Presley: What's In A Name?

July 30^th – I think I’m right in saying that Reg Presley (no relation of The King, but my guess is his name set him up for feeling hard done by for the rest of his life) Reg Presley could have had absolutely no idea of the impact his song, Wild Thing (which hit the number one slot in the charts on this day in 1966) would have on the 60’s generation; and apart from the fact he recorded it, that impact had absolutely nothing to do with him, as much as he’d liked it to have said the reverse.

I had the (dubious) pleasure of follow-spotting him on a couple of occasions during his latter tours and I have to say, with no malice aforethought, that on stage at least he came across as a disillusioned chap who’d not received the recognition he thought he was worth (there, that was nicely put). Now you have to pay attention as it gets a bit messy from here on in.

Did any of you see, Enemy of the State? That conspiracy-theory movie with Will Smith and Gene Hackman; the one directed by Tony Scott? I thought it was an excellent piece of story-telling (with just a couple of small plot holes…we’ve all got them) and an excellent cameo slot by Tom Sizemore (he of Heat fame). Well, for those who saw it (and if you aint then now’s the time to get on it) there’s also a nice piece of character work by Jon Voight (he of Deliverence fame) as the head of intelligence (not a nice guy at all). Well, Wild Thing? It was written by the brother of Jon Voight, Chip Taylor…honest! I know, Voight/Taylor? No sense there at all, but trust me, I’ll not lie to you. Chip Taylor is his stage name, his real name is James Wesley Voight. There, see? Voight/Voight. Works dunnit? So Chip Taylor wrote Wild Thing and it was originally recorded by an American band called The Wild Ones; Wild/Wild, works dunnit? The band name was probably in homage to the Marlon Brando/Mary Murphy angst-flick of 1953, d’y’ think?

Now, having sort of seen and heard Mr. Presley (not Elvis but Reg) from up close (at one of the shows he gave a 15 minute lecture on politics to the audience; they loved that, you could see them yawning from up in follow-spot position) I’m sure he’d really liked to have written that one or, if not, have been the first to record it; he was neither, and when Jimi Hendrix began to include a cover of it in his live shows and then recorded a blistering version of it at Woodstock…well, suffice to say Mr. Presley (not Elvis but Reg) now not only didn’t write it or record it first nor did he do the definitive version. So, nought out of three.

To get his own back on us all, however, he did write that schmaltzy, love-sick dirge, Love is All Around, which gave that schmaltzy, love-sick dirgee, Marti Pellow out of Wet-Wet-Wet (great name, suited them well) his main hit, so pay-back in full, I’d say.

One Gram too much for The Byrds

July 29^th – Oftentimes the case that your heroes turn out to have feet of clay, or at least not actually measuring up to the stature of the person/people you once thought them.

I think, as much because of my age and the age at the time, that I’ve always liked The Byrds. They sort of captured the whole hippy-trippy time and, as I’ve mentioned before in columns passim, Sweetheart of the Rodeo’ (SotR) is, for me, one of their best works. I think I’m from the same stable as most honest folk from the time that, no matter how girlie The Byrds can sound, they really did some superb work for the time and their social stance was spot on…or so I thought at the time.

A little about the ‘SotR’ recording mightn’t come amiss, just so’s I don’t come across like some miserable, grouchy old fuck…which of course you all know I am…

The Byrds were lacking in personnel around the time of that album and it was also around that time they met up with Gram Parsons. I’ve also mentioned him before too (The Flying Burrito Brothers). Difficult, tetchy, spoilt, selfish, brilliant, charismatic musician that he was, still he was the main instigator behind the songs and the recording technique used on ‘SotR’. Before that album, The Byrds were on a different track altogether (think 8 Miles High and All I Really Wanna Do) but Mr. Parsons’ input and general cajoling soon altered their direction…and Sweetheart of the Rodeo was the result; but only several months after Mr. Parsons had left the group in somewhat strange circumstances.

Even given their country switch, The Byrds still projected that right-on-with-the-people image…or, as I mentioned in the opening, maybe that was just an image we projected onto them…? So it came as something as a surprise when I read about Sweetheart of the Rodeo a long while ago and came across one of the suggestions as to why, on this day in 1968, Gram Parson’s split from the band, which he did on the eve of a tour with no forewarning. Now even for him that was a bit…left-field. To drop the whole band and its projected tour into the cow-poo…but when you consider that the  tour was to South Africa…at which there would be segregated audiences…and Mr. Parsons supposedly, quit ‘cos of that…? Well…it’s a mystery which is worth unravelling (for me anyway).

Gram Parsons was developing a fear of flying: 
The band weren’t prepared to acquiesce to his sometime childish demands:

Gram Parson’s just wanted to hangout with English rock bands, particularly The Rolling Stones:

Gram Parson’s refused to tour in a place where segregation was still operated purely on the grounds of race.

Take your pick, they’ve all been posited as reasons for his abrupt departure, depends on how charitable you feel.

As for The Byrds…well. The tour went ahead and was a disaster, the uncharitable amongst us would say;

Good

But… They were under-rehearsed having had to draft in a new rhythm guitarist (their roadie) and play to segregated audiences, something they were also, seemingly, assured by the promoters would not happen. They were vilified in the musical press for their lack of common sense and ridiculed for their naivety when they said in their defence that they thought going there and playing their sort of music;

‘might make a difference to the situation, which we all abhor.’

Don’t know what you want to make of that one; about who was right and who was wrong. Need to talk it through with them to get the full story, get the truth on that one… well not Mr. Parsons obviously. He o/d’d on morphine and alcohol in 1973, but any surviving others… I mean, Paul Simon got it wrong and Harold Wilson got it wrong so no shame in it, the shame is in misguided belief that rock music can alter the minds of politicos, and we all know the truth of that one.

That's what Love Will Do....

July 28^th – What it must be like to be the other half. I guess it must boil down to how badly you want it (steady there at the back!) and how far you’d be prepared to go to achieve that goal. I mean, f’rinstance, you have someone you share time and travail with, the two of you carve out a living against all the odds and, through all that you remain true to the ideals you put together as a partnership; all the bad times, the shit, the doubt you stayed together for the sake of the dream.

I’ve said this to folk before, that we go through life making a lot of acquaintances but it’s only every now and then, maybe two, possibly three times in one’s life if you’re really lucky (discounting family and life partners) when you hook up with someone you’d be prepared to die alongside and think your life up to that point of departure well worth it just for the privilege of having this person as a friend. It’s only happened to me twice, so far, and I feel blessed for it. Don’t see either of them often but, just a call, from either side, and it’s as though we were never parted.

