Film directors call it 'referencing, musicians call it 'sampling', agents of 12-year-old authors call it 'cryptomnesia' ...Is plagiarism the new creativity?

August 31^st – Speaking as a writer (here he goes, bloody show-off) speaking as a writer, I’m aware that it’s difficult to keep your mind clear of outside influences when you’re putting together the first draft of what you consider to be your highly original magnum opus. There are two main trains of thought on the process and it depends on your take on them as to which way you travel.

There are those who say you can’t be expected to write modern, relevant fiction unless you read what others have written before you, that way you see what the trends are which will help you create a contemporary piece that fits the genre you’re writing in. There are others who say that it’s not good to read other work as you’re style may suffer and what you thought was original can become a close relative of work that’s gone before and so not an addition to the cannon but just a puff of smoke on the battlefield. I’m of the latter category. I think I’m right in saying I’ve not read a novel since probably 197…2 possibly? That’s not a brag or anything, it’s just that I don’t want my own efforts to be inadvertently coloured by other writer’s work; maybe that shows a lack of single-minded creativity in me…whatever, it’s what I do. I prefer (much) to read factual stuff, world/British history, (am about half-way through Behind Closed Doors by Amanda Vickery, biographies (have just finished Lee Server’s book on Ava Gardener…that was some read, I can tell you) and British political/social history (am lining up Peelers to Pandas by Ben Beazley as my next read.

I think it’s ‘cos I’m really bothered about the possibility that I might get accused of plagiarising someone else’s book or idea; having had it happen to me I can tell you it aint nice when you find out someone’s stolen your idea or story-line and published as their own, not a nice feeling at all. Knowing how that feels, I steer as clear as I can of my being responsible for causing similar upset to another writer, hence my maybe sometime ridiculous stance of not reading anything fictional at all. Yeah, I know, I know…humour me, OK?

Plagiarism becomes known in two distinct ways. Deliberately, like when folk such as Stephen Ambrose and H. G. Wells, who both openly quoted story-line ideas and (cheekily) used whole pieces of text from other writers work and passed them off as their own. The second, particularly in the writing side of creativity can actually happen inadvertently, Cryptomnesia as it’s known; the point when forgotten memory interrupts original thought. Robert Louise Stephenson no less has admitted to such an aberration when he had finished and published Treasure Island as has Umberto Eco, he of The Name of the Rose fame. Now, if writers of that sort of stature can fall foul of the tricks of memory then I’d like to bet that I can sure as hell do the same, so I avoid it…like the plague.

In movies they call it ‘referencing’, the lifting of work by others by any other name, and in music they call it ‘sampling’…in the case of George Harrison’s recording of My Sweet Lord and The Chiffon’s earlier hit of He’s So Fine they called it subconscious plagiarism. On this day in 1976, Mr. Harrison was found guilty as charged and was given a sentence of…? Well nothing really. See, when you’re caught with your trousers round your ankles by the owner of the property you’re screwing there is only one way to go; buy your way out. Mr. Harrison solved his embarrassment by purchasing the publishing company that owned the song, He’s So Fine so…well, now he owned it he could do what he liked. Nice work, George, saved you the sweat of being original.

Notting Hill...pig-shit dump by any other name....

August 30^th – I suppose it’s the safety factor that causes it; although there was little of that evident when Divine Brown took front seat. No safety involved then, not even a belt, just a wild fling. BJ and gone…whoa, not so fast there young ‘un…!

In Four Weddings… I actually thought Hugh Grant was OK. It was his first big role and he acquitted himself quite well, playing the bumbling, slightly dazed, atypical English fop. One or two sections irked but, all-in-all, a decent stab at the genre (I bet the whole cast will be so pleased to read my opinion on their work) which had a schmaltzy if proper ending to the tale (did anyone else think Ms. MacDowell was a little miscast?) Then came Notting Hill, where Hugh Grant acquitted himself quite well, playing the bumbling, slightly dazed, atypical English bookseller… Then came Bridget Jones where Hugh Grant acquitted himself quite well, playing the bumbling, slightly dazed, atypical English advertising exec… Then came Love Actually where Hugh Grant acquitted himself quite well, playing the bumbling, slightly dazed, atypical English Prime Minister... It’s that safety thing working. Once you find a character that you can do and the public respond to, you walk in fear of stepping outside of it, outside of the comfort zone where you run the risk of losing the support of your fan-base; what’s called type-casting. Every actor walks in fear of it yet welcomes the work and the safety it brings to their bank account and public persona. No, if you want to branch out then you’re far better to pick up a high-class hooker and a public place in which to park and enter into conjugal relations with her. Good work, Hugh.

