting. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In Jones’ telling Linda, with whom she was on first name terms, was precisely what the footloose McCartney required, a home-maker unconcerned with outward appearances whose inner strength delivered to Paul the antidote to the madness that surrounded The Beatles, to wit much needed stability in the form of a ready-made family of one daughter, soon to be augmented by two more, followed by a son. For the most part, <i>Fly Away Paul</i> dwells on the closeness that Paul and Linda enjoyed during an unusually long and happy marriage in a business where separations and divorce are all too frequent, and how she faced down negative comments over her role in her husband</span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">’</span><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">s post-Beatle group Wings. Linda’s passing, which occurs towards the end of the book, is dealt with sensitively, while Paul’s subsequent ill-fated relationship with Heather Mills, outside of the book’s dateline, is mentioned only briefly, as is the infinitely more suitable wife number three, Nancy Shevell. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Clearly a fan, Jones is generous in her appreciation of McCartney and Wings’ music, correctly identifying the song ‘Maybe I’m Amazed’ and 1973 LP <i>Band On The Run</i> as the stand-out items in an ever-lengthening post Beatles catalogue, but she’s generous to other LPs too, citing them as marker points in her teenage life. The formation of Wings, their early concerts and McCartney’s desire that, even with him on board, they could somehow start from scratch offers plenty of opportunity for comment on Paul’s rather naïve optimism. </span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Though much of the biographical information in <i>Fly Away Paul</i> can be accessed in Beatle and McCartney literature elsewhere, Jones has a way of conveying it to suit her mission. It’s not communicated chronologically – there are leaps that would stump a pole-vaulter – but it all makes sense in the context of her rather spiritual book. She’s not above bringing herself into the story when her paths cross with the McCartneys and while this might be perceived as a bit of name-dropping, there’s rhyme and reason for these diversions and if nothing else they serve to authenticate her opinions, which are liberally scattered throughout, sometimes in the form of questions she answers herself, at other times left hanging. If there is a flaw, it’s unwieldy detours into areas only tangentially connected with McCartney: among them several pages on the topic of session musicians, Scottish pipe bands and even the fate of Jo Jo Laine, an appealing, high-spirited girl of immodest disposition who set her sights on Paul but ended up marrying Wingman Denny Laine and, before her death in 2006, engaged in a sex act with a transsexual in the Cabinet War Rooms. (Paul wasn’t present.) </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Oddly, <i>Fly Away Paul </i>opens with a sort of memorial, a list of deceased, beginning with those associated with The Beatles and following on with a random bunch, the purpose of the exercise seemingly to comment on Paul’s longevity. “Why me?” Jones muses, assuming the mind of her subject. Happily, it closes with her wishing him many more years of ‘extraordinary odyssey’. “Long may the Beatle dwell among us,” she concludes.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHsRAOFpWtgzAodvafRJiEfuyKCHI_OxekPLo57Mr76-WUw9I-rnKtaefkjT0GhheeuVG4jmT9JQsblWkyzTuDBpRnLyubIl7JbmWpURVfiL8MKcAnqeelsgmWG0qy_aLQhWaOQuOFkZj3GR-VdppcOou0i4sPxrtRgaBJtJ-4PPEUA9cqSnRxoNqVzuA/s344/download-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="146" data-original-width="344" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHsRAOFpWtgzAodvafRJiEfuyKCHI_OxekPLo57Mr76-WUw9I-rnKtaefkjT0GhheeuVG4jmT9JQsblWkyzTuDBpRnLyubIl7JbmWpURVfiL8MKcAnqeelsgmWG0qy_aLQhWaOQuOFkZj3GR-VdppcOou0i4sPxrtRgaBJtJ-4PPEUA9cqSnRxoNqVzuA/s320/download-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>The not overlong 265-page book has an eight-page photo section, and a further 73 pages with an up-to-date McCartney timeline, extensive chapter notes, random quotes from interested observers (including this writer) and an index. </span></p><div><br /></div>Chris Charlesworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05459094285776329847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960772098173697898.post-86552519904266478082023-11-04T10:05:00.004-07:002023-11-06T03:16:37.653-08:00THE BEATLES: NOW AND THEN<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG3GA-PDdVH-aw5BmeOO0_5vm3bpxnpofblTEtm6YcNG5nUlmQ84BoJvDXwiVJWaaPyhYHnhQnBWoZJQnoAZ_HjhAmATE6hlC7nuxaBepk4F2Hl9Ftx9awJdSFx_r51DqS9EaU6Qr9sp4u84ErIyGglF5qjAEqriHvSFpX21GXiGWCpWF1h4oakLFPAj8/s225/download-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG3GA-PDdVH-aw5BmeOO0_5vm3bpxnpofblTEtm6YcNG5nUlmQ84BoJvDXwiVJWaaPyhYHnhQnBWoZJQnoAZ_HjhAmATE6hlC7nuxaBepk4F2Hl9Ftx9awJdSFx_r51DqS9EaU6Qr9sp4u84ErIyGglF5qjAEqriHvSFpX21GXiGWCpWF1h4oakLFPAj8/s1600/download-1.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; text-align: left;"></span></div></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">T</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">here is no escaping the tenderness of ‘Now And Then’, the ‘new’ Beatles single; a melancholy hankering for the era when The Beatles were young and happy and close and in love with the music they were making, above all making it together. John, its principal vocalist and the writer of the song, acknowledges the group’s closure with sadness in his heart. “Now and then I miss you,” he sings. “Now and then I want you to be there for me.” It’s almost as if he intended that one day the others might hear it and read within its lyrics a simple message to the three of them: for all we’ve been through, for all we might have said, for all the fussing and fighting, it’s been great to have you alongside me. And I’m still here if you want to call. That he wasn’t there to be called adds a further level of poignancy to this parting shot from the group who changed everything. </span></div><div><div><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Rightly, ‘Now And Then’ has been lauded as a vast improvement on ‘Free As A Bird and ‘Real Love’, the other two songs resurrected from the demo tape that Yoko gave to Paul when he was seeking something new to add to the <i>Anthology</i> albums The Beatles released in the 1990s. By all accounts ‘Now And Then’ was deemed unsatisfactory at the time, with George the principal naysayer, but advances in technology since then, largely the result of methods pioneered by film producer Peter Jackson on the <i>Get Back</i> film, have enabled Paul and Ringo to rework the song, overdubbing guitars and additional vocals on to John’s piano and lead vocal. Paul had added a slide guitar solo and fills reminiscent of George’s distinctive keening style, the guitar that gently wept. </span></span></div><div><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>George’s reluctance to pursue the song seems difficult to understand now. The simple, wistful melody of ‘Now And Then’ is on a par with ‘Imagine’; the ringing acoustic guitar that joins John’s keyboard in the opening lines reminds me of George’s acoustic strumming in ‘My Sweet Lord’; Ringo’s metronomic rimshots cement the melody into place, adding muscle; and when Paul joins John on the chorus the wonderful choral landscape that lifted so many of the songs they wrote, or were credited with writing, together is recreated as if by magic. Just after the half way mark there’s a harmonic chorus, surely Paul double-tracked, maybe with Ringo, that sounds as if it was lifted from outtakes from <i>Abbey Road</i>. It launches the guitar solo, enhanced by strings, the production now full and fat, setting the scene for John’s closing vocal. By the end it’s as if we’ve been listening to a song that could have graced any of the Beatles post-1966 LPs. </span></span></div><div><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Of course, it’s quite possible that John intended this to be a love song to Yoko. He was writing hymns to her a lot during the period he made this demo, but like all the best songs its meaning is ambiguous. It can mean what you want and in the minds of the Beatle fans in Liverpool who queued up overnight to buy it first thing yesterday morning it can mean only one thing: John still loved his fellow Beatles after he abandoned the group as much as he did during the 1960s. </span></span></div><div><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>There’s an assumption that ‘Now And Then’ finally closes the door on The Beatles story. I don’t think it does. Paul will still sing Beatle songs for as long as he tours. Ringo will sing ‘Yellow Submarine’ if called upon to do so. Both will continue to be asked questions about this period of their lives (whether they like it or not). We will all continue to mourn John and George. When all four have passed their music will live on, continually inspiring young musicians. Books will continue to be written. Their story will be told again and again. The Beatles will always be now, as well as then.</span></span></div><div><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A top-quality video has been produced to accompany ‘Now And Then’ which features footage of The Beatles at various stages in their career, cleverly positioning them as if they are playing the song, its lovely closing sequence is a sort of fast rewind, all the way back to when they were children. You can view it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Opxhh9Oh3rg</span></span></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><br /></div></div>Chris Charlesworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05459094285776329847noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960772098173697898.post-44217896130977511752023-10-19T10:06:00.004-07:002023-10-19T10:47:41.825-07:00 WHO'S EXHAUSTED? Is "Too Much of Everything"... too much?<p><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">I have known Tony Fletcher since the mid-1980s when he wrote his first book for Omnibus Press, on Echo & The Bunnymen. He's since written many more, of course, among them Dear Boy: The Life Of Keith Moon, also published by Omnibus, which many regard as among the greatest rock biographies in print. Most recently Tony has posted some of the interviews he did for Dear Boy on Substack, which can be accessed here: </span><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://tonyfletcher.substack.com/&source=gmail&ust=1697818066835000&usg=AOvVaw2TtKM93EX83QMpEAl8W5nM" href="https://tonyfletcher.substack.com/" id="m_-6413364908319181245LPlnkOWALinkPreview" style="background-color: white; color: #1155cc; font-family: Aptos, Aptos_EmbeddedFont, Aptos_MSFontService, Calibri, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" target="_blank">https://tonyfletcher.substack.<wbr></wbr>com/</a></i></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Tony has also written a great review of the recent </i>Who's Next Super Deluxe<i> box set which he has suggested might find a home on Just Backdated, so with his approval I have posted it below (web link:</i></span><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://tonyfletcher.substack.com/p/whos-exhausted&source=gmail&ust=1697818066835000&usg=AOvVaw2bqT09IPi0a7G7ols5MkCQ" href="https://tonyfletcher.substack.com/p/whos-exhausted" id="m_-6413364908319181245LPlnkOWALinkPreview_1" style="background-color: white; color: #1155cc; font-family: Aptos, Aptos_EmbeddedFont, Aptos_MSFontService, Calibri, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" target="_blank">https://tonyfletcher.substack.<wbr></wbr>com/p/whos-exhausted</a>). </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-FKzsJk3o5MJN6K1FHmJCZY-LB_AZBROqhVPrQ5c00PpJBZjjnnQGTf7izas6sXoHTqHeoDPkbo-9zGcECdlhZZsa5z_CUqxDf16OaGQ6e6BFYmoCtrh6MOLbYmiYOxNhmDkw98whYFKtfm4bhinuUel-350DjG1Mn60Vdqprgv6EHAyQtU7h-ymKFnE/s1080/29f316e8-72ae-44fd-8182-13d737349c19_1080x1080.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-FKzsJk3o5MJN6K1FHmJCZY-LB_AZBROqhVPrQ5c00PpJBZjjnnQGTf7izas6sXoHTqHeoDPkbo-9zGcECdlhZZsa5z_CUqxDf16OaGQ6e6BFYmoCtrh6MOLbYmiYOxNhmDkw98whYFKtfm4bhinuUel-350DjG1Mn60Vdqprgv6EHAyQtU7h-ymKFnE/s320/29f316e8-72ae-44fd-8182-13d737349c19_1080x1080.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Back when I was writing <i>Dear Boy</i>, tracking down rare recordings by The Who was detective work, and I loved it. On the days that someone would send me a cassette in the mail of something never officially released, I’d have an extra spring in my step. Alternate versions were a bonus elitist treat, though I had a more humbling discovery when I found a collection of just about every UK Who 7” single ever at a shop in Newquay, bought the lot – they were fairly priced and in excellent condition - and quickly discovered that the “I’m A Boy” and “I Can See For Miles” that I had grown up with on the seminal compilation <i>Meaty Beaty Big and Bouncy</i> were not, in fact, the original 7” versions.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">After the book was published, tapes started showing up more regularly. A very good person with a very generous heart and possibly the most extensive collection of Who live recordings on the planet took it upon himself, as a mark of gratitude for my contribution to Whodom, to send me VHS tapes of rare shows, including Tanglewood 1970, and the San Francisco Cow Palace 1973, legendary filmed concerts both, though for very different reasons. But then he moved onto CDs, and my mailbox started to groan under the weight of new packages containing home-burned live Who discs. While it was wonderful to feel so appreciated, I eventually had to beg him to stop; even in my late 30s, I knew that there just weren’t enough eight-minute blocks left in my life to listen to yet another live version of “Won’t Get Fooled Again”…</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">…Which is probably how even the most ardent of Who fans felt upon seeing that a new <i>Who’s Next/Life House (Super Deluxe)</i> package was to drop in mid-September, with a 10-CD plus BluRay plus 172 page graphic novel plus 100-page extensive liner notes book with contributions from Pete Townshend but of course as well as from Andy Neill and Matt Kent, plus various so-called souvenir paraphernalia for those who have around $250-$300 to spare, and with all nine-and-a-half hours of music nonetheless provided on the streaming platforms for those of us who don’t. Me, I have spent a lot of money on the Who over the years – contrary to what you my think, the limits of my relationship with the group is that I occasionally get access to their own block of prime-seating concert tickets, which of course comes at a prime-seating price – and I balked at the prospect of shelling out this kind of lump sum for physical copies of bonus recordings that I may or may not already own, even if there was the prospect that somewhere within that 172-page graphic novel and 100 pages of liner notes, we might all now finally discover what Lifehouse was meant to be all about.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Certainly, nobody but Townshend himself knew at the time, and it was incumbent upon producer Glyn Johns to insist to the band’s composer and all-round genius visionary that he climb down from his lofty ambition of a cosmic rock opera to topple Tommy and instead, with his bandmates’ full-throttled endorsement and encouragement, get on with selecting and recording the best dozen or so songs from an extensive catalogue of demos and abandoned Kit Lambert productions in New York (more of which later), go into Olympic Studios in London for a fresh session, and see where it left them.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Where did it leave them? Only with the Greatest Rock Album Ever, of course. Just nine songs eventually, clocking in at what was then a maximum hi-fidelity LP’s length of 43 minutes and 45 seconds. Nothing superfluous, no bonus cuts, no over-riding concept, not even a gatefold sleeve, just a picture of four blokes pissing against an obelisk and with it, a new blueprint for rock. We should leave it there in turn.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">But we won’t. Because naturally, and if only because The Who means more to me than any other band on earth, I have waded through all eight hours and 45 minutes of new <i>Super Deluxe</i> bonus material, and found that sure enough, amidst the music that was never intended for original release, and amidst all that which has trickled out on other previous Deluxe packages though now assembled in correct contextual place, there are enough absolute gems to merit a 12-song playlist –a Single Bonus CD if you can find one that will run 84 minutes. (The Spotify playlist follows at the end of this article.) My thanks to the person who sent me Andy Neill’s extensive track-by-track notes for six of the nine additional discs, which has helped me dig down and cherry-pick from the following categories:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">1: Pete Townshend demos: For the most part, Townshend was a consummate enough songwriter and musician that he typically supplied the band with completely finished arrangements, requiring of the rhythm section only that they improve upon his rudimentary playing – and being that the rhythm section was John Entwistle and Keith Moon that wasn’t a tall order. When it came to the vocals, however, there was always the awkward truth that Townshend was (and remains) a superb singer, and that for many listeners, his softer, more yearning tone, if not always preferable to Roger Daltrey’s, certainly supplied the crucial counter to the front man’s classic roar. Where would “Baba O’Riley” truly be, for example, without Pete singing the “teenage wasteland” breakdown?