I imagine that was something similar for Steve Took (born this day in 1949) of T. Rex fame…well, fleeting fame actually…pity was that Mr. Bolan didn’t quite see it in the same light. Same goes for our boy, Mr. Michael and Andrew Ridgley. Jeeze, no love lost there then, was there…and have you seen their promo photos?! (Me? George Michael? Gay? Never.) Then there’s Boy George and Jon Moss (is it a gay thing?) and the ultimate flower-power-peace-and-love duo, Sonny and Cher (so not a gay thing then; apologies for the stereotyping). Nope, must be a fame-self-obsessed thing fuelled by a cocktail of the entourage and arrogance...  Just goes to show, when fame comes in the door partnership goes out the window.

The core of rock.....

July 27^th – You know how things suddenly occur and you think;

“I’ll bet no-one’s ever thought of this…I must be a genius”? Or at the other end of the scale and with myself firmly in the picture;

“If someone as thick as me can see this then how come no one else can; I must be barmy”?

OK?

Well, in the spirit of disclosing most of myself through this column, let me share something with you.

The use of music to alter mood and mob behaviour is well documented, as Snr. Noriega (column passim) found that out to his cost when he lost a country to AC/DC. When the Ecstasy boom collided with dance music in the 80’s it banded together hundreds sometimes thousands of strangers into a loving, caring, dancing whole. The use of music in public places to alter shopping patterns by creating feelings of euphoria or tribalism in the potential purchaser is something we encounter every day. The play pattern of music used in factories and places of work to manipulate the output and outlook of workers (George Orwell was so far ahead of his time) has been with us for thirty years and (getting on the main subject of today’s little chat…at last) the use of music to deter vandals from hanging around certain areas at night has achieved excellent results, pity is it’s classical music that’s been trialled and monitored for this last piece of behavioural alteration.

What I’ve found with classical music is that it’s an excellent way to start to the day. Like stroking an amenable dog, it lowers heart rate, slows down the pulse and has also been proven to lower blood pressure in the strokee…that’s the dog, not the music; my guess is Beethoven wouldn’t take too kindly to being petted…well, of course, now it wouldn’t bother him, but back then, when he was warm? My guess is you’d’ve gotten short shrift, particularly, come to think, if you’d sort of approached quietly from behind him and started stroking his hair, him being deaf an’ all… Anyway, listening to most pieces of classical music sets the tone for the day; calm bordering on the serene (unless it’s a symphony by Wagner, of course) and with a feeling of expansiveness and understanding. Well (and here’s the breakthrough) that effect is the same when you’re driving a car!

There you have it. If you  listen  to classical music in the car it makes you a more compassionate, caring, less-likely-to-get-into-a-road-rage, polite driver, and when you consider that you’re in charge of two-plus tons of careening metal…? Well, all gotta help, hasn’t it?

Now, if this is the case with classical music then it follows that the obverse side of this is that if you listen to rap or any of the metals (heavy, thrash, funk, nu, rap, black, symphonic black, unblack, Viking (can only be performed whilst wearing a sword and horned helmet?) cello, Christian, crust, dark, death, death ‘n’ roll, melodic death, technical death (not really dead, just technically dead) death/doom, sludge (scraping the bottom of the barrel here, methinks), drone (Obama’s favourite) experimental, extreme, folk, Celtic (metal you can wear a kilt to) medieval, Pagan, glam, gothic, grindcore, deathgrind, goregrind, industrial, Latin, metalcore, melodic metalcore, deathcore, mathcore (“1,2,3,4”?)... you think I'm making these up, don't you? Think again my chickadees... Nintendocore (‘Super-Mario I’m gonna fuck you up!!!!’?) neo-classical core, post metal (surely that should be ‘metal post’…?) power metal, progressive metal, Djent (?)…speed metal, stonor rock, symphonic metal, thrash (music to be a male sadist by) crossover thrash (music to be a male sadist by but wearing a dress) groove, Teutonic (“eins, zwei drei, vier”?) or, heaven forbid you should be so ordinary, traditional heavy metal, any combination of these above genres should be avoided whilst driving a car as, it follows, listening to such aggressive music will tank you up and make you more likely to be an aggressive driver! There you have it. My Eureka moment!

I can feel the shockwave as all my readers (all three of you) sit back in your collective chairs with a gasp at this revelation. I know, I know, this discovery came on me as something of an epiphany too.

Imagine, then, my disappointment when I read that, on this day in 1958 A study by Esso Oil (formerly Standard Oil, eventually Exxon) discovered that drivers speed more and therefore waste more fuel when listening to ‘the new fad of rock and roll music’!

1958! Talk about a deflation of the ego. The only saving grace between Esso and I is that I consider it would be better to slow drivers down; they probably looked on R&R as a bonus. Whatever, looks like I’m so far off the pace as to be listed as slowcore or queercore or crunkcore or…

Downloading music? Never take off...

July 26^th – We see it in all aspects of the entertainment business; music, film and theatre. It stifles development and creativity mainly because of two things;

1) These industries are run and financed by people who absolutely no idea how the creative process works, and

2) Their stultified imagination is ruled by money.

I’ve mentioned before about how the movie/TV business works (or doesn’t) about the endless franchise movies and series spin-offs; everyone with even the slightest interest in movies should read Adventures in the Screen Trade by William Goldman or Conversations with My Agent and Set Up, Joke, Set Up, Joke by Rob Long to get a clear picture (pun intended) of why things have turned out like they have. Those on the creative side of the film business make every effort to keep the medium rolling forward, that calibre of writers who gave us Saturday Night and Sunday Morning or The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner or  Whistle Down the Wind; films that had something to say and something to add to the human condition. There have been a few recent successes but, in the main, the visionless production arm remains in the pocket, the fingers wrapped round the wallet…until a ready-made star vehicle pulls into the siding waiting to be filled with vacuous f/x and stupidity that is. Why is that, do you think? Maybe it’s because we know it all now so don’t need any more social mirrors…?

I’ve also touched on the subservient attitude that theatre is taking more and more often over the past twenty-five years. Once there were writers producing plays of the moment, contemporary work that challenged the urban myths. Now it’s predominantly retreads, revivals, musicals about some sleb or pop star (starring some has-been soap star) a two hour wannabe-fest riding on hits of the 40’s – 50’s – 60’s…and remakes of remakes. No risk involved, no decisions on whether something will bring in the punters. Start with a show based on a familiar thing so that people, even before they buy their ticket, feel safe, and then let the star do the rest…

The music industry has also shown a remarkable head-in sand attitude to innovative musical movements over the years. Always an industry that is eager to drag its heels and see what the other guy does, the number of times that new musical movements have passed the A&R men…(that’s A&R…as in Artists and Repertoire BTW…that’s the person who seeks out new artists, signs them to the label and works out a marketing strategy)…have passed the A&R men by as they scramble to find a reason not to sign the hot new thing because they just may be wrong…heaven forbid they should actually make a decision, go out on limb, take a punt.