What he did to demolish his carefully built personal image however, was reversed by the sudden surge in the des-res appeal of the subject, London borough of one of these films; I refer to that of Notting Hill. Once an area used for brick-works and the storage of pig-shit, it took a racecourse and an influx of writers to make the place better known then finally the production of a predictable movie to create a piece of real estate that attracted the better sort and saw house prices rise significantly, post the movie’s release, this area, now known more famously in the modern day for its carnival each year witnessed a carnival of other sorts kicking off on this day in 1976.

The Notting Hill riots saw black youths clash with police when race relations reached an all-time low in our country. Long before anyone had the courage to admit that racial bigotry was endemic in the police forces of the UK, the random harassment and arrest of black youths at the carnival-proper sparked retaliation on a massive scale as running battles were fought between black youths and the police. The Special Patrol Group (SPG – legal gangs of police thugs now disbanded but still very much a part of the force) inflicted most of the injuries and it was not long after this that riot gear was developed and issued for use in possible riot situations (‘horse-cart-before’ spring to mind) and it was from this outbreak that The Clash wrote their White Riot track which, effectively, called for the white population to take similar action.

With political uncertainty prevalent at the time (Harold Wilson had resigned and ‘Uncle’ Jim Callaghan had taken his place) Edward Heath, following on from two paranoid and inept leaders, imposed a three-day week further dousing Britain into the depths of a recession with levels of general unemployment well past the 1,000,000 mark, and with the black population specifically taking a larger share of the youth unemployment figures, so it was hardly surprising things kicked off. But the call for a white backlash to the largely black and poor-white conditions of the time was largely ignored…until the Poll Tax riots of 1990 that is. Mrs. Thatcher and her divisive policies (the Poll Tax being just one of them) became the fuse that ignited the powder keg under smug whitey’s arse causing him and her to sit up and take notice of just what was being done in their name and to their society…made such a difference, innit?

An American/United KingdomTale

August 29^th – So, history, historical buildings what to do with them, huh? In the UK (that place that was called Great Britain until those fuckwits in that blasphemy of a government that Blair ran got hold of it and turned it into that UKPLC – We’re open for business 24/7 wank). This bullshit label they landed us with (we are a country made up of individuals that have a history that goes back thousands of years, we’re not a company and you should resist anyone who says we are) ranks alongside that other government get-out clause, stakeholder; I’d like to state right here and now, I have never been, am not, and never will be a stakeholder in my country and its services; OK? I live here, was born here, go back ten generations here, work here, pay my taxes here, care for it, love it’s idiosyncrasies, love its eccentricities and its countryside, it is my home, part of me and my psyche…and that makes me a what, a stakeholder? Bollocks. Business-speak dressed up as street to make politicians and conglomerate leaders; people so far removed from the street as a limousine is capable of removing them, seem. Hep and Down widda kids. Almost as sickening as hearing our present leader, the son of an Oxford millionaire educated in Oxford and a member of The Bullingdon Society, use the word, chillaxing. Next time you hear someone from the privileged classes use any of these phrases, slap them across the face and tell them to grow up!...haze clears, whooshy music fades and screen folds to black….Oh, erm…where am I…? Oh, yeah; history…right.

The social and political backbone of any nation is formed from the DNA of its history. Through this time laws are made (good and bad) systems agreed (good and bad) social order is laid in place (oftentimes bad and bad) and the distribution of wealth and land is worked out (more often than not bad and really bad) and from this grows the dream of an egalitarian society; now, I know you are going to take issue with this, I can hear pencils being sharpened as I write, not in order to write a reply but probably to stab me in the eye with. Can I just say the key words used here are the dream.