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Indeed, for all those who refer to that song as “Teenage Wasteland” because it seems so obviously the song’s natural title, it turns out that Pete originally felt the same way. Intriguingly, his early demo of the song that would become Who’s Next’s opening track starts not with the defining organ refrain, but piano and acoustic guitar, the “Out here in the fields” opening verse afforded an entirely different melody, as is that eventual middle section “Don’t cry, don’t raise your eye…” Indeed, the song is halfway through its seven-minute workout before we finally get a recognizable Who’s Next melody – the “Sally take my hand” line. Until then, it is effectively a different song entirely, albeit one with familiar lyrics.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Only later did Townshend develop the metronomic, arpeggiated refrain on his Lowry organ (not on an ARP synthesizer as commonly believed) that would become one of the most recognizable riffs of all time. And when he did, he blissed out on it – wouldn’t you? - laying it down as a 13-minute instrumental entitled “Baba O’Riley” that is mind-blowing for being so far ahead of its time, Townshend toying with EQ filters about twenty years before the first techno DJs and artists took such ideas onto the nightclub dance floors.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Listening to the two demos back-to-back, as I place them on my playlist though they come at opposite ends of CD2 on the Super Deluxe package, offers a fascinating insight into the songwriting process, for at a certain point it obviously occurred to Townshend to set the former composition to the latter’s arrangement, change tunes accordingly, and edit that lengthy bliss-out into something more closely resembling a rock song. The rest, as they say, was history.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Also on these two discs is a beautiful, and remarkably complete demo of what was then simply called “Too Much,” a song performed live at the time of the sessions, duly recorded for <i>Who’s Next</i>, but not released (as “Too Much of Anything”) until <i>Odds And Sods</i> in 1974. In case you didn’t already know or merely guess as much, the song’s concluding chorus line “Too Much of Everything… is too much for me” served to inspire this article’s subtitle.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Pete’s early demo of “Behind Blue Eyes” also merits inclusion because of its tenderness and for how, my earlier comment about finished arrangements aside, the song does not kick into fourth gear with the famous middle section (“When my fist clenches…”), but rather continues in the same gentle vein, Pete harmonizing with himself where Daltrey later soared solo. Historically, it is hard to argue against a <i>Who’s Next</i> rock rendition that formed part of the 1970s rock canon and my own musical education with it, but there are reasons to claim that this is a more emotional and satisfying rendition.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">2: Unreleased Songs: There’s an obvious temptation to say that if Townshend’s songs weren’t good enough to make it into the studio or live show at the time, they probably weren’t good enough, period, and in the cases of “Mary,” “Greyhound Girl” and perhaps even “There’s a Fortune In Those Hills,” I am tempted to agree. But “Finally Over” – not to be confused with “The Song Is Over” – is an absolute treasure, proof that Pete Townshend’s toenail clippings are better than most songwriters’ career masterpieces and, perhaps, an opportunity missed.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">3: Record Plant recordings: This is the supposedly disastrous week-long session in New York, with manager/producer Kit Lambert ostensibly at the controls but emotionally AWOL. Again, the argument against releasing this these cuts (though many already have seen light of day on earlier Deluxe packages) is that if the Who rejected them at the time, why subject us to their confessed failures this far down the line? And it’s true, most of these preserved takes – the pick of the week’s crop, according to the sleeve notes - are inferior to <i>Who’s Next</i>, lacking cohesion, concentration and drive.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Nonetheless, I actually prefer this rendition of “Love Ain’t For Keeping” with Leslie West on lead guitar along with an uncredited organ player from Patti LaBelle’s band: it’s harder, more direct, less frivolous, evidently benefiting from being recorded live-to-tape.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Ditto “I’m In Tune” as it was then known, for similar reasons. Additionally, there’s a particular melodic vitality to John Entwistle’s bass playing on these New York sessions that I would argue is superior to the eventual recordings at Olympic Studios in London. Compare this cut with the “Getting In Tune” from <i>Who’s Next</i> and tell me you don’t agree.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">4: Alternate edits: There’s a good reason that most songs have vocals on them, and there’s an equally good reason that some are edited down. Still, for those of us who came of age marveling at the majesty of Nicky Hopkin’s piano playing, being afforded a version of “The Song Is Over” stripped of all vocals allows that majesty to shine with all due regality. And for those like me – and admittedly there may not be many – whose first exposure to The Who was the 1972 single “Join Together” and who then was subjected to a ten-year quest to find a physical copy of the non-LP 45, having an extra 90 seconds of music here makes up for lost time. A little.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">“Join Together,” btw, was just the third in a series of once-a-year non-LP singles that started with “The Seeker” in 1970, added “Let’s See Action” in ‘71 and concluded with “Relay” in ‘73, though you can factor in “Long Live Rock” too, which was recorded in the same period and eventually released in 1979 to promote the documentary <i>The Kids Are Alright</i>. All five A-sides and their generally excellent B-sides are included here in various official and bonus forms. “Join Together” is still the only Who cut I have ever dared to DJ for a nightclub dancefloor – and only once at that; where was the 13-minute “Baba O’Riley” instrumental when I needed it?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">5: Live recordings. By this point in their unending career, we the dedicated followers of fashion have surely had enough official Who live recordings to take us through not just the rest of this life but the next one, too. Nonetheless, four of the nine bonus CDs here are culled from two distinct, lengthy concerts. The first was at the Young Vic Theatre in Waterloo, London – not the rehearsal shows with which Townshend originally hoped to cement his vision of audience engagement, but rather one consigned to tape via the Stones’ 16-track mobile studio on April 26, 1971, halfway through the recording process as an attempt to document their current state of play. Reviews I’ve read of the box set have repeated Andy Neill’s sleeve note assertion that the performances are “tentative” and to an extent that is true, but the actual arrangements are far more developed already by this point than that might lead you to believe, and the fact that they have not yet reached the Epic, Classic Rock status is occasionally a winning argument.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">As proof, I offer up both “Naked Eye” – a song that just failed to make the album at the time – and, perhaps controversially, “Won’t Get Fooled Again.” I really like this version: it is more relaxed, loose, and raw than it would soon become, not yet acknowledged by an arena-sized audience as an Anthem of a Generation, and there is a reason to adopt it as a personal keepsake going forwards; the definitive studio recording version will show up on your local classic rock station soon enough anyway.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The last two CDs are given over to a concert at the Civic Auditorium in San Francisco eight months later, on December 13 1971, parts of which have been released officially over the years, and which in its entirety here is already being held aloft as a peak period piece, The Who at their early-1970s unrivalled in-concert best. It’s hard to disagree – the band are absolutely on fire </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">–</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> and for all that I have had a copy of this concert on the aforementioned gifted CDs for the last 25 years or so, it turns out mine was only a truncated edit of the show, absent much of <i>Tommy</i> (which is not relevant to this particular conversation) and the truly incendiary nine-minute version of Holland-Dozier-Holland’s “Baby Don’t You Do It.” A live staple at the time, and one that showed up on the back of “Join Together” in deftly edited fashion, it serves to remind everyone that for all the legend around the writing, recording and performing of <i>Who’s Next/Life House</i>, at heart The Who were an R&B band brought up on Black American music, and that nobody, but nobody, butchered it – in the most professional sense of this vegan’s reluctant used of the verb – better.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">And with this, we can only hope that The Life House Song Cycle Saga is, indeed, finally over. Whatever <i>Lifehouse</i> was imagined to be, and however much Pete Townshend may have felt his inability to capture it at the time represented some sort of Epic Fail, he can now hopefully retire in the knowledge that he put everything out there eventually, 172-page graphic novel and all. His extensive efforts at the time to rewire popular music were hardly in vain: not only did they give us <i>Who’s Next</i>, the Greatest Rock Album Ever, but a series of non-album A-sides and B-sides equally unrivalled during the early 1970s. Along the way, The Who transformed additionally into the Greatest Live Band Ever as well, and it’s to the Super Deluxe package’s ultimate acclaim that, despite its frighteningly obsessive and overwrought breadth and depth, it renders these claims not so much of a subjective opinion as an objective fact.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Tony Fletcher, October 2023.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">[i] Of the various reviews I have read to help me along, Alexis Petridis on Super Deluxe Edition – yes, there is a website of that name – sums up the confusion surrounding Lifehouse best. “Retold in the box set’s 100-page book, the saga of Life House’s making is so extraordinarily convoluted and confused, so filled with cross-purposes, misunderstanding and – occasionally – straightforward sabotage, that this writer confesses he ended up frantically taking notes: not as preparation for this review, but just in a desperate attempt to try and keep up with what was going on… The best moment in the book may come when Townshend furiously protests that “when people say I didn’t know what the fuck I was talking about, what they’re actually doing is revealing their own complete idiocy because the idea is SO FUCKING SIMPLE”, which, with all due respect, sounds remarkably like something you’d say if you had succeeded in completely confusing yourself.”</span></p><div><br /></div>Chris Charlesworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05459094285776329847noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960772098173697898.post-90632963503105348962023-10-10T02:57:00.000-07:002023-10-10T02:57:17.256-07:00THIS GUITAR HAS SECONDS TO LIVE: A People’s History Of The Who by Richard Houghton<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS6EobZjFU7w9Q7tTHC00Psyt7fRLRgRlF3qvhURHHLOq3WXqe6FSdBEK89W2M18pajijHcayWEAV6EErI_r2hUBR1eaWEisoL9NFWiPhzeQ7NBzpset3zwLvz01DZdZ1F_FmOhiawKiVjnUAEBpMNoluit2yY4EotxWIw4OaV3AJgFsQIQg0ErwK9Vek/s225/download-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS6EobZjFU7w9Q7tTHC00Psyt7fRLRgRlF3qvhURHHLOq3WXqe6FSdBEK89W2M18pajijHcayWEAV6EErI_r2hUBR1eaWEisoL9NFWiPhzeQ7NBzpset3zwLvz01DZdZ1F_FmOhiawKiVjnUAEBpMNoluit2yY4EotxWIw4OaV3AJgFsQIQg0ErwK9Vek/s1600/download-2.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">It’s a poster, a t-shirt and now a book cover. <i>This Guitar Has Seconds To Live</i> is the name bestowed upon a famous photograph taken at an infamous Who concert. The photographer was Nigel Dickson who was on hand at the Odeon Theatre in Newcastle on November 5, 1973, Bonfire Night no less, to witness a Pete Townshend meltdown of colossal proportions. Incensed at the failure of the <i>Quadrophenia</i> backing takes to function to his liking, Pete demolished everything in sight, tapes included, and assaulted long-suffering soundman Bobby Pridden, causing a 25-minute stoppage before the concert resumed, <i>Quadrophenia</i> abandoned.</span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Also on hand were Who fans Bill Monks, Peter Smith, Jim Robson, Ian Potts, Colin Petersen, Brian Dickinson, Brian Goulden and John Robson, all of whom offer their accounts of the concert and its aftermath in this book, which is in fact a new edition of Richard Houghton’s <i>The Who: I Was There</i>, published by Red Planet in 2017 and reviewed on Just Backdated here: https://justbackdated.blogspot.com/2017/06/the-who-i-was-there-by-richard-houghton.html</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Of all the fans, the most loquacious is Peter Smith who reports that during <i>Quadrophenia</i>, “[They] got as far as ‘5.15’ [about half way through – CC] when things started to go wrong. The backing tapes they used to play along with weren’t working correctly, and apparently not at all during ‘5.15’. Pete went crazy, totally losing it. From upstairs we could see him shouting at someone to the side of the stage; he then started punching the guy and smashed his guitar to the floor of the stage. He started ripping wires out of their equipment. Roger, John and Keith were just staring at him, wondering what on earth he was doing. The theatre obviously realised that something was going seriously wrong, and they dropped the big white safety curtain.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“We sat in darkness for 15 or 20 minutes until the band reappeared. The Who launched into ‘Magic Bus’ followed by a lengthy jam and finished by playing ‘My Generation’ for a second time. Pete was in a wild, strange mood, swearing at us all, calling us ‘fucking bastards’. I recall being very upset with him and shouting back at him, as did many others. He then smashed his Gibson guitar, threw one of his amps to the ground and Keith crashed through his drums, knocking them all over the stage. They received thunderous applause as they left the stage.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It had been a strange, surreal and brilliant night. We went home on the train, everyone talking about what they had just witnessed.”</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>By all accounts Bob Pridden walked out of the theatre after the incident, hotly pursued by manager Bill Curbishley and lighting man John Wolff who persuaded him to return. To add insult to injury, Pridden was obliged to stump up for a new Gibson Les Paul because he was the only one in the entourage with sufficient cash on him to buy one from a Newcastle instrument shop. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The following night Pete and Keith appeared on the local TV show <i>Look North</i>, confirming that the two other shows booked at the Newcastle Odeon would go ahead as planned. Pete was a bit sheepish and didn’t say much but when Keith was asked if he felt that fans were disappointed, he replied: “Well, nobody asked for their money back, did they?”</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The new, retitled edition of <i>The Who: I Was There</i> is much improved, a large format hardback with 368 pages, printed on art paper which enhances the photographs, many of them carried forward from the old book. </span></span></p><div><br /></div>Chris Charlesworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05459094285776329847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960772098173697898.post-48840011139390600142023-10-06T05:02:00.002-07:002023-10-06T06:37:56.328-07:00IMMEDIATE – The Rise & Fall of the UK’s First Independent Record Label by Simon Spence<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvB3PFA54ekNnhjY2rN2klO0Urm2z2WYLF4kese2iE7OuJgGKCpuFtlrbPxTKQJXjQGWHssyG34MwOlbtgBJ_wDUI4gUOkmU9cNyRrCCqygRa95ybquOWlC-a7TOd9gXPbkIS6PKJMU9z2YqKTsdJ8dSdBAw37pyUsNfl1OREMCGBA6ejf2V8gJ3JK5Hk/s1500/51FlS-MDBEL._SL1500_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="956" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvB3PFA54ekNnhjY2rN2klO0Urm2z2WYLF4kese2iE7OuJgGKCpuFtlrbPxTKQJXjQGWHssyG34MwOlbtgBJ_wDUI4gUOkmU9cNyRrCCqygRa95ybquOWlC-a7TOd9gXPbkIS6PKJMU9z2YqKTsdJ8dSdBAw37pyUsNfl1OREMCGBA6ejf2V8gJ3JK5Hk/s320/51FlS-MDBEL._SL1500_.jpg" width="204" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The major theme of this book about Andrew Oldham’s Immediate Records bears a striking resemblance to the rise and fall of the Tory government led by Boris Johnson. In charge of both were reckless, over confident ne’er do wells who arrived with the wind in their sails, squandered vast amounts of money and goodwill, and left with their tail between their legs. Both relished disorder, made enemies galore and had a lasting impact, not necessarily for the better, on the milieu in which they served. And both profited enormously from the mess they left behind. </span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Oldham was terrible,” says music journalist and PR Keith Altham. “He was rude, obnoxious, bad-tempered. He humiliated people and he was dreadful.”</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Much the same thing, of course, can be said of man who occupied 10 Downing Street between 2019 and 2022. The big difference is that while Johnson has left behind a heap of nothing, Oldham’s legacy is a heap of great music. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Andrew Loog Oldham – the Loog was the surname of the father who was killed before he was born, Oldham his mother’s name – shook up the complacent sixties British record industry by throwing two grenades into its midst, then sat back to watch the chaos he engineered. He threw the first by promoting The Rolling Stones, whom he managed during the early part of their career, and then, even more impishly, threw another when he and his partner Tony Calder launched Immediate Records, the UK’s first truly independent exclusively pop-focused record label, the precursor to them all – Track, Chrysalis, Island, Charisma, Stiff and many others. Fearless and unrestrained, Oldham changed the record industry from a comfortable berth for middle-aged men in suits to a free-for-all populated by rebels like him, spivs in their twenties, duckers and divers, free thinkers and free loaders, and brilliant mavericks with nowhere else to go.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Simon Spence’s very readable book, which explains how all this came about, has had an erratic publishing history since it was first published as a large-format illustrated title in 2008. Simon updated it in 2012, and it will soon be available again, text only, through Backstage Books, a small publisher specialising in music titles in which he has a vested interest. It is immensely detailed insofar as it mentions just about every record that Immediate ever released, and chronicles in equal detail the irresponsible behaviour that brought about the label’s downfall. It features a cast of luminaries from the world of rock from Mick and Keith of the Stones on down, not least Jimmy Page who was for a time Immediate’s A&R man and go-to guitarist for studio work, often alongside arranger John Paul Jones. Then there’s the saga of The Small Faces, covered equally well in <i>All Or Nothing</i>, Simon’s warts-and-all oral biography of Steve Marriott, and other hit makers like Chris Farlowe, Amen Corner and PP Arnold.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Oldham’s motive for launching Immediate was his dissatisfaction with the UK’s major labels, principally Decca to whom the Stones were signed, which reflects the origins other indies insofar as The Who’s managers launched Track, Jethro Tull and Ten Years After’s managers launched Chrysalis and The Nice’s manager launched Charisma. Unlike the men behind those labels, however, Oldham was unable to bring to his label his biggest client, the Stones, and thus ensure a solid foundation. Instead he went out and signed everyone and anyone that caught his ear, with the result that the label’s policy seemed scattershot; adventurous certainly but hardly likely to bring in the cash that commercial success would ensure. For that he relied on his own ability to gather up funds wherever and however he could, not always with probity uppermost on his mind. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Oldham’s dreams and schemes are the meat of Simon’s book. While it’s all very commendable to read about all the acts and their records (and the numerous detailed biographical footnotes), it is Oldham’s erratic, often cocaine-fuelled behaviour, aided and abetted by the more restrained Calder, that make this a page turner. What’s more it didn’t pay to cross him. During the sessions for <i>Own Up</i>, an ambitious album by an Oldham hopeful called Twice As Much, members of a string ensemble were overheard disparaging the group’s work in the toilet. Writes Simon: “Oldham obtained all their names and booked them again on a really hot day, turned the air con off and had nothing for them to play. He just sat in front of them for three hours.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>This is but one of many eye-opening anecdotes recalled in the book. Oldham would blame Immediate’s ultimate demise on everyone around him, mostly the inability of Columbia Records to promote the label’s acts sufficiently in the USA, but the truth was he was out to lunch most of the time, let potential stars slip through his fingers and threw good money after bad. “Oldham was never a dishonest person, just nutty,” says Ken East, manager director of EMI at the time Immediate went under. “He was just so up in the air about everything.” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Just like that straw-haired PM. </span></p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p><p><br /></p>Chris Charlesworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05459094285776329847noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960772098173697898.post-12310067784083921172023-09-29T02:06:00.013-07:002023-10-08T03:41:40.088-07:00WHATEVER HAPPENED TO SLADE?: When The Whole World Went Crazee by Daryl Easlea<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLfwtX5R9eiS8KZAJrDh_Q833uSRSdRIOvCX7EaLR5TuVEZwQ3KLe-6ZuX9aOb52qghPsTlPjlb8OTUQwQCVb39Mn60E7K1eTjP_gYTbNGSoEonoXCdFo47pVsA8JmUwncAmRrlbtKGg5Yu2zezK2gkRAjHdqlPRTKCahGDWYUHwNBACmF3CThFEi5N24/s2764/WhateverHappenedtoSlade_CVRv3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2764" data-original-width="1843" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLfwtX5R9eiS8KZAJrDh_Q833uSRSdRIOvCX7EaLR5TuVEZwQ3KLe-6ZuX9aOb52qghPsTlPjlb8OTUQwQCVb39Mn60E7K1eTjP_gYTbNGSoEonoXCdFo47pVsA8JmUwncAmRrlbtKGg5Yu2zezK2gkRAjHdqlPRTKCahGDWYUHwNBACmF3CThFEi5N24/s320/WhateverHappenedtoSlade_CVRv3.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">At last! At last an author with insight, sympathy and commitment has written a substantial book about Slade that dissects the highs and lows of a career that is unique in the annals of British pop. During the first half of the 1970s Slade were enormously successful, multiple UK chart-toppers that drew 18,000 fans to a show at Earls Court, yet they somehow lost their way, briefly found it again, then lost it for a second time. Try as they might, they never really recovered, and certainly never achieved the recognition they were due. “Slade have slipped between the cracks of pop history,” notes Bob Geldof in his Foreword to this book, but author Daryl Easlea is probably more on point when he writes: “[Slade] frequently appeared out of step with the time they were in and their position in the music industry in the 1970s.”</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">How did this happen? It’s the conundrum upon which </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">Whatever Happened To Slade?</i><span style="font-family: verdana;"> focuses and one I have wrestled with for years but first, before looking at the book in detail, I must declare an interest. The immediate benefit of joining the staff of </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">Melody Maker</i><span style="font-family: verdana;"> in 1970 was the opportunity to rub shoulders with my rock heroes, John Lennon and Pete Townshend in particular, but more lasting satisfaction came from discovering rock heroes for myself. Slade weren’t exactly unknown when I first encountered them but their fortunes were a bit shaky and needed a boost. An album and single released in 1969 went nowhere. When former Jimi Hendrix-manager Chas Chandler found them, an ill-advised and rather hasty image change to skinheads backfired, and the first three singles and album he produced for them also failed to set the world alight.</span></div><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I entered their story in October 1970, as things were getting desperate. Identifying them immediately as a terrific live band, well-drilled and bursting with energy, I wrote about them in <i>MM</i> accordingly. This was eight months before they had their first chart hit, so I was in at the beginning of their rise to glory if not the formation of the group, which can be traced back to 1966. Once within their orbit, however, I clung on for a topsy-turvy ride that lasted about five years. I don’t think any music writer wrote more about them than myself. I observed their extraordinary chart success, watched them grow as performers and saw them on stage many times in the UK, Continental Europe and America. I became their ‘official’ biographer in 1983, and contributed sleeve notes galore for both vinyl and CD albums, all the way up to 2005. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>The four members of Slade, Noddy Holder, Jim Lea, Dave Hill and Don Powell, and Chandler, became good friends of mine insofar as music writers can become friends of musicians, but it always seemed to me to be more meaningful than a mutually beneficial relationship contingent on my support in the media. (They were, incidentally, the only group of note <i>ever</i> to visit me in my homes, both in the UK and US.) However, I always knew that if I crossed an unspoken line the relationship might wither, as it may have done more recently, albeit not from the point of view of everyone involved, that is all four members of the group and their current management. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>I mention all this to set the record straight; an explanatory preamble to reviewing <i>Whatever Happened To Slade?</i>, the first biography of substance since my own which, in the meantime, has been joined by Holder’s two volumes of anecdotal memoirs and one each from Powell, which I commissioned and edited, and Hill. <i>Whatever Happened To Slade?</i> is bigger and better than any of them, far longer, far more detailed, far more considered, with far more attention paid to their music, and it is bang up to date, having been completed earlier this year after a lengthy gestation<span style="font-size: x-small;">*</span>. Furthermore, I was interviewed by its author, sent an early draft of the manuscript to ‘fact-check’ and my name appears in it 97 times.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgznxoy12gQD56JjvhNIXR5t2LSzaZ9TbRU9WZkjXZ80EBgat8XpedoN8D6RYWkNSBa3ZDlSWhFtG9r47D-6yx2UvTJJbryBQ4G7msOWak5brdqK5svdanruHkw0S-LlEe9SOvo_4Z07_NMSIRwDknlhIdvCd5tadBnYGzaCURju67dBLwkNowKRF_3PSI/s1600/Gatwick.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="1600" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgznxoy12gQD56JjvhNIXR5t2LSzaZ9TbRU9WZkjXZ80EBgat8XpedoN8D6RYWkNSBa3ZDlSWhFtG9r47D-6yx2UvTJJbryBQ4G7msOWak5brdqK5svdanruHkw0S-LlEe9SOvo_4Z07_NMSIRwDknlhIdvCd5tadBnYGzaCURju67dBLwkNowKRF_3PSI/s320/Gatwick.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;"><div style="text-align: center;">Your man from Just Backdated with the four members of Slade at Gatwick Airport, April 17, 1973. Noddy is doing his best to obscure me. </div><div style="text-align: center;">My copy of this shot is credited to Syndication International, a photo agency operating at the time. </div></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>So, I’m hardly impartial, but I can state without hesitation that what we have here is not only the nearest thing we are ever going to get to a definitive Slade biography but a book that, unlike my own, gains immeasurably from having been written with the benefit of hindsight; that takes into account perceptions and trends in popular music that did Slade no favours in the long term. Having worked within the music business as well as writing extensively about those who create the product on which it depends, Easlea knows how it operates and is therefore well placed to analyse the highs and lows of Slade’s frankly bizarre career. He’s also good at setting the scene, placing them (and how they dressed) within everything else that was happening in the 1970s, political, social and musical. Although the book isn’t ‘authorised’ per se, I happen to know that two members of the group, sympathetic to its aims, assisted in its research, and he’s spoken to numerous people who observed their ups and downs, several fellow musicians, some of whom appeared as support acts to Slade in their heyday, others who admire them greatly as well as present-day music critics and industry figures. Nevertheless, the two most important support staff who might have helped his inquiries, manager Chandler and long-serving tour manager Graham ‘Swin’ Swinnerton, died in 1996 and 2015 respectively. Specialist music industry accountant Colin Newman, who has handled their business affairs since Chandler gave up the reins in the early 1980s, has not been involved. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>It’s unnecessary for me to go into detail about their career, but Daryl Easlea covers all the bases: how the four eventually found one another from among the West Midlands beat group scene of the mid-sixties, bonded while playing hundreds of semi-pro (and then pro) gigs as The ’NBetweens, including a four-month season in the Bahamas that has echoes of The Beatles in Hamburg, and stumbled into an early record deal that went nowhere. In 1969 they were taken on by Chandler and, two years later, had a minor hit with ‘Get Down And Get With It’, a raucous cover of a Little Richard bone-shaker. Once they’d got their foot in the door, however, there was no stopping them. With Chandler producing, Lea composing the music and Holder the lyrics, a glorious run of stomping hit singles with calculatingly misspelt titles followed: 12 top ten placings between 1971 and 1974, including six number ones, and three number one LPs, which positions them statistically and unequivocally as the top UK chart act of the era. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Simultaneously, their five-year stage apprenticeship ensured scores of concerts were not only instant sell-outs but knees-ups that raised the rafters in theatres of ever-increasing size throughout the UK and elsewhere. Holder, with his powerful voice, and the never-underdressed Hill were zealous OTT showmen; Lea, an accomplished multi-instrumentalist, and sturdy drummer Powell, a strapping, unswerving backbone. The sum of it all was one of the UK’s greatest ever rock’n’roll showbands, unforgettable performers to their legions of fans. Easlea covers all of this in fine and entertaining detail. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Slade’s ascent reached its apex at that legendary 1973 Earls Court concert, almost immediately after which Powell was seriously injured in a motor accident in which his girlfriend was killed. By a slightly macabre quirk of fate, this event marked a turning point in the group’s fortunes and, thereafter, things would never be quite the same. <i>Slade In Flame</i>, their movie, was brave but uncharacteristically bitter and hit the wrong note, and no sooner had Powell recovered, at least partially, than they opted to relocate to the US in a forlorn attempt to replicate their UK success there. When after 18 months they abandoned their American dream, the UK had gone cold on them. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>The period that followed is, to my mind, more interesting than their rise, and was certainly more appealing to Lea, a theorist distrustful of the celebrity thrust upon him. With their backs against the wall, Slade fought doggedly against a tide of indifference, heroically refusing to concede defeat. In the eyes of many, this perseverance was as impressive as their run of hits, and Easlea tracks their bumpy progress well, not least in terms of analysing the music they continued to produce, much of which, he correctly points out, was as good as anything they’d recorded earlier. Trouble was, Slade was passé and few were listening. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Then, out of the blue, there was the renaissance that followed a barnstorming appearance at the 1980 Reading Festival, bringing about a resurgence in popularity that didn’t quite match their earlier triumphs but was certainly well earned. By this time their influence was being felt by others, most notably Kiss and Cheap Trick (and possibly even Bruce Springsteen), who saw in them a template for mixing rock chops with high-spirited showmanship. All of this might even have translated into success in America at last were it not for a bit of bad luck, bad timing and ill-health. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Slade last toured in 1984 and though new records, some produced by Lea, continued to be released for the remainder of the decade, enthusiasm in the ranks was on the wane. While no official announcement was ever made, the group ceased collective endeavour following an impromptu appearance at a fan convention in Walsall in April, 1991. Holder, who hadn’t wanted to do it, was furious at being coerced into appearing on stage and, ever since, has resolutely opposed a reunion. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>The final chapters cover all of this and beyond and, in part, answer the question posed by the title: whatever happened to Slade? But the reality is far more complex and, after covering the post-Slade activities of the individuals, Easlea concludes his book by dipping further into the Slade quandary, drawing an astute analogy between their fate and the name by which they were known before they became Slade, The ’NBetweens. “[It is]… exceptionally apt for the group they became,” he writes, “in between genres, in between fan groups, too English for America and when they ‘got serious’, they were in between the sombre music heads and their teenybop fans; their film was too grim for the majority of their followers, yet unseen by those who should have seen it; in between the class divide of the music industry; they were the real thing, and, as a result, somehow almost totally eclipsed by others who were far less popular than them in the day.” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>If the book has a flaw, it is the author’s tendency to downplay anything disreputable or contentious. There’s plenty of rock’n’roll in the book but not much sex and drugs, and while Slade were hardly in the same league as Led Zeppelin or The Who when it came to on-the-road indulgences, there were occasions when their behaviour was maybe less than saintly. Perhaps more significantly, in a commendable attempt to remain impartial, apart from a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it reference to Lea playing guitar parts in the studio, Easlea has side-stepped any mention of the division of labour within Slade, a prickly issue that has plagued inter-band relationships in recent years. In the 1990s Lea told me, “They didn’t play a note I didn’t tell them to,” a quote that appears elsewhere among Slade posts on this blog (which the author was invited by me to reference at will in his book), and the fact that Lea wrote almost 100% of the music while Holder the lion’s share of the lyrics, is not made clear. Similarly, there is no mention of Lea’s ongoing displeasure at newspaper articles in which Holder is invariably described as the ‘writer’ of ‘Merry Xmas Everybody’<span style="font-size: x-small;">**</span>, nor of his spats with Ray Davies and John Bonham, both of which Lea has talked about in the past. Also unmentioned is the disparity in wealth – Holder and Lea are rich, Hill and Powell aren’t – that has driven a wedge between them in the past two decades. Furthermore, unlike disappointed fans, he declines to comment on the merits or otherwise of ‘Slade’ groups fronted by Hill, of which both Holder and Lea have been dismissive in the past, and the two eight-page picture sections, which lack images of Chandler and Swinnerton<span style="font-size: x-small;">***</span>, are miserly to say the least.