However, what the music industry did do, which surpassed even their usual timidity, was to at first shake their head at the file-sharing revolution and then try to use their muscle to stop it altogether. Like the introduction of sound to movies the ostriches in the various departments of the leading players took out injunction after injunction, threatening dire punishments to those who refused to cease and desist. Like plugging a Dutch dam with your finger, it was obvious which way the tide was flowing and even more obvious that their defences would be breached but still they railed. They told everyone who’d listen that downloading of music onto a computer would never take off, would never make inroads into the CD sales market, would never become the primary method of obtaining new music, old music, any kind of music… like our politicians who have absolutely no experience in the department they actually run, it really makes you wonder how they get and keep their jobs, don’t it.

On this day in 2000 a federal judge ordered Napster to cease trading copyrighted material within 48hrs; a decree that the dealers in music trumpeted as a massive victory and as far as they were concerned spelt the end of file-sharing as we know it…yeah, right…well done everyone, treble bonuses all round. 

Woodstock/Bloodstock

July 25^th – Couldn’t have been a better research project if they’d tried, trouble was no one logged the results; pity. Never go back; those are the watchwords…

1969 – Billed as 3 Days of Peace and Love, the Woodstock festival at Bethel boasted a stellar line-up of musicians and an opportunity for people to stand together on the cusp of an event that would change history. In an effort to avoid possible problems with the number of people going to the gig the fence that had originally been erected round the site was cut the night before it opened making it, ostensibly, a free festival. 400,000 attended, and apart from the perennial problem of poor sanitation, there were only two fatalities; one heroin o/d (bless) and someone who was sleeping in a field and was run over by a tractor (also bless).

1969: The main interest for me (in my sad and searching way) is how the social and spiritual mores of the time can be gleaned from the list of performers on the one stage used; ‘cos it was about the music, not about the money. If you feel the urge to get a deeper understanding of the vibe back then source some of the following and listen to their music; it’s an excellent testimony to the mindset of the flower-power generation; innocent, naïve, well-meaning, unprepared, off beam…all of these things and more…

Day 1 – Richie Havens – Swami Satchidananda – Sweetwater – Bert Sommer – Tim Hardin – Ravi Shankar – Melanie – Arlo Guthrie – Joan Baez.

Day 2 – Quill – Country Joe McDonald – Santana – John Sebastion – Keef Hartley Band – The Incredible String Band – Canned Heat – Mountain – Grateful Dead – Creedence Clearwater Revival – Janis Joplin – Sly & the Family Stone – The Who – Jefferson Airplane.

Day 3 – Joe Cocker and the Grease Band – Country Joe and the Fish – Ten Years After – The Band – Johnny Winter – Blood, Sweat & Tears – Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young – Paul Butterfield Blues Band – Sha-Na-Na – Jimi Hendrix.

There you have it. An eclectic mix of musical styles and tastes reflecting the political, social and moral landscape of the time, detailing the ordinary person’s dissatisfaction with the status quo, what was required to change it for the better (as long as we could take the drugs along with us) and including a reference point as to what direction the journey should take and where the destination was. Can do no better than quote Max Yasgur, who owned the site where the event took place:

“Nearly half a million people, with the possibilities of disaster, riot, looting, and catastrophe, spent the three days with only music and peace on their minds. If we join them, we can turn those adversities that are the problems of America today into a hope for a brighter and more peaceful future.”

What fun it would be to recreate that marvelous time and…do it again in 1999! Should’ve listened to the watchwords;

Never go back.

1999: The main interest for me (in my sad and searching way) is how the social and spiritual mores of the time can be gleaned from the way the music festival was organised post-punk, post-Thatcher and into full-on sleb-life. The overriding feeling permeating the 1999 Woodstock Festival held on this day at Griffiss Air Force Base was one of violence and hatred. Where there was once one stage now there were four – charge more. Punters were charged $150 ($6.50 in 1969 – later free) and no food or drink was allowed to be brought in; you had to buy inside at vastly inflated prices. There you have it. An eclectic mix of shysters, rogues and money-men reflecting the political, social and moral landscape of the time…

On the third day overpriced water, overflowing toilets and the central theme of the bands playing being one of smash your way to a future of selfish wealth, rioting broke out leading MTV to call it Apocalypse Woodstock. Riots, fires, rape, death and poisoning from polluted water marked the end of the modern, 1999 Woodstock. Can do no better than quote Kurt Loder, MTV reporter covering the event:

“It was dangerous to be around. The whole scene was scary. There were just waves of hatred bouncing around the place. It was clear we had to get out of there… It was like a concentration camp. To get in, you get frisked to make sure you’re not bringing in any water or food that would prevent you from buying from their outrageously priced booths. You wallow around in garbage and human waste. There was a palpable mood of anger.”

Good to be back…

Sex and Drugs and...long hair...

July 24^th – It’s 2014, so that’s 32 years from 1972…not a different time-zone or anything is it?

I figure that one of the hardest things when you’re writing a factional movie script, well the thing I find hardest, is to keep it real, to not let fanciful cleverness overtake you and make what was a perfectly believable script onto a vehicle for ridicule.

This can happen with even the most sure-fire of works. A script lifted from a best-selling novel say, The Beach or Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, can (and has) bombed; why, even something as supposedly cast iron and seminal as Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band can’t guarantee a smooth ride from disc to celluloid. As a bonus to this blurb, the film of the album (you couldn’t make this stuff up, could you) the film of the album opened on this day in 1978 and dropped from sight in the passage of a frame so poor was its adaptation and reception. For this one they not only threw money at it but talent too, all to no avail, thereby disproving the popularly held theory that although you can’t polish a turd you can roll it in glitter. Not in this case; even the sweepings from a week’s run of Priscilla would be insufficient.

That’s why some of the tales from the road in the rock business read like the stories made up during some drug-fuelled nightmare. Some of these tales are apocryphal; Keith Richard snorting the ashes of his father with some coke; Ozzy Osborne snorting ants. Some are more prosaic; DMX’s criminal record, say, or Nikki Sixx’s dislike of hospitals. Some are downright foolish; how Chumbawumba got their name, say, or Jennifer Lopez’s rider, but one thing that can be said about the world of rock is that it stirs people to doing strange things, dangerous things, deadly things.

Since I first heard him, I’ve had a high regard for Johnny Winter. His performance, his ability, his rearrangements of standards (both blues and rock) and the gaggle of musicians (anybody who includes Rick Derringer in their band has got my vote…rack up some of Derringer’s work, you’ll not be disappointed…then reflect on the fact he was playing second guitar to Mr. Winter…that’s how good Mr. Winter is). His version of the Stones, It’s All Over Now is the standard by which every attendee at a Stones’ concert needs to have in order to judge the creative ability and output of the Stones’. Their original version doesn’t even come close to Mr. Winter’s rendition…and they wrote the damn thing! Johnny’s brother, Edgar, also had a band, White Trash, and Edgar was every bit as talented as his brother (have a listen to his version of, Tobacco Road…so left-field it’s startling; that’s him on sax and vocals btw).

Bobby Ramirez was the drummer in White Trash in the 70’s; he had long hair. Nothing unusual in that, the time the band were active and it was happening for them.