One of the reasons I believe we British are so big on fair-play and calling stupid ideas to account (and by these descriptive words I’m not including the power-brokers of our land, they’re just in it for the cash and pussy; I refer to the regular citizen) the reasons we are so big on fair-play and calling stupid ideas to account is that the bedrock we have based our ideas of egalitarianism on are still part of our core. It’s what drew us together into social groups in order to hunt and protect. The other side of this coin, the metamorphosis of this strived-for social order in reference to the individual as an integral part of the group, is the physical way-markers which have accompanied our growth; I refer to the landscapes and buildings placed in and on them. Consider this for a moment (and remember the timescales):

The Ankerwycke Yew tree is 2,000 years old. The Knap of Howar, a farmstead, was constructed in 3,700 BC. The oldest tombs, found in the New Forest, are 6,000 years old. St. Martin’s Church near Canterbury was built in 597.

All these remarkable notes come from the history of Great Britain; they are what go into making us the people we are, their sense of permanence, unspoken inclusion in our heritage and background, an underlining of longevity…of history.

Now, let’s swim over to the other side of ‘the pond’ and lay another, even more impressive heritage alongside the one above.

The North American Indian was a race developed from the original settlers to the Americas who arrived there via a land bridge from Eurasia, via the spot where the Bering Strait is now about 12,000 years ago. 11,000 years ago there was a well developed hunting culture and homes constructed by these peoples from 3,500 years ago have been found in Louisiana. These various hunting tribes (Paleoindian cultures) continued to work and develop the land in the fashion of their culture and understanding of the land they knew, grew alongside and lived in; this was the backbone of the indigenous peoples of the Americas; their core if you will.

The first outside settlements into the land of the Indian (yes, from and including the UK) began in the 10^th century (1,100 years ago) with what could be classed as extensive settlement taking off from around 1492 (700 years ago) and reaching a climax in the 16^th century (500 years ago). After the decimation of the Indian population by disease (smallpox – imported – killed over 30% of the Indians on the northwest coast as well as a significant number of the Plains Indians) by the introduction of alien animals, wars, the greedy squabbles for furs and gold-bearing land, the pursuit of owning huge herds of domestic stock in direct competition with the native wildlife together with annexing huge tracts of land to feed them on, and the deliberate starvation and containment of the indigenous Indians into inhospitable, diseased areas of the country that could in no way be seen as capable of sustaining life (how right that is) what was the dominant peoples of North America were reduced to a few thousand by the late 19^th century thereby decimating a civilisation that had taken 12,000 years to develop in just 700 short years.

In 1871 Congress ended recognition of independent nations and the education act controlled the intellectual development of Indians, forbade them to speak their own language and denied them the right to practice their native religions, teaching them instead the religion of Christianity and effectively forcing them to abandon their native identity and destroying the country’s rich history.

With the indigenous people suitably stultified, what now took centre-stage was a mongrel race of pseudo-European peoples drawn from twenty or more countries that began to rebuild a country they considered had been neglected by the local savages who once inhabited it; to carve out a history of their own making. How this society began as well as the landscape and buildings these interlopers created figure heavily in the foundation stones of modern America’s present-day national psyche, as well as the prime mover in that nation’s identity.

Pretty-well all of the USA’s oldest building stock dates from the 16^th century, and I believe their oldest church was built in 1680-ish, so they are a little challenged when it comes to finding physical indicators for their outlook on the rest of the world, so-much-so that one almost feels their desperation when they are trying to describe what it means to be American. In Great Britain we have put in place a way of managing our historical properties; it’s far from ideal, is run by retired brigadiers and only works up to point but it does help build a link to our preserved past and our nation’s lineage; in the USA they are still searching for connections to a broken through-line, a through-line they themselves fractured, which, like the once available land bridge of the Bering Strait and Macbeth’s own personal journey into hell, is now flooded with a liquid of their greed’s own making that is impossible to wade o’er.

But, they have given us rock ‘n’ roll.

On this day in 1986 the studio where American Bandstand was recorded is registered into the National Register of Historic Places (the US equivalent of The National Trust). This building, the foundation stone for the skyscraper that rock ‘n’ roll became, was last used in 1964…so 40 years ago…so much in such a short time.

Britney, Madonna, Christina and Justin...with role models like these...

August 28^th – Put, Britney, Madonna, Christina and Justin into the same news-flash and what have you got? Two things. Firstly, proof positive that they’re in it for the self-promotion and the money and don’t care how far they push back the social advancements that’ve been made; secondly, their antics are quickly interrupted by a prolonged visit to the sick-bucket.