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Of greater significance, however, is the book’s crucial contention, which I share, that a profound injustice has been perpetrated upon Slade. They have never received a Brit Award, let alone a Grammy. Holder and Lea have never been nominated for an Ivor Novello Award, traditionally given to hit songwriters but also to those who have made an outstanding contribution to British music – like having 25+ top thirty singles, not to mention penning the country’s favourite Christmas song, perhaps – and the Rock’n’Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland has stubbornly ignored them (despite attempts on my part to bring Slade’s achievements to their attention). Some lesser awards may have gone their way but apart from Holder’s MBE, awarded in 2000, they have been persistently snubbed by the music industry establishment.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span><i>Whatever Happened To Slade?</i> does its best to rectify this. It’s a terrific read, in-depth and thoughtful over 480 pages, with an extensive discography and bibliography, index and an afterword by Jim Moir, aka Vic Reeves, who impersonated Noddy Holder in Reeves & Mortimer’s hilarious Slade spoof. Most importantly, the book bestows upon Slade the long overdue re-appraisal this great British rock band unquestionably deserves. Finally, I should add that Slade fans, as loyal a group of fans anywhere, anytime, ever, now have a new bible. They’ll know what I mean.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">__________</span></p><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;">* Contracts for this book were exchanged in 2016. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">** </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">The inspiration for </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">‘Merry Xmas Everybody’ </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">came from Lea’</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">s mother-in-law who suggested he write a Christmas song. Initially reluctant, </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Lea came up with the chord sequence and proposed Holder fashion lyrics with a Christmas theme. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;">*** Inexplicably for a book of this scope, pictures of Slade with busking bagpipe player Victor Herman (who played on their recording of ‘Auld Lang Syne’), with an underdressed ‘singing telegram’ girl, and a Slade tribute act are preferred over shots of Chandler and/or Swinnerton. </span></div>Chris Charlesworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05459094285776329847noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960772098173697898.post-74566894426156336362023-09-28T07:17:00.001-07:002023-09-28T07:43:44.652-07:00THE WHO IN ROME, PALASPORT, September 14, 1972. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqunTJyeymH1jaim2EQQLJ9RZzVqWrz1EJh6WD_dOyxbKjPv3ICbt67QoC5gj1q9vazsyNT4ZuqxL-efC_iC5O9LnFCTBWhZT9OgRLjywMR-muTmot32gbW3alOCeWnApeFRDab1h4XBnCWgku4lCuXuXfb20n4BN4O62HnTudt7mQJDkWad9peEWbsRw/s225/images.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqunTJyeymH1jaim2EQQLJ9RZzVqWrz1EJh6WD_dOyxbKjPv3ICbt67QoC5gj1q9vazsyNT4ZuqxL-efC_iC5O9LnFCTBWhZT9OgRLjywMR-muTmot32gbW3alOCeWnApeFRDab1h4XBnCWgku4lCuXuXfb20n4BN4O62HnTudt7mQJDkWad9peEWbsRw/s1600/images.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><p><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">Around 51 years ago this month The Who were playing concerts in Europe on a tour that saw them attract 400,000 to a concert in Paris, their biggest ever audience. Aside from that show, it was a low-key tour, with several days off between cities and all bar Keith flew home to the UK between shows. Keith and Dougal drove around Europe from show to show, looking for trouble I suppose. </span></i></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I caught up with them in Rome, on the last date of the tour, and there are two things I remember from this trip. After the show Keith, Dougal and myself took a taxi around Rome looking for female company in a club or a bar, but found nothing, and wound up back at the hotel a bit disappointed. The following day there was a mix-up with the plane tickets. They’d flown me out first class, very nice of them, but the first-class section was overbooked for the return, and I was relegated to coach. Pete thought this was very funny. “Melody Maker writers are second-class citizens,” I recall him saying, much to the amusement of John and Roger. </span></i></span></p><p><span><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"> <span> </span>Below is my report as it appeared in MM, verbatim. I actually sat on the stage, up on a platform behind John's speakers, and wasn't to know that the sound in the hall was pretty bad, and that this was why Pete smashed his guitar. The picture above is the cover of a bootleg of the show I found on the internet, but I haven't heard it. Nor do I know if the photo on the front is from that night in Rome. The picture below is a cropped scan of the page from MM. Much of what I write about The Who these days is written with hindsight, but this isn't. </span></i></span><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjen27IFyGD4JezylwutZVVX8Ikt5VJWWz4to_epLcy338LL0ymu6ZwtPeNje8qsGHgYE6tf_MjMBl8qtt3Mc-avj8Jftj0Ym3ICrMiZ23AaOUTmAL5TVDyADs54RYM7Pwl8j-oXydlkkcaZB6aCY4-wwSPZP9mAcakKfR1_zg2g47_EqZyn-ePtHD9Mgs/s248/download-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="248" data-original-width="203" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjen27IFyGD4JezylwutZVVX8Ikt5VJWWz4to_epLcy338LL0ymu6ZwtPeNje8qsGHgYE6tf_MjMBl8qtt3Mc-avj8Jftj0Ym3ICrMiZ23AaOUTmAL5TVDyADs54RYM7Pwl8j-oXydlkkcaZB6aCY4-wwSPZP9mAcakKfR1_zg2g47_EqZyn-ePtHD9Mgs/s1600/download-1.jpg" width="203" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Pete Townshend shed his white kaftan and slumped in an angular fashion across the dressing room table. Red braces upheld his baggy white trousers which were both soiled and stretched at the knees. A small white Meher Baba badge stood out against his tanned skin.</span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He gulped some brandy and pointed an accusing finger at sound engineer Bob Pridden. “I’m gonna cut your thumbs off,” he threatened.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Alan Smith, Townshend’s own roadie, came towards us with an unopened bottle of expensive Napoleon brandy. He dropped the bottle which smashed into a thousand pieces at Townshend’s feet. Townshend laughed and shook hands with an American kid who had somehow crashed through into the dressing room.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It was great show. I know those kids out there didn’t like it but I thought it was fantastic,” said the young American. Townshend smiled and acknowledged the compliment. The young American babbled a bit about being a guitarist himself. He asked for some tips, then asked for a job as a roadie with The Who.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“We have a road team of ten and they are the best in the world,” replied Townshend.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bob Pridden knew his thumbs were secure after all.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I always cut Bob’s thumbs off at the end of a tour but they usually grow in time for the next one,” Townshend told me.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>All this took place in Rome last Thursday when The Who wound up a three-week European tour, their first in three years. They played a massive sports hall in this ancient city and attracted an audience of around 10,000 Italian rock fans who sat impassively throughout the kind of set that most groups would swap their PAs for. It didn’t satisfy Pete Townshend but nothing but the best ever does. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Roger Daltrey didn’t like the sound in the hall and John Entwistle was fed up with travelling around anyway. Only Keith Moon seemed happy enough about the outcome of the tour. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It was the group’s first visit to Rome in a long time so reputation alone must have attracted those fans. <i>Who’s Next</i> sold only 7,000 copies in Italy. <i>Tommy</i> fared better and consequently drew a better reception from those peaceful Romans but it was all rather low key for a group of The Who’s stature. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“They are always like that in Rome,” the young Italian promoter told me later that night. “All they want to do is listen. That is because they have never seen The Who before and won’t see them again in a long time. They wanted to make the best of it. If The Who plays again next week there will be a riot because these kids know they are good. They don’t want to show it too much in case the police stopped the concert or future concerts. “</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He was speaking loudly because Entwistle and Moon were within earshot. </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">But you can bet your shirt that whether they heard or not, The Who won’t be playing Rome again next week.</span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It seems an almost unbelievable situation: fans are unable to demonstrate their appreciation of an act for fear of arrest and future banning of rock show. Imagine, just for example, if some upholder of the law banned rock concerts at London’s Rainbow because a band succeeded in drawing fans from their seats to stamp, clap and cheer. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In the north of Italy demonstrations like this during and after concerts have had these consequences. These Romans have obviously learned their lesson.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>But back to The Who, who haven’t played in Britain now since the opening of the Rainbow last November. They won’t be playing in England for a while either, until they’ve finished their next album so that a new stage act can be presented. It seems unlikely this will be before the end of the year. And there are tentative plans for an American West Coast tour next February with a possible trip to Japan thrown in.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It was virtually the same act from The Who in Rome as it was 12 months ago in England. Point the accusing finger of “same old stuff” if you like, but remember many Europeans haven’t seen The Who in ages, so for many it would be a first-time experience anyway. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It’s as good as it always is – a combination of violent excitement, near perfect sound and those power-packed Who songs. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Townshend is the most fluid mover I’ve seen since those Olympic gymnasts. He twists and turns and spirals around, leaping from one side of the stage to another, spinning his arm like a propeller from start to finish. He falls over, somersaults and crashes to his knees like a man on a trampoline. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Someday he’ll go head first into his stacks of speakers, break both legs and an arm but that’s his style and he couldn’t change it if he tried. He has to be the ultimate in visual rock guitarists.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>At Rome only one new song was included in the set – ‘Relay’ , a Townshend rocker in the accepted Who style. The rest were as familiar as the <i>Coronation Street</i> theme tune: ‘Can’t Explain’ (which has to be the best ever opener), ‘Summertime Blues’, a selection from <i>Who’s Next</i>, ‘Magic Bus’ (which died a rather tragic death), ‘Pinball’ and ‘See Me Feel Me’ from <i>Tommy</i>, and the inevitable ‘My Generation’ for closing.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Townshend smashed his guitar into fragments – the first break of the tour – at the end and the Italian fans didn’t know what had hit them. He swung it wildly at Moon’s kit, and took three heavy blows against the stage floor before the instrument succumbed. The body left the neck and the whole mangled mess arrived in the front row. The police moved in and the ovation was stifled as a result. No one wants a truncheon across the skull no matter how good a band performs.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The Who were disappointed in the gig and it showed. It was nobody’s fault but if the blame has be credited to something, then doubtless the group themselves are more than just a teeny bit tired of playing the same numbers for so long despite the demand for them.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On a different scale, it’s not unlike the man at the car factory who spends all day every day screwing door knobs on car doors. A monotony has crept in and a selection of new material would help the group overcome the lethargy that arises from playing the same songs over and over again.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The Who are so good they could probably put their shows over with their eyes shut. The inevitable problem arises: what next for The Who?</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Well, Townshend has just completed work on the orchestral version of <i>Tommy</i> which, among others, features Maggie Bell and Steve Winwood. He’s writing more material for The Who which they will soon be recording for their next album.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>John Entwistle has completed his second solo album and in a week’s time he’s off to the States for three weeks to promote the album in America. His first solo album was vastly more successful in the States than over here and his single ‘My Size’, which failed to make any impression here, was a big seller in the States, especially in Los Angeles where fans thought it was a Who single.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Roger Daltrey is also working on a solo album which, knowing Roger’s personal tastes, is likely to me marked step away from the Who’s style. I predict an almost acoustic sound for his record.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Keith Moon, following in the footsteps of Ringo Starr, is getting himself involved in films and we can soon expect to see his grinning face on the big screen in some obscure comic role. A serious acting role really isn’t on for Keith Moon.</span></span></p><p><br /></p>Chris Charlesworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05459094285776329847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960772098173697898.post-88403771269903542892023-09-26T08:00:00.005-07:002023-09-26T10:44:52.725-07:00EDDIE COCHRAN In Person by Lee Bullman<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhu3j_9nRmPXMrzt0gUWVaHs_ttorlcOtKrmBadwVmZXsbWpSRAwjF_KLCh5FwBwJPCudJZQIYose9OGvsWFXCEvocYMt5hynxGbgFvAE-QsrbwRP0Mu2kwE2HNqPUyXmRgZYj8YNfHbFxuj7CfuSnh_sNgL9thiRG1ktnr7xSWri4vhWvOcux4V6UZ7g/s262/download-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="262" data-original-width="193" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhu3j_9nRmPXMrzt0gUWVaHs_ttorlcOtKrmBadwVmZXsbWpSRAwjF_KLCh5FwBwJPCudJZQIYose9OGvsWFXCEvocYMt5hynxGbgFvAE-QsrbwRP0Mu2kwE2HNqPUyXmRgZYj8YNfHbFxuj7CfuSnh_sNgL9thiRG1ktnr7xSWri4vhWvOcux4V6UZ7g/s1600/download-1.jpg" width="193" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">“Eddie came by my apartment and we were having a rehearsal,” Jerry Capehart, Eddie Cochran’s manager and co-writer is quoted as saying in this book. “Recording was scheduled the next day, so I said, ‘Well, why don’t we write something? Summer’s coming, OK, there’s never been a blues song written about summer, call it ‘Summertime Blues’. So, Eddie says, ‘Hey, you know, I’ve got this really great riff on the guitar…”</span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Shouldering his orange Gretsch 6120 Chet Atkins guitar, Eddie would have hit hard on his strings, an open E chord, followed by an open A, then an open B7 and back to the E, pretty easy, even for a beginner, but it’s thinking of the sequence, and its rhythm, in the first place that counts. “Maybe… you</span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">’</span><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">ll think that what he did wasn</span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">’</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">t so special, that any other kid with a guitar could have done the same, even down to you or me,” Lenny Kaye would write in the sleeve notes to a posthumous Cochran collection. “But that</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">’</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">s only because he was you or me, and any other kid with a guitar could have had the chance if he</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">’</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">d wanted, simple as that. In the years that Eddie worked and created, the secret of rock’n’roll lay in this clandestine knowledge, grasped by everyone within reach of a top-40 station, uncared about by virtually anyone else.” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>“Everything Eddie Cochran ever did in his life had to have humour in it,” adds Capehart. “For example, his favourite performer at the time was the Kingfish from <i>Amos’n’Andy</i> days and the little voice you can hear on Eddie’s version of ‘Summertime Blues’ [presumably ‘I’d like to help you son, but you’re too young to vote’ – CC] was really his salute to the Kingfish. I think that ‘Summertime Blues’ was really indicative of Eddie’s imagine to his fans. That song gave him his individuality.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Capehart is right about the playful nature of Eddie’s songs. In so many of them there’s a light-hearted quality, like the guy who’s too tired to rock after climbing 20 stories to see his girl because the elevator has broken down, or Shorty who cuts across the field in the race to win Miss Lucy’s hand, or the guy in ‘Somethin’ Else’ who dreams of the girl and the car, and can’t quite believe he ends up with both. ‘Summertime Blues’ has a similar feel, teenage frustration mixed with eternal hope, and was first released on June 11, 1958, reaching number eight on the US charts that September, Eddie’s first hit. In the UK in November, it reached number six. It’s been a rock’n’roll staple ever since, covered by just about everyone who’s ever hung an electric guitar around their shoulders, perhaps most famously by The Who, as heard on <i>Live At Leeds</i> and at countless concerts during their heyday. </span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Of course, The Who were by no means alone in trumpeting their fondness for Eddie Cochran. The first song 15-year-old Paul McCartney played to 17-year-old John Lennon, on 6 July, 1957, at Woolton Church Fete in Liverpool, was ‘Twenty Flight Rock’ and thereafter The Beatles included it and three other Cochran songs (‘Three Steps To Heaven’, ‘I Remember’ and ‘C’mon Everybody’) in their stage set, while their version of a fifth (‘Hallelujah, I Love Her So’), written by Ray Charles, owes everything to Eddie’s arrangement. Among countless other premier league acts who’ve recorded his songs are The Rolling Stones (‘Twenty Flight Rock’, on a live record from their 1982 tour), Led Zeppelin (‘Somethin’ Else’, from their 1970 Royal Hall show) and Rod Stewart (‘Cut Across Shorty’ on <i>Gasoline Alley</i>, 1970). Bruce Springsteen has a crack at ‘Summertime Blues’ on the 3-CD set recorded in 1978 at Cleveland’s Agora Ballroom, while US rockabilly band The Stray Cats, and their singer/guitarist Brian Setzer in particular, are virtually indistinguishable from an Eddie Cochran tribute act.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Though a handful of Eddie Cochran’s most famous songs have been permanently wedged in my consciousness since pre-Beatles times, I knew next to nothing about Eddie until a double LP of his in UA’s <i>Legendary Masters</i> series, with those sleeve notes by Lenny Kaye, arrived in my desk at <i>Melody Maker</i> in 1971. Lenny’s notes were terrific, full of enthusiasm, written with a real love of Eddie’s music, but it wasn’t until I read <i>Eddie Cochran In Person</i> that I truly grasped all there was to know about the life of the handsome young rocker who tragically died on 16 April, 1960, in a car crash at Chippenham while on his way to Heathrow after a concert in Bristol. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Eddie Cochran books are thin on the grounds these days and this is a lovely, large format, illustrated one with 186-pages printed on art paper. It’s subtitled <i>In Person</i> because it benefits from photographs of the contents of a locker that contained all of Eddie’s possessions, collected by his mother and sister, that remained unopened until 2021 when it was offered for sale and bought by an English fan called Sonny West. Alongside an authoritative biography by thriller writer Lee Bullman, we get almost 100 photographs, both professional and personal, many seen here for the first time, press cuttings he collected, touching letters from fans (and one, extraordinarily heartfelt, from girlfriend Sharon Sheeley), cheques, royalty statements, posters advertising his concerts, records from his own collection and expressions of sympathy following the events in Chippenham. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>In July 1963, Heinz reached number five in the UK with ‘Just Like Eddie’, a tribute song produced by Joe Meek that featured Richie Blackmore playing a catchy little phrase on guitar. Oddly, it’s the only tribute unmentioned in a final chapter that summarises Eddie’s gift to the world. <i>Eddie Cochran In Person</i> will make a fine gift to his fans. </span></p><div><br /></div>Chris Charlesworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05459094285776329847noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960772098173697898.post-21995960893694057752023-09-23T05:48:00.011-07:002023-10-01T07:21:13.444-07:00THE WHO – Civic Arena, San Francisco, December 13, 1971<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiv8t8Sgcg8bKnHA9mKcLez5Hrk4TqTyKpYtDDbrUvAB1gaLrDE98xhyIK-VHKKEXqx1hVKc3ytTcSp77fq3wCrfKJCZ3FfhRO9Kqn-prOoV8_2SC-3zC_c2HW-nm8wE8CM4viyHbGalYS0JrfIpVe5Q6vA4BPqAJ0VdCIwVqozPVbOecNzSU0AuCP7hQ/s500/71-12-12Wholarge%20JIM%20MARSHALL.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="358" data-original-width="500" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiv8t8Sgcg8bKnHA9mKcLez5Hrk4TqTyKpYtDDbrUvAB1gaLrDE98xhyIK-VHKKEXqx1hVKc3ytTcSp77fq3wCrfKJCZ3FfhRO9Kqn-prOoV8_2SC-3zC_c2HW-nm8wE8CM4viyHbGalYS0JrfIpVe5Q6vA4BPqAJ0VdCIwVqozPVbOecNzSU0AuCP7hQ/s320/71-12-12Wholarge%20JIM%20MARSHALL.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Back in 1993, charged with compiling tracks for what became <i>30 Years Of Maximum R&B</i>, The Who’s 4-CD box set, I was offered (and eagerly accepted) a live version of ‘Bargain’, recorded at this show. In an essay for <i>Crawdaddy</i> magazine shortly after the set was released in 1995, I wrote that ‘Bargain’ was the best reflection of The Who at their finest on the whole box set. “This is a truly stupendous performance, fluent, confident, full of highs, a perfect example of The Who at the peak of their ability, reckless yet somehow still in control, flowing with their music, relishing their skills.”</span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>This version of ‘Bargain’ had already been made available on MCA’s <i>Who’s Missing</i>, released in 1985, while two other songs performed at this concert, John’s ‘My Wife’ and Don Nix’s ‘Goin’ Down’, a spontaneous closing jam, appeared on <i>Two’s Missing</i> a couple of years later. I ought to have pressed for more from the show for <i>30 Years</i>, just as I pressed for a whole live <i>Tommy</i> as a fifth CD, but I had a hunch there was a covert strategy to hold back material so that it might be used on future re-issues at some unspecified date. Then again, it might be that the estate of Bill Graham, whose BG Productions promoted the Civic Arena shows, had tried to claim ownership of the recordings, as they had with other concerts, and this issue needed to be settled before the entire concert could be released. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Whatever the ins and outs of the matter, it has now been made available on two CDs among the ten included in the <i>Who’s Next</i> 50th Anniversary super-deluxe box set, just released by Polydor and costing a whopping £224.99 on The Who’s own website, with slight price variations elsewhere.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRMCtIEE8rRe7DbovYaoia2cix_UuPVZrPvhA5zEVd_LoePyHEEPgNKWF8UivvenX2_9lfkVhtUteVeZtaThUw7jYjutPgHyrv3fJbZ0mgbJQSs85UIIxQaHsZdHNT6IiYpyNiA7sIEsOfrVsw8YAQkyObnf09XmBpM4f03_spCzalt3HbSExDVCYL3gs/s1473/Who%201971.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1455" data-original-width="1473" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRMCtIEE8rRe7DbovYaoia2cix_UuPVZrPvhA5zEVd_LoePyHEEPgNKWF8UivvenX2_9lfkVhtUteVeZtaThUw7jYjutPgHyrv3fJbZ0mgbJQSs85UIIxQaHsZdHNT6IiYpyNiA7sIEsOfrVsw8YAQkyObnf09XmBpM4f03_spCzalt3HbSExDVCYL3gs/s320/Who%201971.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The Who’s 25-day American tour at the end of 1971 holds special memories for me as I was present at the opening date, at Charlotte, North Carolina, on November 20, on what was my first ever visit to the USA, and I have written about this elsewhere on this blog. The two concerts in San Francisco on December 12 and 13 followed 15 others across the South and West Coast of America, with the tour concluding on December 15 in Seattle. I am reliably informed that contrary to what it might state elsewhere, the show on the two discs in the bells and whistles <i>Who’s Next</i> is from the 13th and not the 12th; also that the live ‘Bargain’ on <i>30 Years</i> was from the 13th, and not from the 12th, as stated in the track listing. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>But all this is academic. What really matters is that The Who were on the form of their lives that December, the greatest rock band in the world performing the greatest music they ever made, a combination of brilliant songs from <i>Who’s Next</i> and <i>Tommy</i> sprinkled with bits of their past and a hint of the future. They were also cresting a wave of Stateside popularity, so a massive anticipatory ovation greets Bill Graham as he introduces the group in typically sonorous tones, like a Master of Ceremonies announcing distinguished guests at a VIP banquet, pausing for effect between each name: “Four of the greats and four very nice people,” he says. “On bass, Mister John Entwistle, … on vocals, Mister Roger Daltrey, … on drums, Mister Keith Moon (which, inevitably, prompts a flourish around the kit), … on guitar, the king, Mister Peter Townshend. The Who.”</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Within seconds the staccato chords of ‘I Can’t Explain’ ring out loud and clear, like a hammer on an anvil, and they’re off, electrifying their fans as only The Who could in those days. Roger sounds angry on an angry song; John’s lines complement Pete’s chords; Keith sounds like an automatic rifle on the chorus. ‘Substitute’ follows, tight and snappy, and somehow even better, the combined vocal attack in perfect sync. All four are on top form tonight and know it. Roger introduces ‘Summertime Blues’, a belter, as ever, similar to <i>Leeds</i> except Pete solos mainly above the 12th fret, high frequency, and ‘My Wife’, “by our bass player, affectionately known as The Ox”, which explodes after the second verse, Roger repeatedly yelling “Keep on moving” and “Oh, she’s coming” as Pete solos and Keith goes manic. After another verse this whole eruption is repeated, only this time they step back to idle for a moment, clearly improvising, enjoying the moment, then tumble back in for another bout of sheer pandemonium. It is a portent of things to come. At just over six minutes ‘My Wife’ is the longest work out so far. Prolonged cheers ensue.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Here’s a song [for] which we use a tape to put a synthesiser sound on stage,” announces Roger. “It was a lot easier than getting someone to play it. We couldn’t handle that, getting someone else. Anyway, Pete plays the synthesiser on the tape so it’s just like playing with two Petes if you like. [In the background, you can just hear Keith yelling, ‘One’s enough!’] It’s a great song. I really like this one. The lead track off <i>Who’s Next</i>, ‘Baba O’Riley’.”</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>By my reckoning this is the first live version of this Who staple, as performed by them, ever officially released and there’s a freshness to it here not found elsewhere, especially in Roger’s vocals and the moment when Pete urges us not to cry as it’s “only teenage wasteland”. The crunch chords sound like bells and the accelerating harp coda last just over a minute before arriving at a sudden, unexpected, well-drilled stop. Perfect. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It’s Pete turn to talk. “No sooner have we taken you up than we’re gonna take you down again, very slowly,” he says. “This is a cameo, if you like, of a Who performance. It starts off nice and easy and ends up sort of bouncing all over the stage. We start off without Keith Moon and end up with him.”</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>This is the cue for some horseplay from the drummer, the light-hearted repartee that so often took the edge off Pete’s intensity, furnishing The Who with a skittish sense of humour rarely found in rock groups of their stature. “All right then I’ll piss off,” we can hear Keith muttering. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>“I wasn’t trying to get rid of you or anything,” retorts Pete. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>“It’s been nice working with you,” adds Keith, acting pissed off. “I’ll see you later.”</span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It’s called ‘Behind Blue Eyes’,” says Pete before telling the audience that the set for tonight has been changed, presumably from the previous night. Knowing full well that Who fans would be attending both nights, he seems to delight in second-guessing them. Perhaps inspired by Moon’s quips, he adds: “It’s special but it’s all rehearsed, you know. We work out these dance steps, me and Roger, for hours.”</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>There follows one of the loveliest versions of one of The Who’s loveliest songs I’ve ever heard. As in ‘Baba’, Roger is pitch perfect, moving effortlessly from the purity of the verses to the tough middle section and back again. Pete’s hammering on and off during the arpeggios is clean as a whistle and when Keith re-joins the group their focus is pin sharp. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And so, we come to ‘Bargain’, “a song about what you get from being here,” says Pete. “If you’re alive, whether you’re rich or you’re poor, if you’re up or you’re down. If you’re alive, you’re getting a bargain.” </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I wrote about this performance of </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">‘Bargain’</span><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> at length in my essay for <i>Crawdaddy</i>, and I can’t improve on it, so here we go again. During the opening chords Pete gleefully shouts something off mike which is difficult to make out, but it sounds like a call to arms that simply enhances the anticipation. Roger leaps in over Pete’s rumbling guitar before the song’s real highlight, the emotional contrast between Roger and Pete’s separate vocal lines. I especially love the way Pete’s keening vocal refrain is counterbalanced by John’s lovely bass melody and how Pete yells ‘pick me up’ at the top of his voice after his final line. Keith and John take up the challenge in a thrilling bass and drum rumble that launches Pete into a magnificent solo. The song itself, like many that Pete was writing at the time (including – most notably – the climax to <i>Tommy</i>), is a prayer of yearning in which the singer prostrates himself before the blessed one – ”I’d pay any price just to get you,” sings Roger – while in his refrain Pete admits his inadequacy: “I know I am nothing without you”. In some ways it’s possible to mistake ‘Bargain’ for a love song, but when you get your head around the idea that it really is a hymn (to Meher Baba, Pete’s spiritual guru), then it becomes all the more impressive. Then there’s that extended coda, one of The Who’s on-stage trademarks, in which the song appears to be over until Pete launches into a series of fragile chords before finding his way into another riff, taking the others if not by surprise then at least by the lead as he pounds on, carried along by the momentum, confident that the band are on such good form at this moment that it would be a crime to stop just because the song is at an end. Quite wonderful. Then there’s another roar from the crowd.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Up and down. Dark and light. Earnest and comic. “If you were here last night you will have noticed my knees trick,” says Pete as the cheers die down. “If you’re wondering why I’ve got such funny shaped knees it’s because I’m wearing knee pads, so I don’t agitate the fractured knee cap.”</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Have it off,” yells Keith. “Amputate.”</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Next up is ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again’, mid-set in 1971, again as fresh as you can imagine, sharp and precise, another triumph for Roger, the ensemble playing along with the synthesiser track faultless, Keith an almighty presence both before and after the synth interlude. Roger’s roar at the climax is leonine. In a review of the deluxe <i>Who’s Next</i> in <i>Mojo</i>, Mark Blake wrote of this reading of ‘WGFA’ that it “sounds like The Who achieving the transcendental lift-off that Townshend claimed they managed on a good night, and also suggests drummer Keith Moon might spontaneously combust.” He’s not wrong.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>More humour. Pete tells us his Doc Marten shoes have bouncy soles. “High jumpers should wear these,” he adds. “What are we doing now? This one is an old tune we used to do when we very first started, and it would be very nice to think there was at least one person here who saw us in London </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">at the Marquee Club and maybe heard us play this number. We played a lot of Tamla Motown stuff in those days. It was very hip, trendy to play Tamla Motown. We used to play ‘Heatwave’, ‘Dancing In The Street’ and this one. Roger will tell you what it is while I change my guitar. I have to use a special Tamla Motown type guitar.”</span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“For a change,” says Roger, “we actually feature Mister Keith Moon.” This is the cue for a bit more silliness until Keith charges into ‘Baby Don’t You Do It’, a fierce work-out on the Tamla song recorded by Marvin Gaye, highlighted by Keith’s energetic drumming throughout, Roger’s strident vocals and The Who’s unique ability to turn soul into furious rock at the drop of a hat. Playing off one another as no other band can, there’s some lovely bass work from John, and Pete’s buzz-saw guitar solo towards the end is terrific. During a furious ‘head for home’ climax Pete, John and Keith play their hearts out with Roger hollering to be heard above the din. Then, just to stress the point, there’s a false ending and the band rev up yet again, only for Roger to have the last word. An edit of this recording would become the B-side of ‘Join Together’ the following year.