On this day in 1972 he was beaten to death in a bar in Chicago because some of the drinkers in that bar took exception to the length of his hair.

1972.

Just 32 years ago.

Don’t know about a different time-zone, that reads like a different planet.

Hugh Hefner? A Good Guy...?

July 23^rd – No matter how many good people there are in the room, it only takes one, one nutter, one greedy, selfish, intellectually challenged nutter…and the world’s full of them; I mean, who do you think is running the countries of the world these days, St Peter? They sell arms, drugs, diamonds, oil, gold, anything that can be classed as a commodity and they’ll sell to the highest bidder, whoever, wherever and whenever; no scruples, no conscience, no comeback. Who are these people?

Margaret Thatcher’s son, Mark, was and is one such. Still a baron (ask why) still moving in the highest of circles (ask why) he’s been dealing in arms and coups, carving out a living from other people’s tragedies for years, and often with his mother’s blessing and support; such a role model, both. Mooshi Bin Shamsher and Adnan Khashoggi are two others you may be familiar with, them being in the news every now and then over arms deals and various questionable practices. No matter how hard the peacekeepers work, no matter how many meetings at the highest level are conducted there will always be one or other of folk like these willing to fuck it all up for a dollar bill. How to recognise? Well trust me, you know you’ve walked into a troubled acquaintanceship when you discover your acquaintance wears diamonds in their shoes…

Vanessa L. Williams could/should have expected better treatment when she became Miss America back in 1983. As the first African/American winner of said title (she is of African/European parentage) she would have expected no more or less than all other winners; a year in the title, a great opportunity to represent her kind, to promote fairness and charity and a chance to spearhead a drive for a level playing field for all races, all backgrounds in all disciplines.

However, instead of being able to pleasurably plough her way through streams of fan mail and letters of support, for the first time in pageant history, she was subjected to death threats and hate mail. The piece de résistance came when she was informed that nude photos of her would be published in a glamour magazine. I know what you’re thinking but that’s not it. To his credit, Hugh Hefner, the publisher of Playboy, who had been offered the photos (B&W’s of Ms. Williams before she entered and won the title) had refused them saying;

‘Vanessa Williams is a beautiful woman. There was never any question of our interest in the photos, but they clearly weren’t authorized and because they would be the source of considerable embarrassment to her, we decided not to publish them. We were also mindful that she was the first black Miss America.’

Well, there’s a turn-up.

So, now we have our roomful of folk (friends and family and the entourage of Miss Williams) and also including one of the most influential glamour publishers in the world all doing the right thing. Enter the shit in the breakfast cereal; Bob Guccione, publisher of Penthouse.;

‘Do you want the photos?’ “You betcha!” ‘Will you publish?’ “You betcha!”

Good, now you can look forward to your $14m dollar addition to you bank account (off-shore of course). It was the photographer, Tom Chiapel, who’d taken the shots, without Miss Williams’ permission or knowledge, so my guess is he couldn’t believe his luck when she took the title; pay-day! No record exists (oh, really?) of how much Guccione paid for the shots (a lot less than $14m dollars, I’ll bet) but his act caused Vanessa Williams to give up her Miss America title and crown early and another equality stumbling block was placed in the way of all who came after (three steps forward-two back).

Chaipel’s part in this whole affair is a grubby and unpleasant look under the rocks in brokephotographer canyon. Let’s just hope nothing but bad came of it.

As for Miss Williams? She found success in the music biz, selling 16 million records, gaining 15 Grammy Nominations and winning three Grammy Awards, done theatre and film work of some note and Emmy nominations for her TV work. Good on y’, lass. That’s a bullet up the arse of the nutter in the room.

Donovan; a shadow of Buffy Saint-Marie?

July 22^nd – Two seemingly unrelated events today…seemingly…

The one thing that irritates me…well there’s lots actually, I mean lots…and lots, but one of the things that irritates me is the shortcuts people take in order to achieve what they consider to be their right; i.e. a fast route to fame and fortune.

Plagiarism (or, as some in the film industry call it; referencing) is the act of using someone else’s work with which to bolster or improve one’s own artistic shortcomings and, by giving notification of said referencing it seems that everything is alright, that somehow the original creator will be flattered…? Whatever, we all know of boy/girl wonder-writers who, at the tender age of ten or fifteen, have, according to the critics (a more worthless bunch of free-loading toads I have yet to come across) ‘created a dynamic, exciting and totally original piece of fiction’ only to have it discovered that it’s far from any those things and was first published fifty or twenty or ten or five years ago by an established writer. The referencing excuse is non-usable in these instances because it’s not just the odd line from some worthy work that’s been borrowed but whole chapters, whole storylines, whole chunks of dialogue.

On this day in 1987, Morris Albert, who composed the massive hit, Feelings (I’m amazed it was a massive hit ‘cos I always thought it was a dirge…a sort of self-flaggeratery piece of wailing and moaning about one’s lot in life, but, still…) Morris Albert was found guilty of plagiarising the 1956 French song, Pour Toi in order to create his own masterpiece.

Donovan; anybody? Good, bad, indifferent?

I think, in his early incarnation, he could have been sued (and would probably have lost) for plagiarising a Dylan look-sound-sing-alike with a dash of Woody Guthrie thrown in for good measure. His own writings are OK. He was the first to cotton on to wallow in the flower-power rut and foist it as his own, so it can be said he had an eye for the next big thing, and his track record is impressive, but it always seems to be included along with his musical life. Where I do get derailed with him, and this seems to be the crux of my…not dislike, that’s too strong a word and a waste of good emotions…mistrust, that’s the word, the crux of my mistrust with him is I still haven’t got over his cover of Buffy-Saint Marie’s original, Universal Soldier; such a sanitised version of what is, next to Mr. Dylan’s Masters of War, an all-singing-all-dancing, bitter, incredulous, damning indictment of the folly of combat.

It feels, as you listen to Donovan’s version, that the MOD paid for the recording so as to rubbish the sentiments in it; much like BAT advertise cigarettes and the fictional lifestyle that goes with it (instead of showing iron lungs, people dying of lung diseases, people of all ages gasping and grabbing at their last, choking breath before slumping to the floor, blue in the face and panic in the eyes). If you can bear it, have a listen to Donovan’s version of Universal Soldier but only after you’ve gone onto YouTube and listened to the true version. Ms. Saint Marie has an edge in her voice and a turn of phrasing that can only be injected into the song (her song) by having really thought about the consequences and reasons. IMHO Donovan uses the lyrics as a karaoke sing-along.

On this day in 1996 Donovan’s US tour was cancelled because of a previous drugs bust. It has to be said that he was the first high-profile pop star to get done for puffing on the devil’s hay, but going on past records I bet he was sharing a joint someone else rolled…

Whitney Huston, Michael Jackson: cast from the same mould

July 21^st – Where’s the logic? It would seem that if the mindset of the perpetrator can be set to denial and this is coupled with a level of fame (notoriety) then just about anything can be gotten away with…even if you’re ever-so-slightly mad or, heaven forbid, a danger to others.