We've done this before, you and I, this thing that we all have to guard against; the taking of things at face value with no introspection or dissection as to the purpose of whatever it is we’re being told or shown is. I’m really trying not to come over all nanny-state but we do have to pay attention otherwise really fanciful things might happen to us, say, oh, I don’t know…something really ridiculous like…like the government spying on us by tapping into our E-mails and FB chats and such; not that it would ever happen or anything but, you know, really wacky things like that. No, OK, bit extreme but you get my drift. So at the risk of being accused of a real piece of naval-gazing, I’d like to dissect and offer up the social complications involved in that kiss (more questions than answers, but you know me by now…and this is just my take on it; I have no doubt you have your  own). I reproduce it first as writ.

‘On this day in 2003 at the MTV Video Music Awards Britney Spears and Madonna share a big, juicy kiss during the opening performance. Madonna then plants one on Christina Aguilera, but we only get a glimpse of it because the director cuts to a shot of a thunderstruck Justin Timberlake in the audience.’

Firstly it’s an interesting style of sensationalist language used in that bit of reportage; sort of sets the tone, I’d say. 

Next up. The on-going battle for same-sex partnership recognition. 

Don’t forget the UK didn't officially recognise this until 2013. What is set in motion are three things:

1) By openly advertising the purely sexual side of such liaisons, both parties smothered all previous talk of such partnerships being of a loving nature, of being about two people who wanted to be together, of previous talk that had sought to dampen the Lesbo sluts together lobby.

2) Dressed as they were, the image of two women so scantily clad and snogging each other (supposedly all men’s ultimate fantasy…not mine; mine is, when I’m feeling particularly…you know…mine is of being able to drink three mugs of tea, one after the other and not have to get up six times in the night, but, let that pass) the image of two women so scantily clad and snogging each other was cemented in the minds of many as the obvious rightness of having a top-shelf or one-handed literature selection and page three open-season. You know, like, if it was OK for this show of sexual bravado to be broadcast on a prime-time TV show then it’s OK to have tits and bums (female in the main) on show in the newsagents’.

3) Like a persistent criminal appearing in the dock for the umpteenth time, their appearance together also carried their previous with it. Madonna’s difficulties with some venues on her 1990, Blonde Ambition, tour when she simulated masturbation, her use of profanities to crew on the tour when she was off-guard but on-mic, her publication of the book, SEX, her reported levels of arrogance and ill temper on tour and film set… (No, I’m not passing judgement on these things; like it or lump it, this is the baggage she carried onto the stage at the MTV awards) Britney’s adventures with tears, drugs, booze, tears, cops, the paparazzi, tears, hairdressers, fights, attitude…tears… All of these things joined them onstage and attached themselves to the tongue-in-throat moment. What that added up to is a confirmation of the view taken by Sun-Man or Daily Star-Man, The view that same-sex love is all about shagging and sensationalism. There was some reporting (probably by their PR people) that the whole incident was unplanned…read on.

As an aside to all this, when Ms. Madonna kissed Ms. Christina, how was it they could cut straight to the face of Mr. Timberlake? I mean, they didn't switch off the camera when Ms. Madonna was kissing Ms. Britney so why do that for the Ms. Aguilera moment? I mean, it was a great shot, right on target, no refocusing or camera swing but on the money, sort of ready-set, if you follow…still, probably just luck.

What happens in these cases is that as much as we fight it and deny it and particularly if we don’t question and rationalise it, the lowest common denominator kicks into action and things are taken at face value all helped along by the sensationalist press we live and love with and that taken out of context, like domestic violence and 50 Shades… is it OK to just fuck someone, OK to trade off love for lust in a public place with minors present, slap a woman about during sex?

Well, Peter, now you’re being silly; you’re not thinking this through…

See what I mean?

Rush and Janis Ian; Peas from the same pod.

August 27^th – There are a couple of Canadian loops today. Anyone been there; live there? I’ve not, have always had a desire to fish for salmon, watch brown bears and follow a wolf pack in that sometime wilderness but somehow the opportunity has bypassed me; maybe one day some kindly multi-millionaire will take pity on a chap with unfulfilled dreams and take me…chances? Yup, I rated them as zilch as well. (Sighs, mops eyes, sniffles).