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Let’s have an English song now,” yells Pete as Roger blows his harmonica. “We’re gonna sell you something. We’re gonna sell you a bus… a magic bus. You’re gonna have to pay us… but it’s worth it.” Keith taps the blocks, John thumps away on one note, playing his bass like a drum, and Pete gives us what Charles Shaar Murray once described as a masterclass in rhythm guitar. At 17 minutes ‘Magic Bus’ is far and away the longest individual song of the night, retaining its tense Bo Diddley tempo and the preposterous horse-trading banter between Roger and Pete until the ten-minute mark when Keith switches to his kit and all hell breaks loose. Then, just when you think it’s all over, it’s not. A false ending is followed by another coda: Roger back on the harp, accompanied only by Keith’s rolls with Pete improvising more lyrics, all building to another breath-taking extended finish. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After all that most bands would be taking a bow and heading for the dressing room, perhaps returning after two minutes for an encore. Not The Who. It’s time for <i>Tommy</i>. Professor Keith Moon is introduced as the conductor. “Daltrey, stop drinking on stage,” he yells. “John, stand still you ruffian.”</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“He’s breathing,” says Pete.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Keith: “I’ve told him not to move on stage.” </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Pete: “Actually I’ve seen him moving in hotel rooms.”</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Keith: “He gets up to turn the television on and off.”</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Pete: “He picks the phone up. Room service…”</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Keith: “Hot tuna sandwich.”</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After a count in from Keith – “three million, four million” – The Who launch into the ‘Overture’ from <i>Tommy</i>, played with its usual panache, followed by Pete’s unaccompanied solo guitar piece, much of it improvised, leading into the intro to ‘Amazing Journey’. This is followed by the instrumental ‘Sparks’ on which, for the first and only time, the guitar mix seems too low, at least for the first two or three passes until the octave drops sweep in. A minute later it’s all back on balance, and the three instrumentalists are up and away, sailing head-on into the ‘Underture’ storm with Keith leading the charge for a full four minutes. The audience erupt at the end. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>After a breather ‘Pinball’ arrives, Pete’s furious strumming punctuated by John’s stabbing bass, another hell-for-leather ride leading to ‘See Me Feel Me’, the spiralling <i>Tommy</i> hymn which, as ever, raises the roof as The Who pay tribute to their audience, climbing mountains and seeing the glory, a truly majestic performance.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>But it’s not over yet. “It feels good to see you standing up,” says Pete. “This one is where we drive you back into your seats again. ‘My Generation’ – are you in it?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>And off they go yet again, into their biggest, most sacred hit, a faster version that on record, Roger screaming the lyrics, John rattling off the bass solo, Pete finding a riff in his solo, then another, then another while everyone follows him into unchartered territory until John and Keith cotton on to where he’s going and gamely follow while Roger sings whatever comes into his head. After eight minutes it settles and Pete works his way into the nagging riff of ‘Naked Eye’ which Roger sings beautifully, the other three straining at the leash until, as in so many other songs tonight, the structure breaks open to allow more free-form soloing which this time morphs into the bluesy ‘Going Down’, after which the concert finally ends. The combined length of ‘My Generation’, ‘Naked Eye’ and ‘Going Down’, all segued together, is almost 24 minutes, this on top of the 90 minutes plus beforehand. It goes without saying that the final climax is explosive, electrifying. I have no idea how long the cheering continued as only a minute can be heard on this recording. There would have been no encore. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">* * *</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Sometimes, just occasionally, even though there’s pictures of them as young men on the walls of my home, I forget how great The Who once were; when they were young and pioneering, forever moving forward, lighting a path that no other group of their era could tread. For my money, The Who in 1971 left every other group on the planet in their wake. For a few glorious years they were simply untouchable, playing out of their skulls night after night, the greatest rock concerts ever. I’m not that enamoured of the recent activities of Pete and Roger, though I don’t blame them for carrying the torch, playing their music in whatever form they choose to present it these days for those that still want to hear it played on stage. They are musicians and that’s what musicians do. I’m just not that interested any more. </span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>What I am still interested in, however, and still delirious about, are Who recordings like this 1971 San Francisco Civic Auditorium concert, just as I was over the Moon about that 1968 New York Fillmore show. My review of that, by the way, has had almost 50,000 hits, far and away the most of any posts on Just Backdated. So, I’m not alone in feeling this way. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It’s been fun writing again about The Who I loved so much. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;">(The photo at the top of this post was taken by Jim Marshall at the San Francisco concert on December 12, 1971.)</span></div>Chris Charlesworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05459094285776329847noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960772098173697898.post-33516159439671526542023-09-14T10:25:00.005-07:002023-09-19T04:23:44.008-07:00Charlie’s Good Tonight: The Authorised Biography of Charlie Watts by Paul Sexton<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibKwWpubbCmJHEreyn10AVUeDo_d_Fhi8qtZ59HP-PTukZHfUP-dUz20JIJzfFuyKOLFjx40ftOmmrXAYuU_gHBsA8Q73X60nt6lm-Iu8yfNVqe-lIGu--vuFDZ9L0bWbeWJCUHR0BwuqlQHtYMGEYZ3M_fHLP5Li-U2B1Rl1hlmBHLIVkbjydGbWXGf8/s271/images.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="271" data-original-width="186" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibKwWpubbCmJHEreyn10AVUeDo_d_Fhi8qtZ59HP-PTukZHfUP-dUz20JIJzfFuyKOLFjx40ftOmmrXAYuU_gHBsA8Q73X60nt6lm-Iu8yfNVqe-lIGu--vuFDZ9L0bWbeWJCUHR0BwuqlQHtYMGEYZ3M_fHLP5Li-U2B1Rl1hlmBHLIVkbjydGbWXGf8/s1600/images.jpg" width="186" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><p>Inspired to dig deeper into the world of Charlie Watts after learning about his fabulous book collection – see last post about Christie’s sale of Charlie’s library – I bought a book called <i>Charlie’s Good Tonight: The Authorised Biography of Charlie Watts </i>by Paul Sexton. It was a mistake. It is bland, riddled with repetition and insufferably dull, unlike its subject, and I strongly suspect that its subject would agree with me, not that Charlie Watts would have wanted an authorised biography to have been written about him in the first place. </p></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>No one in their right mind would deny that Charlie Watts was a fine fellow, a great drummer, a delightful companion and man of exceptionally modest virtue. Such qualities, however, do not make for a page-turner. Paul Sexton, I fear, was faced with an insoluble problem when he took on this commission, presumably at the behest of Charlie’s wife Shirley, who died in December, 2022, 16 months after her husband (the book was published in September 2022), insofar as Charlie didn’t say very much, at least to interviewers. When he did talk, he was vague, often evasive and occasionally taciturn. So, the most obvious research tool (and page filler), music press interviews, was scant to say the least. The next port of call would have been fellow Stones past and present, among thems useful archivist Bill Wyman, all of whom loved him dearly, as did his daughter Seraphina and granddaughter Charlotte. Old friends and fellow musicians too weigh in with their memories but all anyone can say is what a great, laid back, lovely bloke Charlie was, which is no doubt correct.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Mick and Keith write forewords and it must have been something of a relief for them to read a book about a Rolling Stone that draws a polite veil over the stuff that makes most people buy them in the first place. It’s no secret that the Stones’ story is littered with decadence on an industrial scale, as detailed in countless other books, but apart from a brief lapse in the mid-1980s when he overindulged in drugs and booze Charlie seems to have been looking the other way when all that was going on. It comes as no surprise that the brief lapse is dealt with briefly.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>The distance that Charlie placed between himself and the rest of the group, certainly Mick, Keith and Brian, though perhaps not Bill, was established early on. “It’s just a job that pays well,” was his default position, and it remained that way until the end. It seems he threatened to leave a few times but was dragged back, perhaps because he enjoyed playing the drums, perhaps because Rolling Stones tours were so lucrative, most especially from the 1990s onwards. He was never happier than when the tour was over and he could return to his small family, whom he loved as deeply as they loved him. Charlotte thinks he was born a granddad, which is rather sweet, but doesn’t set the pulse racing. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>There isn’t even much about the Stones’ music, which is discussed only in the most insipid of terms, and never with a critical eye. Nevertheless, if you want to know about Charlie’s love of jazz, the jazz albums he made and jazz bands he led, his drumming technique, what others felt about his drumming and lifestyle, the camaraderie within the Rolling Stones, the cool and often extremely expensive cloths he liked to wear, his love of cricket and antique firearms, and Shirley’s love of horses, this is the book for you. Considering it’s about a man who lived to the grand age of 80, it won’t take you long to read either. File under ‘Affectionate Memoir’. </span></p><div><br /></div>Chris Charlesworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05459094285776329847noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960772098173697898.post-23624159300338951822023-09-06T08:26:00.006-07:002023-09-07T04:20:47.075-07:00CHARLIE WATTS – Some Sort Of Epic Grandeur<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-76v2aiaUquVOeVBH9zPshW3XByt6f0PDEEKkQ4nItZbLPnwlJ264u0qbsQNvkKJFAwGPBSq-fHxUD49X3HiJMkIF6pJvTtQnuPnBZ5zieT5qEWuqBHtR5KQTLhoP-bL-hGbdavu54XbZIJ_XM3nk-2OJnk9Th-wofR6eBTVscYZuh-_IqWUS5gQDeok/s640/image0%20(9).jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-76v2aiaUquVOeVBH9zPshW3XByt6f0PDEEKkQ4nItZbLPnwlJ264u0qbsQNvkKJFAwGPBSq-fHxUD49X3HiJMkIF6pJvTtQnuPnBZ5zieT5qEWuqBHtR5KQTLhoP-bL-hGbdavu54XbZIJ_XM3nk-2OJnk9Th-wofR6eBTVscYZuh-_IqWUS5gQDeok/s320/image0%20(9).jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">The true character of a man is often revealed only after their passing, frequently to their detriment, but the opposite is the case with Charlie Watts. There were hints of his noble demeanour during his lifetime, of course; that quiet reserve, that well-groomed approach to everything he ever did, that refusal to bow to anyone, least of all his fellow Rolling Stones. </span><p></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span><i>Some Sort Of Epic Grandeur</i> is the title of Matthew Bruccoli’s definitive biography of the American writer F. Scott Fitzgerald, and I chose it for this post not just because Charlie’s first edition of <i>The Great Gatsby</i>, signed by Fitzgerald, has the highest guide price (£200,000-£300,000) of any of around 100 books in Christie’s forthcoming sale of almost 200 items from Charlie’s collection but because Epic Grandeur seems to me to be the perfect synonym for the life of Charles Robert Watts.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I was alerted to this sale by my former <i>Melody Maker</i> colleague Richard Williams whose post on his Blue Moment blog on the same subject he perceptively titled <i>A Man Of Wealth And Taste</i>. When we last met he and I agreed that Charlie’s episode of the 2002 <i>My Life As A Rolling Stone</i> TV series of profiles of individual members of the group was quite wonderful, leaving viewers in no doubt that Mr Watts was a Gentleman in the strict, old-fashioned sense of the word. His Savile Row tailor said precisely that, and he should know.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Now we have further enlightenment in the form of the catalogue for the Christie’s sale, a document of some grandeur in itself. <i>Charlie Watts: Gentleman, Collector, Rolling Stone</i>, it says on the cover, placing Charlie’s credentials in order of importance as they see it. Almost 200 pages of items on sale are prefaced by essays by Paul Sexton, author of <i>Charlie’s Good Tonight, The Authorised Biography of Charlie Watts</i>. “Once Charlie Watts had some funds at his disposal, he became almost obsessively acquisitive, but only about things that complemented his impeccable taste,” he writes. “Cars, first edition books, silverware, flatware [cutlery], records, photographs, memorabilia on the American Civil War and Horatio Nelson, and vintage drum kits.”</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So, where we do we start on this superb collection of first editions? How about Agatha Christie? We have 25 hard backs, including the first appearance of Miss Marple in <i>The Thirteen Problems</i>, with ultra-rare dust jacket and wraparound band, price 7/6d when published in 1932, now estimated at £40,000-£60,000. “We have been unable to trace any first edition in a dust-jacket sold at auction,” Christie’s inform buyers. Or how about <i>Parker Pyne Investigates</i> “from the library of Agatha Christie’s sister, first edition in the extremely scarce dust-jacket, signed by the author and her sister Madge”, (£6,000-£10,000).</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Moving on, we have Arthur Conan Doyle, <i>A Study In Scarlet</i>, 1890, “the first Sherlock Holmes Story: presentation editions of the first American edition, inscribed by the author” (£25,000-£35,000), along with four other Holmes books, including <i>The Hound Of The Baskervilles</i>, first published in 1902, (£70,000-£100,000), “a remarkably fine presentation copy of the first edition in book form, inscribed by the author on the title page: ‘I perambulated Dartmoor before I wrote this book. A Conan Doyle.’”</span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span><i>The Great Gatsby</i> is by no means the only Fitzgerald book in the sale. There are eight more, including a second (unsigned) first edition with the iconic blue cover depicting the eyes of optometrist T. J. Eckleburg over the lights of Manhattan (£100,000-£150,000). </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFg5lKUjboCLUAyNhpy9k15ZbfsP8WMGcrvkvNTxNq2f1aUcLXHb14k8hCoxzxEXJRHVxXQF84g--BMUIr4bFWFqvZPfvAAqY0oC_-yx0PZRakH5E33GIBja7XHNRVMBkEb2aES5Z28sm_-XV2paesUmszTBcn4edRnXM7-OTIh3rLHaXnrjO5mZNsMgE/s267/download-2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="267" data-original-width="189" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFg5lKUjboCLUAyNhpy9k15ZbfsP8WMGcrvkvNTxNq2f1aUcLXHb14k8hCoxzxEXJRHVxXQF84g--BMUIr4bFWFqvZPfvAAqY0oC_-yx0PZRakH5E33GIBja7XHNRVMBkEb2aES5Z28sm_-XV2paesUmszTBcn4edRnXM7-OTIh3rLHaXnrjO5mZNsMgE/s1600/download-2.jpg" width="189" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><p><span> </span>Elsewhere we can find Graham Greene (13 books), Dashiell Hammett (five), James Joyce (two), George Orwell (five), P. G. Wodehouse (seven), Evelyn Waugh (11), Dylan Thomas, Ernest Hemingway, D. H. Lawrence, H. G. Wells, Oscar Wilde, Tennessee Williams, Virginia Woolf, Langston Hughes and others. In almost every case Charlie collected signed first editions, some accompanied by letters from the authors to friends. </p></span><p></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Then there’s music, mostly jazz (photographs, paintings, records and artefacts like Duke Ellington’s baton) but also Count Basie Orchestra manuscript arrangements for 31 compositions, 88 pages in total (£30,000-£50,000) and material that relates to the Great American Songbook: scores. for George Gershwin’s <i>An American In Paris</i>, <i>Rhapsody In Blue</i> and <i>Porgy And Bess</i>, all signed. Mostly, though, it seems Charlie liked his namesake, Charlie Parker, and collected 78rpm recordings, autographed photos, contracts and even reel-to-reel tapes from Parker’s recording sessions. It’s all in the catalogue, with precise descriptions, price a modest £40 to delve into Charlie</span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">’</span><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">s obsessions. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In the essay at the beginning of the catalogue Charlie’s daughter Seraphina tells Paul Sexton: “I opened this cupboard the other night, a piece of furniture with drawers, and I found all these things, Edwardian glasses and carved pipes. I was like, ‘He’s forgotten about this stuff, hasn’t he, totally forgotten about it! I really wanted to speak to him [and say] ‘What is this? This could be Roman and incredibly valuable, or it could be a piece of junk.’ He had phases where I can see he’s gone completely OCD-collecting mad, throughout his life.”</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The Charlie Watts Collection can be viewed at Christie’s St James Street premises between 20 and 27 September, and the sale takes place there at the 28th.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZy6EwrMVnMtQ50pi8JimF4OcODdDCi2gGtxAHLWviU4qZgdLynkx6X8TZKH_a_0LBg9hSh3FE8c3A3vGg_V5hAgqySOQ1IzX3ZjnbsPWZLf3E3YON4iQaaVz582Ox3uED2Y51Wntge4Ax41PHdYEt8B1IaY08UBWGDOEzXLeCn3LCvzM0rWvgZdAnGIw/s251/download-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="251" data-original-width="201" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZy6EwrMVnMtQ50pi8JimF4OcODdDCi2gGtxAHLWviU4qZgdLynkx6X8TZKH_a_0LBg9hSh3FE8c3A3vGg_V5hAgqySOQ1IzX3ZjnbsPWZLf3E3YON4iQaaVz582Ox3uED2Y51Wntge4Ax41PHdYEt8B1IaY08UBWGDOEzXLeCn3LCvzM0rWvgZdAnGIw/s1600/download-1.jpg" width="201" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p><div><br /></div>Chris Charlesworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05459094285776329847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960772098173697898.post-15117002861751487742023-09-01T02:56:00.002-07:002023-09-01T06:40:03.527-07:00PHIL OCHS IN CENTRAL PARK<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Recently granted access to a cache of Melody Makers from the 1970s, I was pleased to find this in the issue dated May 24, 1975 – my review of an unusual concert in New York’s Central Park on May 11. Phil Ochs, of course, was my absentee landlord when I lived in his apartment in Los Angeles during the latter part of 1973, an arrangement enabled through his brother Michael, and for this reason I have always felt an affinity with this singer, songwriter and hero of the American protest movement. </i></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh37UK2c0QfhsRajQVLeuxawIOvIHQTgGnOST0r4WHJeh55q41x6X7isPVMNsq7mDBVVxZ1Ir5NYr7rxwHMhreyWuhU3iyPD-uQhPLJRif6QKHLfap1vjEI2Y98oDrHE6h4oxFvw91afnB_Ue_5Cs3-Msw2ZxT67L2e-iAVvZcqH0w_EsVLtWyTQzOhC0c/s735/2006BB5460.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="590" data-original-width="735" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh37UK2c0QfhsRajQVLeuxawIOvIHQTgGnOST0r4WHJeh55q41x6X7isPVMNsq7mDBVVxZ1Ir5NYr7rxwHMhreyWuhU3iyPD-uQhPLJRif6QKHLfap1vjEI2Y98oDrHE6h4oxFvw91afnB_Ue_5Cs3-Msw2ZxT67L2e-iAVvZcqH0w_EsVLtWyTQzOhC0c/s320/2006BB5460.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><p>It was the croaky, off-tune voice of Phil Ochs singing ‘The War Is Over’ that brought a huge crowd of Sunday afternooners to their feet in Central Park at the weekend, reliving memories of an earlier occasion when this song was sung on the streets of New York. </p></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Ochs was the central figure in a free concert planned to celebrate the end of the war in Vietnam and although he recruited a host of artists to appear on the bill alongside him (Paul Simon, Richie Havens, Joan Baez, Peter Yarrow, Pete Seeger, Tom Paxton and others), it was Phil’s rendering of three essential period pieces that set the mood for an afternoon graced not only by fine weather but with a sense of achievement for an event well organised.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Phil, who admits his voice is shot and whose recent creativity has slumped to an all-time low, is something of a legendary figure in New York/Village/political/folkie circles. He put the bill together for this show, designed a poster (above) and duetted with Joan Baez on a moving rendition of ‘There But For Fortune’, perhaps his best-known song.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Unrehearsed and off-key, Phil stood up to sing ‘I Ain’t Marching Any More’ with the determination of a political candidate. “My voice ain’t too good these days,” he admitted. “And I probably can’t hit the high notes any more. But we’ll try it anyway.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>The crowd joined in on the choruses and the years fell away to the period when it was hip to protest against the hostilities in the Far East. With Baez, he was hesitant (it was the first time the two – songwriter and hitmaker – had ever duetted on ‘There But For Fortune’) but they traded lines across Phil’s Martin; it wasn’t the moment for musical subtlety anyway.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinqk--VN5fAXBlrmsTpC5AQJI2aIz37HvGRY2GN5J92YEwq4Q4LBk-tEz7n52o0ZUKmWUNsDu8XE28mcLjoj7Elz25sCLDaVtm1a_LUxCvvGYCX1IBv-7_pbNo7zRCzMPs3XLNtzj7pdrXI2fTvwl_bvZRDSM4o9Y8M85fS5xOU4oRJQ931pcg6Np0yGQ/s275/download-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinqk--VN5fAXBlrmsTpC5AQJI2aIz37HvGRY2GN5J92YEwq4Q4LBk-tEz7n52o0ZUKmWUNsDu8XE28mcLjoj7Elz25sCLDaVtm1a_LUxCvvGYCX1IBv-7_pbNo7zRCzMPs3XLNtzj7pdrXI2fTvwl_bvZRDSM4o9Y8M85fS5xOU4oRJQ931pcg6Np0yGQ/s1600/download-1.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;"><div style="text-align: center;">I found this picture of Phil & Joan at the event online. It is credited to Jean Pierre Laffont. </div></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Ochs closed with ‘The War Is Over’, relating how the song was originally written during a demonstration in New York’s Washington Square some seven years ago. On that occasion Ochs and various colleagues decided to declare the Vietnam offensive over themselves. Slipping into a lower octave for the verses, Och’s strained at the throat to hit the higher notes without much success. Again, it didn’t matter. The feel was what counted.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Paul Simon was the biggest star of the day, John Lennon having excused himself on the grounds of “not being in a singing condition at the present time”. Lennon probably declined to attend because of his decision to lie low while the courts decide his future in the US. Publicity surrounding his appearance at this kind of event would do more harm than good. There was a rumour that George Harrison would show, but he never did.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Paul Simon, never the spontaneous artist, looked his usual nervous self. He opened with a flawless rendering of ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ while photographers literally fought to snap his profile. He received a tremendous ovation but looked hesitantly around him for encouragement from the other artists waiting to appear.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Attempting a tune-up, he slid into ‘American Tune’, a particularly appropriate song but it never got off the ground. While tuning his guitar and singing at the same time, he hastily decided to abandon the song – which was beginning to drag – and liven up the proceedings with the jerky intro to ‘Me And Julio Down By The Schoolyard’.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>He completed about half this song before giving up on the guitar, bowing and picking up his young son Harper, and encouraging him to say ‘peace’ into the microphone. He did just that and was rewarded with a cheer that rivalled his famous daddy.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>“I wasn’t quite prepared for that,” a flustered Simon told me backstage while being trodden underfoot by yet more cameramen. He made a hasty getaway.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Joan Baez sang a version of ‘Joe Hill’ which reminded me of the live Woodstock album, and was joined by Peter Yarrow for a fine version of ‘Blown’ In The Wind’. The audience responded as if Dylan himself was up on stage, singing the choruses and even cheering the end of each stanza.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Other artists had their chance to sing a couple of numbers. Richie Havens sang a lengthy ‘Freedom’, Sister Odetta, Pete Seeger and Tom Paxton all came up with a couple of songs and Patti Smith, folk poet and totally original rock performer, put over two pieces before her biggest-yet audience. She also brought greetings from Stevie Wonder in the form of a cassette recording which, unfortunately, couldn’t be played.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Between acts there were political speakers who, for the most part, tended to drag proceedings to a deathly crawl. Every tub thumper with a cause was allowed to air their views and, consequently, topics that ranged from the American Indian Movement to the struggle within trade unions were all debated from the platform. The majority of speeches, however, dealt with the celebration to mark the liberation of Vietnam and all speakers showered plenty of praise on the Viet Cong.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Advertisements for the event had promised a minimum of speeches but this was forgotten as a host of personalities, from deserters to mothers who had lost their sons in the conflict followed each other to the microphone. There was even a telephone conversation with some Vietnamese arrivals who didn’t speak English. Quite fatuous. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>The speeches actually took up the bulk of the afternoon and it was a long afternoon, stretching from midday until sunset when Central Park is traditionally taken over by ne’er do wells and winos seeking a berth for the night.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>“It was a success, I think,” Phil Ochs told me a couple of days later. “We raised enough money to pay for the event with a little left over to send to Vietnam, and I was pleased everyone showed up. I called Paul Simon personally and knew he would show because he had to pass through the city that day on his way from Long Island to New Jersey.” </span></p><p><br /></p>Chris Charlesworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05459094285776329847noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960772098173697898.post-91534996240757110892023-08-29T04:54:00.000-07:002023-08-29T04:54:24.453-07:00JUKE BOX WEEKEND<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwA9SUFVvnva6fk3jVtvVirxwh2OGi7gn4aFgM2DAXe-ur2LZdvqESwE49T0yWo2hMzLDmTwXSTI1m4H3vYYTviCWHb4EbmCcb9QDsm-kuzviC2bv2yhg-Q0haxykc9X8aHDZx5nl1uzt9agFhm9VAyglYuWOQzVDoRrhmZSDLCyMVqxA_8ZBCWGfjFF8/s640/image3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwA9SUFVvnva6fk3jVtvVirxwh2OGi7gn4aFgM2DAXe-ur2LZdvqESwE49T0yWo2hMzLDmTwXSTI1m4H3vYYTviCWHb4EbmCcb9QDsm-kuzviC2bv2yhg-Q0haxykc9X8aHDZx5nl1uzt9agFhm9VAyglYuWOQzVDoRrhmZSDLCyMVqxA_8ZBCWGfjFF8/s320/image3.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">From the age of ten I have loved juke boxes. Much of my earliest musical education – Elvis, Chuck, Buddy and the like – came from a red and yellow one in a coffee bar near Mill Bridge in Skipton where I was raised. Some years ago, whenever I was tasked with compiling a weekly shopping list that Mrs Charlesworth might need for a trip into town, I would slip ‘juke box’ somewhere in between the food and drink items, only stopping when the joke wore thin. </span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Over and above the music, there was something tantalisingly attractive about gaudy American Rock-Ola juke boxes, the lights that twinkled, the plastic that shone, the chrome that glinted, the curves that somehow reminded me of American cars to be found in ads in <i>National Geographic</i> magazine, low and flat with sweeping tailfins and sleek, flowing bodywork. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Not often does your man from Just Backdated find himself spending a weekend in a private house equipped with a Rock-Ola juke box but that’s what happened last weekend when we stayed with our friends Adrian and Lynne at their home in a village a few minutes’ drive away from Bridport in Dorset.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Adrian has owned the blue Rock-Ola 449 pictured above since the late seventies. Made in the US in 1972, it was shipped to Germany for use on an American army base before it found its way to the UK where Adrian paid about £250 for it from its previous owner. It’s set up to take 25 cent coins (American quarters) but like all juke boxes can be fixed to circumvent payment. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>It contains 100 7-inch singles, two 12-inch speakers and is very loud. Indeed, the volume is difficult to control and even on the quietest setting booms out like sound systems at Notting Hill Carnival. Speaking of which, it comes as no surprise that almost all the singles on Adrian’s juke box are early reggae, not just Bob Marley, but less celebrated names too, as can be seen from the picture below.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1DOjjHEurfcEx6f0OTnyjn8PepyDEYbbJmtyVvJ8_OmiQM5dYFIvI7CX6fyZUWZ5x0UnjMPVsNhgE0F7GQPCqjzltAdvj0JczqM39Wfu8oBFSeCh4MPH8R4INNqsIqGBRdnvZCX9v9iw-ooEAKKPVCrLpA3xzn80T0rtoyVVS5-4xR3iYaXaa31srIIs/s640/use%20image10.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1DOjjHEurfcEx6f0OTnyjn8PepyDEYbbJmtyVvJ8_OmiQM5dYFIvI7CX6fyZUWZ5x0UnjMPVsNhgE0F7GQPCqjzltAdvj0JczqM39Wfu8oBFSeCh4MPH8R4INNqsIqGBRdnvZCX9v9iw-ooEAKKPVCrLpA3xzn80T0rtoyVVS5-4xR3iYaXaa31srIIs/s320/use%20image10.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><p><span> </span><span> </span>Perhaps more impressively, when it broke down about six months ago Adrian was told by the only juke-box repair man for miles around that it would be at least six months before a home visit to diagnose the problem could be arranged. So Adrian downloaded the manufacturer’s manual from the internet, took it apart and fixed it himself. Respect. Here are some pictures of the insides and scans of pages from the repair manual.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZbPT4U_YMC1cWaEcG4dAHbAGzUzrQL_kaH7RJnOP5mzOA6hwbbapyrKG9Yh7VqAK6O7zNescw0FNsiFLNjaimOZPKVLZ9kWB0OtbSgt5xlvcyf1A496dapOCYc-QpyKiTR6LlH6iERovexxKil-QeP_7IE_Wct2KJPl5aEJ6yyd4wgBjHarVjUpN3xKw/s640/image5.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZbPT4U_YMC1cWaEcG4dAHbAGzUzrQL_kaH7RJnOP5mzOA6hwbbapyrKG9Yh7VqAK6O7zNescw0FNsiFLNjaimOZPKVLZ9kWB0OtbSgt5xlvcyf1A496dapOCYc-QpyKiTR6LlH6iERovexxKil-QeP_7IE_Wct2KJPl5aEJ6yyd4wgBjHarVjUpN3xKw/s320/image5.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggu4wNFWHCqAM3pbVDT8oQgDt_fHY79bbytTATPFaRjiBYITpgOicBfTULvCzxt9vPJZrFynRBkTU1yziFB5AodN-5h-84gOepm5vCQPS85O1BYEIVzvevsf7azNPEG_5xy1GLggOhiDLvk_hkuPYzV4nigMJk97XRR2PyTTmU_oydIrHTTF2a8iGANWM/s640/image4.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggu4wNFWHCqAM3pbVDT8oQgDt_fHY79bbytTATPFaRjiBYITpgOicBfTULvCzxt9vPJZrFynRBkTU1yziFB5AodN-5h-84gOepm5vCQPS85O1BYEIVzvevsf7azNPEG_5xy1GLggOhiDLvk_hkuPYzV4nigMJk97XRR2PyTTmU_oydIrHTTF2a8iGANWM/s320/image4.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAGGcOV4fDouDfUqAdpndZIWn0LwQrBOoAU8G2O3Z8Yf5pg3YdWtnQ8zmmu31TehLn5R1Mz6LULtkKLo7kb4y7DJ9FHDIitrOaDaNJkso_Q9xzDLVPDMkPs40f1K4pL3syOEUrJb4B08-iA5XjB9viOa4ajlRCfr_K8JKLimrwdoOCvh3igUGYD06L9NI/s640/image8.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAGGcOV4fDouDfUqAdpndZIWn0LwQrBOoAU8G2O3Z8Yf5pg3YdWtnQ8zmmu31TehLn5R1Mz6LULtkKLo7kb4y7DJ9FHDIitrOaDaNJkso_Q9xzDLVPDMkPs40f1K4pL3syOEUrJb4B08-iA5XjB9viOa4ajlRCfr_K8JKLimrwdoOCvh3igUGYD06L9NI/s320/image8.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div></span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi38ynhJqo1_8sqP3LDY0zE2Ux36VNmh850tezWQZDZLBwPyaEYJXrHz5ELyy38OYHKAOZOx6SR3wkKD9dEUpMBItGuTUO7w1veeIIyw0igk0blvMOD5Q_RGc1um7Pqnacht_Y2Bzmu-PI5jpqim3H_IRgI0GjhXjrUkRRhdZfIRVPQ9eroTc6mdu91qmg/s640/image2%20(1).jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi38ynhJqo1_8sqP3LDY0zE2Ux36VNmh850tezWQZDZLBwPyaEYJXrHz5ELyy38OYHKAOZOx6SR3wkKD9dEUpMBItGuTUO7w1veeIIyw0igk0blvMOD5Q_RGc1um7Pqnacht_Y2Bzmu-PI5jpqim3H_IRgI0GjhXjrUkRRhdZfIRVPQ9eroTc6mdu91qmg/s320/image2%20(1).jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhSlqtWE7zfZyd-JIyks_RsBAi_X_HFLunuKTYvmbJMcIWwxt8hnvN2OdBBk2KZanGWw5qBGbjnqnxHKKUBN7D_VVXYm3X5wA1o_YpybIyhL-wQtYLT1XmpsFbyrkl3qxUW6Bh5_9_MyJyPM3BvP1I-3q4o8uFNGIbmmbxF8L7OPE6C6Zqg9C5WoAaedE/s640/image1%20(2).jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhSlqtWE7zfZyd-JIyks_RsBAi_X_HFLunuKTYvmbJMcIWwxt8hnvN2OdBBk2KZanGWw5qBGbjnqnxHKKUBN7D_VVXYm3X5wA1o_YpybIyhL-wQtYLT1XmpsFbyrkl3qxUW6Bh5_9_MyJyPM3BvP1I-3q4o8uFNGIbmmbxF8L7OPE6C6Zqg9C5WoAaedE/s320/image1%20(2).jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>While working on his machine, Adrian noted that missing from the manual was information about the device within that logs the number of plays for each record. This enabled its owner to report back to those who compiled record charts based on juke box popularity, which might be subject to fraud if tampered with. “They didn’t want anyone to know how it worked,” Adrian says. “You could fix the charts if you altered the readings.” </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1D31r81TpXuMxqH8Tgvvssyhid789pZtB73Fm4ch9XGr_jHH03w_l37-Ut_jQ6GWFqwczBcYofzxuRnquhTOl5jQnCKh7-4hboIXquV-gjiSodTPDlsF2K5nbXs-KP1ovSqGwJ42Oa6JOH551Ci1-BNrD79pztn-x9-EZXL4N4OwWyxcSe5Hn7G2kYBs/s640/chart%20image6.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1D31r81TpXuMxqH8Tgvvssyhid789pZtB73Fm4ch9XGr_jHH03w_l37-Ut_jQ6GWFqwczBcYofzxuRnquhTOl5jQnCKh7-4hboIXquV-gjiSodTPDlsF2K5nbXs-KP1ovSqGwJ42Oa6JOH551Ci1-BNrD79pztn-x9-EZXL4N4OwWyxcSe5Hn7G2kYBs/s320/chart%20image6.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;"><div style="text-align: center;">The disc with the yellow ring records the number of plays. </div></span><p></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A bit of research on the internet tells me that the Rock-Ola Scale Company was founded in 1927 by David Cullen Rockola to manufacture all kinds of coin-operated entertainment machines. During the 1920s, Rockola was linked with Chicago organized crime – no doubt Mafia dudes offering ‘protection’ in return for the profits of coin-machines they supplied – but Mr Rockola escaped a jail sentence by turning State’s Evidence, which probably meant he watched his back for the rest of his life. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>He added the hyphen because people often mispronounced his name – the long ‘o’ is important – and the name of his company was changed to Rock-Ola Manufacturing Corporation in 1932. From 1935, Rock-Ola sold more than 400,000 jukeboxes under the Rock-Ola brand name, some of which were shipped to the UK. One of them ended up at that coffee bar in Skipton, for which I gave thanks every day of my life. </span></p><div><br /></div>Chris Charlesworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05459094285776329847noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960772098173697898.post-61137889137911028602023-08-07T07:07:00.005-07:002023-08-08T02:10:00.265-07:00THE ENDLESS COLOURED WAYS: The Songs Of Nick Drake<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4tpVx-mQZByHP5qcOCJC8cLMoXYzbVw7AYfWzY9_0CTcCnVR44bl6G7ywmbexDNyn-bLKej9d0XuUc88mXm0NsKHYMvZ_s3Sl1otfRRFfu5j1ST7mNvbc_6V3gDo5aWlq92clLEo0jQ5cAaJSV-wxs4AtpcKNRVvHUQRuBlQKqL50KD01fBPtSS4bLHc/s225/download-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4tpVx-mQZByHP5qcOCJC8cLMoXYzbVw7AYfWzY9_0CTcCnVR44bl6G7ywmbexDNyn-bLKej9d0XuUc88mXm0NsKHYMvZ_s3Sl1otfRRFfu5j1ST7mNvbc_6V3gDo5aWlq92clLEo0jQ5cAaJSV-wxs4AtpcKNRVvHUQRuBlQKqL50KD01fBPtSS4bLHc/s1600/download-1.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><p></p></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Considering the esteem in which Nick Drake is now held, there is a paucity of albums by various artists covering his songs. Perhaps it’s because they are a bit tricky to play and sing, or maybe too personal. Some years ago, I bought one called <i>Way To Blue</i> which features recordings from concerts in Melbourne and London, assembled by Joe Boyd, Drake’s original producer, which is superb. Now, along comes another, <i>The Endless Coloured Ways</i>, which is equally lovely.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> <span> </span></span>Available in a variety of formats, which suggests Chrysalis is rather milking the concept, <i>The Endless Coloured Ways</i> is quite different from <i>Way To Blue</i> insofar as almost all these cover versions are designed to enhance, as opposed to replicate, the originals. It offers 25 Drake songs in total, across two CDs, in four ‘episodes’, A, B C and D, designed to create a seamless flow, all performed with instructions from producer and Drake estate manager Cally Callomon to the artists to ignore the original versions and perform them in their own styles. “We asked the contributors to adopt each song as if it were their own,” writes Calloman in the accompanying booklet. “Not only do the songs stand up as great songs in themselves, regardless of the original recordings by Nick, we believe the results are typical of each performer.” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Which is precisely what the artists do, in some cases turnings songs inside out, in others adding layers of inventive instrumentation, in others taking turns where Nick stayed straight. The most notable feature to these ears, though, is how the lyrics seem clearer in almost every song. While veneration of Nick Drake appears endless, if there was a flaw in the 60-odd recordings he made during his lifetime it was his uncertain enunciation. This tendency to mumble meant the words were lost amidst the maestro-like guitar picking and orchestration, so on many songs, oblique as they are, we can’t grasp what he’s singing about. Without exception on this tribute set, all the singers involved, many of them women, enunciate with far greater clarity. Most of them aren’t from the UK either which makes it all the more intriguing. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>As a prelude, we hear an a cappella verse from ‘Voice From A Mountain’ before Fontaines DC rattle off ‘Cello Song’/’Strange Face’, drums establishing a brisk pace behind a distorted guitar, with Nick or Robert Kirby’s cello part now a choral backdrop as part of a 90-second prologue before the vocals enter. Accustomed over time to hearing Nick’s rather plummy accent, it comes as a bit of a surprise to hear Grian Chatten’s Irish brogue. An extended outro replicates the intro. French singer Camille follows with a delightfully fragile ‘Hazy Jane II, backed by guitar and what sounds like a plucked cello. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Elbow’s Guy Garvey interprets ‘Saturday Sun’ in the blunt drawl he applies to his day job, the tempo so slow it almost grinds to a halt with a minute to go, followed by a coda of Lennon-like dissonant noise. ‘Road’, by Bombay Bicycle Club & The Staves, is another brisk outing, enhanced by a lovely acoustic guitar figure, while ‘From The Morning’ by Let’s East Grandma is set to a drum machine and synths, Jenny Hollingworth’s vocal soaring over the top.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>David Gray sings ‘Place To Be’ over a stark accompaniment, as does Stick In The Wheel’s Nicola Kearey on a spooky stab at ‘Parasite’. Aside from when he sings in a higher register towards the end, Ben Harper’s turn on ‘Time Has Told Me’ is one of few tracks that differ only slightly from Nick’s recording, while Emile Sandé skates nicely through ‘One Of These Things First’, complete with metronomic programmed drums. This is followed by a truly lovely reading of ‘Northern Sky’ by Scotland’s Karine Polwart and Kris Drever, perfect harmonies enhanced by a melancholy trumpet. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Of all the songs that Nick Drake wrote and recorded, none are bleaker than ‘Black Eyed Dog’, a meditation on depression that dances around a simple guitar figure, at least by Drake’s standards, with spare lyrics and sparser instrumentation that foresee imminent mortality. Nick sang this song in a high, plaintive voice that left little doubt he was singing about his own isolation, the incessant harmonic of his ringing strings and occasional frayed note adding to the tension. Over now to Craig Armstrong featuring Self Esteem who add plenty of echo to the haunting guitar lines, taking the song from its skeletal blueprint into something altogether richer, with double-tracked, whispered vocals, a false ending to herald a slide back to the start, and that nagging guitar figure which on this reading somehow reminded me of U2’s ‘Bad’ from <i>The Unforgettable Fire</i>. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>CD2 opens with another a cappella chant, this time ‘Road’, reprised by Bombay Bicycle Club & The Staves, followed by a gorgeous ‘Poor Boy’ by Nadia Reid and the ringing acoustic guitar of Christian Lee Hutson accompanying himself and Elanor Moss on a reverent ‘Which Will’. Skullcrusher & Gia Margaret offer up a delicate ‘Harvest Breed’, as does Katherine Priddy on ‘I Think They’re Leaving Me Behind’ and Norway’s Aurora (aka Njål Paulsberg) on a brief ‘Pink Moon’. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>There is no better example of the clear enunciation I referred to earlier than Joe Henry and Meshell Ndegeocello’s lovely ‘Time Of No Reply’, enhanced by an alto saxophone. Famous Blue Cable, with Leslie Feist on vocals, tackle ‘River Man’ delicately, played largely on fretless baritone guitar with brushed drums. Liz Phair swings nicely through ‘Free Ride’, Radiohead drummer Philip Selway takes the vocals on ‘Fly’, fragile, almost spoken, and Icelandic John Grant takes us on a mysterious ride for ‘Day Is Done’ before the CD concludes with a reprise of ‘Voices’ from The Wandering Hearts.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>I’ve been playing this CD at home and in our car for the last two weeks, enjoying it more and more each time. If you like Drake you'll like this too. </span></p><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><p><br /></p>Chris Charlesworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05459094285776329847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960772098173697898.post-77759256215707686702023-07-27T04:08:00.004-07:002023-07-28T02:53:32.855-07:00SINÉAD O’CONNOR<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxru13JmjvLUBTToU-nMaUkAFLOClDKjhvGo7w1mLe2LVTI7Tiuuz1nDpwFL056Lo_E6iL87nAneoHdG4cT3arOBSBEacN6IBRx0Uhs8Wi_wpiySGy6G3fvrn17pCetkJ1Z0JEDGiXI08pwJeh9AT5h_U2N7ksu8eAzMEesP53jE1q2E0u9w6xEu_qvC4/s900/FXaJdq0aMAAg-KG.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="611" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxru13JmjvLUBTToU-nMaUkAFLOClDKjhvGo7w1mLe2LVTI7Tiuuz1nDpwFL056Lo_E6iL87nAneoHdG4cT3arOBSBEacN6IBRx0Uhs8Wi_wpiySGy6G3fvrn17pCetkJ1Z0JEDGiXI08pwJeh9AT5h_U2N7ksu8eAzMEesP53jE1q2E0u9w6xEu_qvC4/s320/FXaJdq0aMAAg-KG.jpg" width="217" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><p>Enchanted by her first album, <i>The Lion And The Cobra</i>, on 6 November, 1990, I bought last minutes tickets to see Sinéad O’Connor at the Royal Albert Hall, standing up in the gods as all the seats had been sold. From up there she looked tiny, her shorn head making her seem almost childlike, very vulnerable and dwarfed by the big stage and vast spherical surroundings. I thought she was fantastic, a huge presence, especially when she switched on a boom box for accompaniment and danced an Irish jig to one of her songs. Boy, she has a lot of bottle, that girl, I thought as her set progressed. She’ll be a huge star one day.</p></span><p></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In those days I was the managing editor at Omnibus Press, which specialised in books about rock and pop performers, and seeing Sinéad at the RAH prompted me to commission a book about her. I sought out a Dublin-based journalist called Dermott Hayes, who was keen to write it, and even commissioned my future wife, Lisa, who’d been at the RAH with me, to design the cover. Published in 1991, the book, entitled <i>So Different</i>, was very successful, our second best seller that year, and it attracted several foreign language editions. Sinéad, however, was displeased. Not long after it was published Dermott encountered her at some event in Dublin and was the target of her sharp tongue, so he relayed to me. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfaIJcLu2sv8jLnlk_KPhsdqylkCiKeHCNzdLW8QFvIHUY8TYR7I-sE93lhJyywTxo4oZ1h-Y8W9ldTgMXa-99pfAnco9hA8E5wEmUgDfV-M55u7pv4-xXlKdHainz5n8CjM-fvROzgdIJGROxYEhtZLsPPuhu8Yd3o1-Nb8zdq_q6XTSyrr1B5-8HHcw/s218/91qtZjemPpL._AC_UY218_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="218" data-original-width="163" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfaIJcLu2sv8jLnlk_KPhsdqylkCiKeHCNzdLW8QFvIHUY8TYR7I-sE93lhJyywTxo4oZ1h-Y8W9ldTgMXa-99pfAnco9hA8E5wEmUgDfV-M55u7pv4-xXlKdHainz5n8CjM-fvROzgdIJGROxYEhtZLsPPuhu8Yd3o1-Nb8zdq_q6XTSyrr1B5-8HHcw/s1600/91qtZjemPpL._AC_UY218_.jpg" width="163" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><p><span> <span> </span></span>In common with other non-fiction publishers, Omnibus Press regularly revised and updated titles on our back catalogue, and whenever we suggested this to authors they were always delighted to do so. Not only would it improve their books but they’d benefit financially, from a top-up advance for producing any necessary editorial work and the probability that their royalties would increase too.</p></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> <span> </span></span>There was only ever one exception to this: <i>So Different</i> by Dermott Hayes. When I contacted Dermott and proposed he revise and update his book, he declined, which surprised me. Evidently, he had come to a concord with Sinéad not to do so, in the hope that the book would go out of print (which it eventually did, though it’s available on kindle). I later learned, an even bigger surprise, that he and Sin</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">é</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">ad were in a relationship. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>“The irony of that achievement [the book’s success] can only be surpassed by myself and Sinéad having a very public love affair nine years later,” wrote Dermott on a website. “There’s a song on Sinead’s fifth studio album, <i>Faith And Courage</i>, released in 2000, called ‘Dancing Lessons’… She says it’s about our relationship.”</span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I thought at the time that if I’d never commissioned this book Sinéad and Dermott might never have met. Maybe that’s the case, or maybe they’d have met anyway, but I hope they were happy together, at least for a while. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Happiness was a commodity that seemed forever to elude Sinéad O‘Connor. She was a warrior and warriors are rarely content. They thrive on confrontations, of which there were many in her troubled life. Like everyone else, I followed her travails by reading about this or that strange or sad set of circumstances in which she was involved. She wasn’t one to grow old gracefully. Grace wasn’t her style. I still play her records and always will. </span></span></p><div><br /></div>Chris Charlesworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05459094285776329847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960772098173697898.post-80025984416502862742023-07-14T04:21:00.007-07:002023-07-15T08:29:31.863-07:00BOWIE ODYSSEY ’73 by Simon Goddard<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6YhEyskXswkHmwWDf6-Ufp2ith1uKvfsvdYT1RW4zEh_b1mb5La_Z-BwA7r4y7RtVFBtXPNOYfI0-TzL3P3C3rqXwV7oJhC7hpE2tipBiM5xbTc8d-gIoLwHc4EnVeyZcuFV9Rpm2LUwI7N3xf43CEmu0kAuW9otqsa1IlisuPTsg-1g0roVEsDX8EYQ/s275/download-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="183" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6YhEyskXswkHmwWDf6-Ufp2ith1uKvfsvdYT1RW4zEh_b1mb5La_Z-BwA7r4y7RtVFBtXPNOYfI0-TzL3P3C3rqXwV7oJhC7hpE2tipBiM5xbTc8d-gIoLwHc4EnVeyZcuFV9Rpm2LUwI7N3xf43CEmu0kAuW9otqsa1IlisuPTsg-1g0roVEsDX8EYQ/s1600/download-1.jpg" width="183" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">It is unusual to begin a series at the fourth episode but that is what I’ve inadvertently done with <i>Bowie Odyssey ’73</i>, the fourth in Simon Goddard’s ambitious sequence of books that, year by year, will chart David Bowie’s progress throughout the decade he made his own, one book per year, hopefully, up to 1980. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>The project’s ambition is matched only by the sumptuousness of Goddard’s writing. These are not biographies in the accepted sense, researched through interviews with those on the side-lines collated alongside details of events like record releases and concerts, all glossed up with the author’s own take or critique on things. No, they are attempts to get inside Bowie’s head and observe things from his and everyone else’s perspective, in this case a heap of folk with whom Bowie associated; wife Angie, Spiders and other musicians, maverick manager Tony Defries and his flamboyant Mainman assistants, clothes designers, hairdressers, friends old and new, fans, and, last but by no means least, lovers, of whom there are several: take a bow Amanda, Marianne and Lulu to name but three. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>This kind of writing is not new but is nevertheless quite rare, and it takes a good deal of skill to pull it off. The late great Nick Tosches succeeded to a certain extent with his wonderful Jerry Lee Lewis biography <i>Hellfire</i>, and to an even greater degree in <i>Dino: Living High In The Dirty Business</i> <i>of Dreams</i>, his astonishing excavation into the life of Dean Martin. The master, of course, was Hunter S. Thompson, who placed himself at the centre of the stories he wrote in a style that became known as gonzo journalism.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>Simon Goddard does not place himself within Bowie’s orbit, which, because he wasn’t there, would be foolish, but instead walks a mile in the shoes of those who were. Eschewing any hint of musical criticism or analysis, Goddard has produced 150-odd pages of fly-on-the-wall reportage, scrupulously researched through interviews with the flies but in place of the usual quotes from interested observers we have the actual conversations, real or imagined, all combined with vivid descriptions of time and place. He can’t know for sure what Bowie was thinking, or feeling, or saying, but his assumptions ring true time and time again. At times as I read <i>Bowie Odyssey ’73</i> I felt like his shadow.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>David Bowie’s life in 1973 was nothing less than hectic, chaotic even. Ziggy was on his final tour, in the US, Japan and UK; his Earls Court show was a humiliating disaster; he travelled everywhere by land, across the USSR by rail; <i>Aladdin Sane</i> and <i>Pin-Ups</i> were recorded and released, four singles appeared too, one of them, to his deep annoyance, ‘The Laughing Gnome’; the Bowies were itinerant, rarely home but moving house more than once; Angie was hankering after equal billing; money was recklessly squandered, not least by manager Defries; cocaine arrived; fans with thunderbolts across their faces were everywhere he went. Snapping at his heels were Roxy Music and Slade, with Marc fading and pretenders galore waiting in the wings to render glam rock artless. In the real world there were strikes, the Lambton sex scandal and the marriage of HRH Anne, among much more. It’s a rich stew and Simon Goddard does the ingredients justice, blending all into a genuine page-turner. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>There are hints, too, of things to come: financial woes, the arrival in Bowie’s midst of a nondescript girl who will, in time, prove indispensable, and a bold idea involving a theatrical presentation based on Orwell’s <i>1984</i>. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span>That</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">’</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">ll have to wait until <i>Bowie Odyssey ’74</i>. Bring it on, and in the meantime I’m turning back to <i>’70</i>, <i>’71</i> and <i>’72</i>. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;"> (</span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i style="font-family: verdana;">Bowie Odyssey ’74 </i><span style="font-family: verdana;">is published by Omnibus Press, and has an eight-page photo section; </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;">RRP £16.99, £12.76 on Amazon)</span></p>Chris Charlesworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05459094285776329847noreply@blogger.com0