I’ve mentioned before about how the performer is the lynch-pin in the wagon-full of hangers-on and vested-interest salespeople. At the best end of it you have people who are genuinely interested and concerned with the performer and have nothing but their best interests at heart. No sexual involvement, no drug or money dependency, just a willingness to see that person succeed and achieve. Why? Well lots of reasons. Of course they’re paid for their work (often paid very well) but when the performer first starts out the wage levels are not the driving force in any hook-up that’s forged. It’s to do with being intrinsically a genuinely kind and supportive human being who has the well being of the performer at heart and just wants them to have success because of a belief in their talent. The sinister side of things is when the job of these people is to keep the machine well oiled and fed with fuel so their wage-packet keeps turning up. The logic would be though that, if the machine should start to malfunction you get it checked and put right by an expert… Logic would say that, if that machine was a human being, that the onus of care exercised by those around him or her would be increased exponentially. I mean, an engine is just an engine and can be replaced (at a cost but replaced) fairly easily so surely the need to recognise and treat people we tell everyone is our friend is paramount?

Enter stage right, Whitney Huston

OK, a car-crash of a life, agreed, but there must have been a time when she wasn’t tearing headlong to a premature death, when she was young and vibrant and full of the love of life…? So, skip all the years that followed from that time to the time when she was in trouble, trouble so deep a giraffe would have trouble keeping its nostrils clear of the waves of personal excrement lapping towards it; what then? What do we figure we’d do, say, if Ms. Huston appeared on our television show looking so gaunt and frail that she looked near death. Well, we could have a word with her, tell of our concern; we could have a word with the people surrounding her (of which there were something like 50) and tell of our concern; we could say, if we were the head of the network who was putting on the Michael Jackson show she was appearing on;

“Look, I really don’t think this is a good image either for Ms. Huston to project or our network or her fans to be exposed to. How about we drop her from this show and invite onto something else in the future?”

Or

we could just go ahead, say nowt, take the money and digitally enhance the footage to make her look meatier; whaddya reckon?

Enter stage left, Mariah Carey.

When the star you manage comes out with the line;

“I just want one day off when I can go swimming and eat ice cream and look at rainbows”

there are two possible choices of action.

1) You give her a metaphorical day off (week, month, year, decade) to look at rainbows

Or

2) You keep the star working until hospitalisation follows.

If you choose 2) how do you tell the tale to all the other interested parties so as to perpetuate the myths? Do you

1) Admit that, as a management team, you’ve let your client down and will vow for it never to happen again or do you

2) blame it all on extreme exhaustion?

On this day in 1995 an L.A. judge threw out a lawsuit brought by members of Michael Jackson’s security guards who alleged they were fired because they knew the truth about his (Mr. Jackson’s) night time visits with young boys…I quote Mr. Jackson.

“Lies run sprints, but the truth runs marathons. The truth will win this marathon in court.”

As things turned out, it’s a pity those others surrounding him didn’t run just a little faster, might have stopped a lot of his little victories…

Leslie Bricusse and Traditional Jazz

July 20^th – My musical tastes are fairly catholic. I’ll listen to almost anything (almost) and because I’m a drummer I can find something intriguing in most of the musical output, both ancient and modern. There we are; brag of the day.

The almost codicil above surrounds (sorry TJ lovers) traditional jazz. I know lots of folk really enjoy it, Kenny Ball, Acker Bilk and suchlike, but it just doesn’t contain enough variation and ragged-edge playing for my taste…with that revelation you can now watch as the traditional jazz world collapses. I always considered Traditional Jazz was invented by the deaf to get their own back on the hearing...so I exercise my voting right and don’t listen to it, as I’m sure do many of you when it comes to getting within earshot of The Devil Wears Prada or Animals as Leaders, and rightly so. That’s what makes music so diverse and sometimes surprising, a subject of agreement and sometime violent disagreement…oh, and then there are musicals.

You all know my take on the modern catalogue (too many on too many silly subjects not even worthy of a two-line poem let alone a two-hour musical extravaganza) so I’ll not re-run old ground but instead double back on the statement above by sharing one of my pleasures that does come from musicals; writing the preceding just caused me a puzzled frown; never mind, onward.

Leslie Bricusse is, without doubt, one of the very best. For me he stands alongside Messer’s Porter, Carmichael, Sondhiem…you name ‘em they’re worthy of his company. Doctor Doolittle, Willy Wonka…., and one of my all-time favourites, Scrooge which contains one of the all time set pieces of musical theatre, Thank You Very Much; just sublime in content and execution. Don’t take my word for it, call up YouTube and type in Thank You Very Much and don’t just watch the lead players (though it’s hard to switch from Mr. Rodgers) watch the band of also-rans…near perfect choreography and synchronicity. Who’d’ve thought it…Anton Rodgers? And Albert Finney, who was a revelation considering he was third choice, after Rex Harrison and Richard Harris (caused by a complex of wives, I believe, for the latter).

What it is, you see, is that the original storyline and the musical both carry a message that transcends time and is as relevant now as then. I quote Scrooge: -

“How shall I ever understand this world? There is nothing on which it is so hard as poverty, and yet, there is nothing it condemns with such severity as the pursuit of wealth.”

Whatever we think of Dickens, the man could turn a phrase.

Mr. Bricusse had a writing partnership going with one of our better, home-grown performers, Anthony Newley; now there was an enigma. It would seem he had everything needed to make and maintain both longevity and quality in the entertainment business, crossed the barrier from UK to Hollywood and yet… A roller-coaster of a career, lots of highs and plenty of lows and a way with a song that really appealed to the US audience, brought up on the Vegas/Tony Bennett/Judy Garland/Liza Minnelli experience as it was.

On this day in 1961, Mr. Newley opened in one of his come-back shows, Stop the World-I Want to get Off; it did just that in 1999, shortly after he started work in East Enders…what a finish for such a talent… In memory of his contribution to the musical genre, I give you my entirely predictable top fifteen musicals: -

1) West Side Story

2) Singin’ In The Rain

3) Top Hat

4) Kiss Me Kate

5) Scrooge

6) Seven Brides for Seven Brothers

7) On the Town

8) High Society

9) A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum

10) Chorus Line

11) 42^nd Street

12) Oliver

13) Chicago

14) Its Always Fair Weather

15) Gentlemen Prefer Blondes

Katie Price - On Merit

July 19^th – Joni Mitchell, John Mayall, Klaus Voorman, Ron Wood; all names we’re familiar with…right? Musicians, right?