I’ve been a follower of Rush for the past 35+ years, ever since I discovered the band (1975) on their album Fly by Night…and I do believe someone introduced me to that album but can’t remember who; so, whoever it was, I am eternally grateful. OK, agreed, Geddy Lee’s voice is an acquired taste and some of their lyrics are a bit syrupy but if that’s the only beef with them then I’ll take what’s left. I’ve had the good fortune to see them twice on tour and can honestly say they have deeply impressed me both times. What it is, see, is their commitment to a social and political ideology that coincides with much of mine. It was on this day in 1953 that Alex Lifeson (lead guitar – BV) was born, and by 1968 was sufficiently proficient on the guitar to be able to set up, alongside Mr. Lee and drummer Neil Peart, the band that I know and love today; no bad thing. Being a drummer of less than average talent, I stood in awe of Mr. Peart when I first heard them, still do. A lot of his ability, as with many drummers of his time and virtuosity, comes from his jazz influences (his involvement in the compilation Burning for Buddy (a tribute to Buddy Rich) is well worth the listen (really, trust me, jazz lovers and drum aficionados) and I think, for me, he is one of the outstanding drummers of the 20^th century…and Mr. Lee’s not a bad bass player…high praise indeed from an ex-drummer. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YDUXE9-SS4s

I think that Canada is, in many ways, a highly progressive country. It seems to have gotten a lot of the life balances right, not all, but quite a number; take its national approach to sexual orientation for instance. As in many things they seem to have read and understood the ‘what it is to be human’ manual long before the rest of us. By 2003 same-sex marriages were a legal option there…2003…ten years before what is supposed to be the cradle of democracy (us) sorted it. As of now only 13 US states recognise it, that’s 13 out of, what, 52…? 25 still have no legal recognition of same-sex marriage… The others? Fuck knows, still thinkin’ ‘bout it, I guess.

Anyone know the song, At Seventeen? Janis Ian? Highly recommend it if you’ve not had the pleasure. Although mainly aimed at girls the song speaks directly to anyone who’s been young and insecure, so that’ll be all of us then. The song is so relevant that it was used as a teaching aid for particularly challenging senior schoolkids. Like all good music should, it captivated and focussed even the most disruptive of them and the teacher in mind got some brilliant creative writing out of the most reluctant pupils and an insight into where some of their difficulties lay; self-esteem, personal confidence, what they considered to be foolish dreams that, all of a sudden and thanks to a brilliant teacher and Ms. Ian, they found out, by voicing their thoughts (albeit on paper) that they were not alone; we none of us are, what we have to learn is one of the hardest lessons in life; to trust.

Well, on this day in 2003, Janis Ian married her long-time partner, Patricia Snyder in Toronto. So, if for no other reason than giving that teacher the inspiration to use her song and that class of kids a chance to voice their hopes and fears and maybe discover just a little about themselves (and providing they are still an item) I’d like to wish Janis and Patricia a happy anniversary…

Englishness as opposed to Britishness....

August 26^th – There’s been a plethora of interest over the past five or so years in what it means to be British. In all forms of meeja the formulation of tests and those cheeky twins, checks and balances, have been discussed and mulled over, usually in order to distinguish who is and who is not a terrorist… Past conversation at MI6 Interrogation unit:

MI6 Man: “Can you whistle ‘Rule Brittania’?”

Suspect: Whistles appropriately.

MI6 Man: “Are you or have you ever been a terrorist?”

Suspect: “Nope”

MI6 Man: Have you ever blown yourself or anyone else up?”

Suspect: “Nope.”

MI6 Man: Shows three pictures, one of the Queen, one of Johnny Rotten and one of Osama Bin Laden (pre-decease). “Do you recognise anyone here?

Suspect: “The lady’s familiar…think the other played in a band…sorry, that’s all.”

MI6 Man: Holds up three pictures, one of fish and chips, one of a burger, one of a chicken tikka masala with a side of rice and a garlic Naan. “Have you eaten any of these recently?”

Suspect: Points to chicken tikka masala with a side of rice and a garlic Naan. “Had that last night…the others…? Not sure; maybe…”

MI6 Man: “Right. British through-and-through. Off y’ go, Jolly Jack Tar.”