‘Cos all this talk about a classless society where people get along on merit…’s’all smoke and mirrors. Like The Big Society that Pillow-Cheeks Cameron was banging on about since he grabbed power, it’s just another way of getting things to stay just as they are; that wonderful phrase talk is cheap comes to mind. With the government cutbacks…(which don’t stretch as far as effecting the MP’s £60+ thousand a year job or their subsidised breakfast in the HofP ‘cos, let’s face it, when all you earn is £60+K…from just one of your six jobs…well, you need a little help to buy brekkers, don’t you?)…with the government cutbacks affecting local government expenditure, The Big Society is a tailor-made replacement. This drop in services is because of less money coming from government (although Council Tax has remained at its high level and the services we pay for have risen) but they can be easily replicated by the people doing it for themselves…FOR NOTHING…! Aka: The Big Society! Win-Win! Treble breakfasts all round! But enough of this; on to non-breakfast related things:

When did this you can do anything if you try myth that’s peddled by recent governments and parents of pushy kids really take hold? At the end of the 19^th and early part of the 20^th centuries people knew their place, beautifully illustrated in that TWTWTS sketch with John Cleese and Ronnies’ Corbett and Barker, and because of that there was level of satisfaction in ones place in the community and ones lot. There was really no need to pine away about your position in society because there was no escaping it. The local coal baron wasn’t going to suddenly disassociate himself from his eldest son and leave his millions to the bloke that hews coal in shaft three was he? No, he wasn’t, so just best get on with the life you had and make the best of it, then someone mumbled something about no one should come second…and then Katie Price happened along… I know, I know, I’m playing fast and loose with history, I know. Trouble is, if I don’t cut to the chase you’ll all be reading this historical landslide in your dotage…and it aint that interesting, honest…so humour me… then Katie Price happened along.

What do you think it was, what was the mind track that led her to believe that her next venture should be literature? I mean, she had a burgeoning career as a glamour model and I believe her public appearances and endorsements were raking in a tidy sum; you know, stuff she actually knew something about; perfume, clothes, shoes, make-up and such, so there really was no need to venture into the minefield of writing an autobiography…or was it just the money? There are fewer worse things to get, as a writer, than a damning critique. That people may not like what you have written is one thing, that’s a given, it’s when someone reads your work then trashes it, kills it softly with a song then displays its entrails in every daily rag that will print it; it’s then the knife severs your vitals…if you cared about your work in the first place that is. I suspect that Ms. Price couldn’t give a stuff about whether some bloke in the Guardian liked it or not because, in honesty, if they did then any writer worth their salt wouldn’t show their face (or any other part of their anatomy for that matter) in public again. When someone writes that your work is;

‘…of hallucinatory and compelling awfulness’

and that it is;

‘…utter, total tosh’ (and those are the kind things that were written about Ms. Price’s efforts) then you can pretty much write off that years’ Booker…

The sad tragedy is that, in a world where publishing has a finite budget, the production of this work, whose;

‘…tackiness is intense…’

has taken away from other, aspiring writers who really do have a story to tell, something to add to the sum of our knowledge.

Joni Mitchell, John Mayall, Klaus Voorman, Ron Wood, all of them had works of art exhibited at the Gorpal Gallery in California on this day in 1980… I’m really hopeful that, unlike Ms. Price, they got their opportunity to display their work on merit alone; yeah, right, just like all other aspiring artists without contacts and fame who have to operate on the level playing field that is this classless society of England.

Village People scrawl graffiti...

July 18^th – Graffiti is a sometime puzzling thing at once a work of art and a scrawled mess…but never meaningless (did you see what I did there…?) At its best it’s a Banksy sketch that encapsulates the troubles of ten generations in single can of spray-paint, at its worst it’s a hastily scrawled daub that holds no interest except to the signee.

When the volume of street noise was supplied mainly by horse drawn transport and hawkers, the shout of a human voice in distress could penetrate above the din and attract attention. Now, like blackbirds singing against the traffic, that shout ceases to be heard, ceases to attract; graffiti, tall and high, fills that void. No need to shout, just spray-paint your name in ten-foot-high letters alongside the rail track where the journeying millions will see it, note it, become familiar with you/it and then kid yourself they’ll become jealous of your carefree lifestyle…and know then that, unlike them, you’ve achieved fame outside of your own self; know that, unlike them, locked into their lemming-like journey, a journey that continues day after day after day after day and onto the cliff’s edge that you existed; you made your mark, a working-class shout for recognition; a novel by the illiterate?

What price a greater following?

Much has been written about the loneliness of the long-established writer, much of it by the writers themselves. How their hours of solitude in order to complete the arduous task of writing the next novel has removed them from hearth and home, from the bosom of their family (or, in that much overused and frankly sickening phrase, their loved ones and all they mean to them…these loved ones). Rock musicians bemoan their lot as ghosts in their own households, their time on this earth gobbled up by recording, touring, selling their wares. You will be assured that suffering a life of having everything you want in exchange for a log fire and TV is a huge sacrifice they have to make for the sake of their public. Yet this is how recognition is won, on the battlefields of self sacrifice fought from the trenches of self denial.

Breaks you up, dunnit?

My guess is it’s something we all secretly crave, the recognition of others, a validation of our existence; that we made a difference by being here, added something to the sum total of life on earth, otherwise what’s the point of theatre? The bonus is that you’ll be remembered for something good, something worthy; not for exterminating millions or for holding a title for coot-strangling but for something that enabled others to live their life more meaningfully, more peacefully or with a greater understanding. That sort of achievement is denied all but the few, the rest of us have to make do with graffiti…

The Village People; what was that all about? Manufactured on the back of a dream (wet?) experienced by the group’s manager, the persona they used were recognisable American stereotypes (biker, native Indian, motorcycle cop, cowboy, etc) the object being to cash in on the disco clubs, particularly the gay ones. Y.M.C.A. was possibly their best known single off’f the album, Cruisin, and has been used (and is still used) as an anthem at American football games; 60,000 red-blooded US citizens all singing a song whose basic premise is:

‘Go to a hostel, find a boy, get in the shower and fuck him.’

Excellent. They’ve sold 100 million records since their formation in 1977 and the thing here is…can you name any of them? Even one? Weird it must be, to be that well known and yet totally unknown.

Always glad to help, I can tell you that on this day in 1950, Glenn Hughes was born. Who he? In the line up of Village People he’s listed as leather guy. That’s some epitaph; 100 million records sold…leather guy. Ah, the mantle of fame. He’d be as well spray-painting his name on a Dolce and Gabbana hording alongside the Birmingham to London mainline. At least the commuters on the 09.15 to Watford would know of him…

American Idiot?

July 17^th – D’yever get the feeling that the good ole’ USofA is teetering on the brink of something…catastrophic? The worry is that, when they fall they’ll not go alone, that they’ll drag plenty of other far more worthy unfortunates with them…like the Balrog and Gandalf; a casual glance at their landscape gives some pointers.

Yes, of course, the flash-floods and hurricanes are a terrible thing to those involved, an event you wouldn’t wish on anyone but, the thing is they’re local events. That sounds really harsh, but you all know me better than that; what I’m trying to say, in my cack-handed way, is that the results of these terrible events are only felt locally. They don’t, apart from the obvious fellow-feeling for those in distress or experiencing loss, they don’t have an effect on the global community. When weather events affect what’s known as the Corn Belt however…well, that’s a whole new different story.

46% of American citizens believe in creationism…46%. That’s nearly half of the population; that’s half. Voter turnout floats at around 56%. That’s a 10% differential. So, let’s do a little bit of arithmetic shall we? Let’s say that out of those two figures, the creationist 46% and voter 56%, let’s say 30% of each following doesn’t vote; apathy, missed the bus, couldn’t give a shove, whatever. So there’s a possibility that this total voter turnout consists of between 24 and 34% of the 44% of voters who believe God created the earth in the requisite days (7) put dinosaurs on earth to test our faith and, even though God is an entity, created us in his image.

When the Star Spangled Banner begins and the Stars and Stripes fly over an event like a remembrance of 9/11, of the opening of Ground Zero…or at the opening of a baseball game…or, well anything really, there will always be a large section of the American public who will begin to cry, in some cases weep, at the memory, at the terrible cruelty of it all (not of the baseball game; ’course not, not unless you were a die-hard Chicago White Sox supporter in the 70’s; that would have made a saint weep). At the appropriate memorial they are bewailing the terrible waste of life and injustice of it all…and yet these are the same people who seem to have by-passed the point when it came to supporting the US Healthcare Reform Bill…from the get-go.

The undoubted foundation that was constructed by Hollywood, from the very beginning of the use of film, to tell a story has been used by all other countries in order to build their own film industry. This success story has become woven into our very lives. At every high point in our existence we can relate to lines from films, characters from films, events from films… like pop songs for the eyes they help define, make sense of and highlight events in our lives, underline the changes and reasons. So, in the birthplace of film what can’t you find? A foreign language film, that’s what. This is a nation that thinks a news item longer than three minutes is an in depth report; a nation that believes putting cheese onto any form of food turns it into a gourmet feast; that has the capability to launch men into space and yet encourages its citizens to worship at the alter of a cartoon mouse; believes that any film not in the mother tongue (English, or at least the American approximation of English) should be remade so that folk don’t have to tax themselves by having to read the subs.

So, we should be totally unsurprised that, on this day in 2004 when Linda Rondstadt, performing at the Aladdin Hotel in Las Vegas, dedicated her encore (a cover of The Eagles’, Desperado) to the filmmaker Michael Moore, urging her audience to go see Fahrenheit 9/1l that she was greeted by boos and over half the audience walking out there and then…

Pay attention out there; watch out for the shit that leaves the fan of Uncle Sam…that sort of  blind foolishness will be visiting a country near you very soon.

Rock tour footprint

July 16^th – Bit sort of spacey and hippie today; might have something to do with this prolonged and unseasonal warm spell we’re having.

There’s juxtaposition, a real dichotomy between what popular music professes to be, what we expect it to be and what it is, and I’m not at all sure which is the correct interpretation; maybe you can help out?

The Performer: Portrayed both as beings apart and yet one of us I’d think, against all my instincts, that the protagonists of Punk came the closest to the viscera of the public in their stage persona (although we all knew puppet masters like Mr. McClaren were just pulling the strings on both performer and cash-spending audience; never has there been a more apt title than The Great Rock ‘n’ Roll Swindle; Liberace wasn’t the only one who laughed all the way to the bank). But Punk just ended up as another fashion statement, and isn’t this true of any and every popular musical movement; a case of never mind the quality, feel the width which is probably a true reflection of the performer in the public’s distorted mirror? Enough of this Sartre shit. The message of one against the many that is a central tenet of much of the work of the 60’s thro’ to the beginning of the 80’s seems like so much hot air when viewed with the benefit of hindsight. From the 80’s and onward, with ever growing self assurance has developed the selfish, self-aggrandisement that has figured in much of the musical genres and performers.

Pink Floyd, Def Leppard, Queen and such others that were lambasted for their stadium tour mentality and their hedonistic view of why the world was there (theirs) have been overtaken now by the stadium tour mentality of Madonna and Beyonce, of Take That and The Spice Girls; if it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck and looks like a duck then the chances are…?

The Message: From peace and love to I spit on you, the message has been ostensibly one of soft rebellion and sometime active dissention towards the power of money and privilege. In essence we all know that’s the right way life should be lived, as part of collective whole where the good of all comes before the good of self but, hopefully, not at the expense of self. Set up as sages and seers, some performers take on the mantle of prophets, but it’s us who stitch together the cloak they wear.

The Backup: Some would say that we have to be careful, that we’re dealing with the performer’s fragile ego; I think the short answer to that is;

‘’Bollocks.’

Make someone feel special enough and after a very short while they’ll begin to believe it, unfortunately often not in a good way. The performer is the vortex, the central core around which all the debris spins. Everything depends on him or her getting exactly what they want when they want it, otherwise the debris is jettisoned. If the performer decides in a fit of pique that they don’t want to do it any more the gravy-train stops so the entourage has a vested interest in making sure the void facing the performer, should they decide to stop, is endless, bottomless, cataclysmic; the groupies, the drug-dealers, the toys, the booze, the hangers-on and claques are all there to keep the driver of the gravy-train on track and functioning so as to keep the A&R men, management, agent, promoter, tour manager, shrink, personal trainer and publicist gainfully employed.

I’ve mentioned before my unhealthy thoughts about the soul of the music industry. What’s become more transparent in the vast majority of cases is a;

‘don’t do as I do, do as I say’

mentality that has permeated each musical revolution and, with very few exceptions, has metamorphosed into a story about the self. It should be all about the music but we know it’s all about the money. The sorts of fees demanded by top performers from all sides of the entertainment industry are, in honesty, often immoral, but I guess if someone’s fool enough to pay it then why should the performer be fool enough not to take it? But taking it and what you do with it are two different things.

Neither because he’s an easy target, nor because he’s dead, but on this day in 1996 the Sultan of Brunei paid Michael Jackson 15 million dollars for him to perform at his birthday party; one performance, on one day - $15m…

Probably gave it all to a kid’s charity…either that or spent it on tasteless furniture…

Dylan and Dragsters

July 15^th – Music to my ears. Drag racing has been something I’ve enjoyed since the 60’s…oh, er, hang on; that statement may need some clarification. That’s not drag racing as in me and several other men dressed in evening gowns, wigs and six-inch-heels competing against each other over a 740-yard distance to win an evening out at The Trocadero with the beau of your choice, that’s drag racing as in highly tuned, severely altered, virtually unrecognisable from the original pieces of engineering…vehicles competing against each other over a 740-yard distance to win…well, a cup, really, and your life too, so a pretty good outcome all round really.

I used to attend the British Nationals at Santa Pod Raceway every year with friends (as some of you with long memories for this daily blurb of mine will remember – me, a beautiful lady and a level of insensitivity that hasn’t been equalled since Attila the Hun forgot to knock…) when the sport was in its infancy over here. Each year the Americans would ship over a dozen or so cars or bikes and show these Brits how it’s done and I have to say, committed environmentalist that I am, I still get a buzz from the sheer, raw power of it all.

Back then, if someone did the SS ¼ m in 8 or 9 seconds that was pretty amazing. Now? Now they’re doing the SS ¼ m regularly in 6 seconds; regularly. The world record?  3.53 seconds… You know that phrase, blink and you’ll miss it? I was there (Oh, Christ, here he goes…) I was there (probably in 1970/1-ish) when a guy called The Michigan Madman regularly straddled his motorbike, a motorbike which had a Chrysler Hemi V8 strapped crosswise in the frame… So, that’s him, lying over the engine…?!…lying over the engine as he broke the then world record for a motorbike down the SS ¼ m; I think he did it in something like 7.5 seconds. He did another run about an hour later…we saw the bike disintegrate under him. So that’s eight pistons moving at something like 9,500rpm just underneath your bollocks… Who’s a lucky boy then? He got up and hobbled from this one, well he had to as he’d broken his leg…hobbled to the ambulance…they bred ‘em tough in them days…

Did a bit myself, me and one of my brothers. I know, I know, I can hear the rolling of eyes and the oft repeated;

‘Why?’

from here.

Don’t have any explanation for it at all. It’s a sound thing, I think. Like the sound of foxhounds singing in a block of deciduous, English, autumnal woodland…well, as stoopid as it sounds, those hounds and the sound of an unmuffled V8 are both music to me.

Before the English drag racing base was established at Santa Pod, the first visits to our shores by these monster machines took place at Blackbushe Airport. This must have been around the 1968 time. There were probably only a couple or three U.S. racers who came over here then, but the spectacle was every bit as awesome…fell in love with the singing V8 right then. I even saw the Flying Bedstead there…don’t be idle, look it up, it’s a real thing. Was the precursor to the hovercraft and was also instrumental in the final propulsion designs of the Harrier Jump-Jet…honest, I’m not lying; the Flying Bedstead…

Bob Dylan, has done a lot of things in his lifetime. You all know I’m kind of ambivalent towards him, certainly don’t see quite why and how he’s so popular; accept it but don’t understand it. His marketability as a folk singer in the Woody Guthrie idiom (was never convinced on that one…and I’d like to think neither was Dylan; would certainly go up in my estimation if that was so) and his undoubted ability in crafting a song (you all know in what high esteem I hold, Masters of War; one of my D.I.D.’s) and also his, for want of a better word, bravery in eschewing the labels and strait-jacket put on him by his fans when he went electric in 1965 all add up to a man in charge of his own destiny and willing to announce as much, so, fair play.

On this day in 1978, Dylan performed a different kind of music at Blackbushe Airport when he did an open-air concert in front of a 200,000 strong audience; probably still the biggest for a solo artist even now…which was aptly named Picnic at Blackbushe.

However, Philistine that I am, given the choice of two hours of Dylan or 8 seconds of The Michigan Madman…? I have to say I’d be hard pushed to choose.

Ball fondling is better than the alternative:

July 14^th – Public information moment.

I find it often a little disturbing how what should be the really important things in your life (or someone else’s for that matter) can slip by the door of your living that life mindset without so much as a glimpse of recognition; it’s that paying attention thing rearing its head…again. Here’s something passing you by that’s waving a flag and shouting out ‘LOOK AT ME, YOU IDIOT, THIS IS IMPORTANT!’ and what do we do?  We continue to gaze out the window where we can see the view of our future and the reflection of the person living it…and that’s all that matters really. Well…

Can remember the briefest of details (see what I mean) but back in the late 80’s, when I was stage manager at The Arena Theatre in Wolves, I recall a one-man show coming into the theatre…I feel I need to supply you with just a very brief bit of background in my defence: I was at this theatre for around fifteen years and as well as S.M. I also taught technical theatre, stage management and lighting design to each of the years up to degree level. We did three seasons of professional productions per year, each one having something like 30 shows per season (Red Shift, Snarling Beasties, Volcano Theatre, that calibre of show) so around 90+ gigs each year. On top of that (we were a university theatre) we had three year groups of around 100 students per group. Split into smaller groups of anything from 1 to 20 they did three weeks of assessments, three weeks of final graduation and a dozen one-off shows per year as well as ensemble shows with professional practitioners…so quite a busy little venue…well that’s my excuse anyhow.

The show I vaguely recall was about a guy who had testicular cancer (TC)…THAT’S brought you up sharp, hasn’t it?! Yup, testicular cancer. A one man show. About it. Can I remember anything else now? Nope, not a goddam thing, ‘cos, I mean, it’ll not happen to us, will it? Our life will be lived like the cover of the Radiant Reader book series or an Enid Blyton storyline where your never-ending future just stretches on forever into this glorious landscape of achieved dreams and goals, so…WTF. It’s only as you continue to live this long and happy life (hopefully) that the possibility it will, probably, come to an end at some time begins to insinuate itself into the conscious.

Our heroes, too, are indestructible, unless by their own hand or their own stupidity. These are the stars in our firmament that will die the dramatic death and create a headline for their longevity; rock ‘n’ rollers don’t die in their beds from a debilitating disease, they die driving a Harley D through a plate glass window stretched across a canyon whilst under the influence of drugs and worship, a smile on their face and a song on their lips…

The guy who did the one-man show? About T.C.? Remember him? I, foolish child that I am, don’t. Can’t remember the show, its content…nothing, nada. My guess? He’s probably dead by now, treatment back then not being all it is now and such…see, I have hidden shallows. Shoulda-coulda-woulda. No, I don’t have T.C. but knowing that lot of people get killed in car accidents makes me drive more carefully. Like anything in life, nothing’s a given and it really can happen to anyone.

Olivia Newton-John; remember her in Grease, in that outfit? On this day in 1992 she came out about her breast cancer struggle (which she eventually beat). Hopefully, this time, the ranks of to whom it may concern were paying attention and, through that, maybe cancers have been caught earlier, lives saved or prolonged.

So; three things.

1)    Balls and Boobs. CHECK REGULARLY.

2)    Lumps and Bumps. If you find anything even REMOTELY suspicious DO NOT IGNORE IT. See a doctor, get it checked. If fondling yourself bothers you get someone else to do it, but preferably someone you know…and don’t just stop someone in the street.

3)  DO NOT BE EMBARRASSED. TALK, DISCUSS, AND PAY ATTENTION. If you’re prepared to go out of a week-end and get shit-faced to the point where you end up face down in the gutter with your trousers round your ankles or your skirt up around your neck, then a medical practitioner holding your knackers or your tit for a few short seconds in order to give you news of no news or news that something can be done ‘BECAUSE WE’VE CAUGHT IT AT THIS EARLY STAGE’ is nowt. Just ask Charlie Boorman or Olivia…

Have a nice day and a very long and trouble-free life for as long as you can. X!