Here in the good ole’ UofK what we’ve done now is cut through all this psycho-babble bullshit and decided just to arrest folk on a whim, on the colour of their socks, the cut of their jib (whatever that is) who they may know, who they may not know…anything really…we only have to be suspicious that they may be a terrorist even if every fibre in their past history points the other way: we can stop and search, interrogate without other witnesses being present, without any form of legal representation for up to nine hours; we can confiscate what we like and not return it for seven days (if at all) and to refuse to  answer any question is counted as a crime;

“The right to silence? Fuck off; no rights, you have no rights; as far as we’re concerned you’re a terrorist.”

And none of the usual checks and balances will count for diddley.

Consider this for a moment, then you’ll understand the calibre of the men and policies that govern us here…and probably never sleep soundly again.

We are the populace under the greatest number of surveillance cameras per capita head in the world; we have our internet correspondence and telephone calls monitored by our security services on a 24/7 basis without our knowledge or tacit agreement; we have the most draconian social service laws in Europe and are subject to a system that seeks to divide the spoils of governing a country to the highest bidder, a society that sees might as right and where money and nepotism run the upper echelons of our industries, information provider and commerce sections. Where access to power overrides health and safety concerns, where the 30 year rule guarantees immunity from prosecution for the traitors, killers and dissemblers in government; a country governed by those who see the necessity in slaughtering hundreds of thousands of innocents in the search for cheap oil and challenging religious beliefs, which will assure the continuation of power in the hands of the few, is seen as a heroic stand against the forces of evil, but who also believe that when a man or woman stands to accuse a government of wrongdoing, he/she is branded as a terrorist and imprisoned for life; where the forces of national protection, of law and order are turned against their own people to shore up poorly made, ill thought out and divisive policies made by the governing body and only serve to favour the longevity of the status quo; a country where history has taught us what we now accept as a certain fact, the people in power, will destroy their own people (socially, mentally, physically, both singularly and en masse) in order to service their own ends…

Doesn’t read well, does it; makes you think just where the point is in being classed as British. If this was offered up as a vote-catching vision of Utopia you couldn’t give it away, could y’? These ideologies weigh on me pretty well all the time; it’s why I cannot and will not trust the word of our ruling class, why I want to find out for myself the truth or otherwise of a policy or statement. I guess the obvious come-back is, in my seemingly jaundiced opinion, why I would want to consider myself a part of or a member of such a society. Fair comment and one to which my answer may seem light or airy-fairy, but here you have it anyway.

In a nutshell, I only have to listen to The Lark Ascending composed by Ralph Vaughan Williams (who died this day in 1958) to know what it mans to be not just British but, more succinctly, to be English. Not gonna go into the breakdown of the piece, mainly ‘cos I’ve not the vocabulary to do it justice, but the feeling I get in my breast every time I hear it…? Our island history and spirit right there in that composition, and it makes me ever more determined never to give in to the forces of slap-down: if I do they’ve won…and I’m buggered if I’ll give them the pleasure.

A perfume called Rancid....

August 25^th – Forgive me for writing this, but I’ve never really understood the fashion industry. You? Bet I’m in the minority and have completely missed the point of it all, as this blurb will testify.

Thing is, I find it even more shallow and out of touch with the real world than the pop music industry. Everything made has a limited shelf-life as the season’s new creations overtake the last season’s must-haves that are now so out of fashion that to wear them is to commit haute-couture suicide. Only if you can keep them pristine for 50 years will they come back into fashion again but by then, if you’re anything like me, you’ll probably be the same size as a medium-fed elephant seal and probably move like one as well, so that’ll diminish your ability to wear the latest 8-inch heeled Jimmy Choos; so much for the recirculation of clothing. Then there’s the actual clothing.

Now, I know it’s a catwalk exhibition that’s as much pure theatre as a performance as Hamlet or Road, but, here’s the thing. We know the stage play is pretend; not intended to represent the real world except through our own experience and understanding, through our own empathy with the character on display; and how do the totally uninitiated know? ‘Cos the clue’s in the title; stage play. With a fashion extravaganza we are lacking that intellectual disclaimer that allows us, the one’s who struggle to understand it in the first place, to lock on to the playground sensibility the spectacle projects. As it is, we’re treated to costumes which beggar belief worn by skeletal models that seem to have some difficulty in walking. I know on thing for sure, if a prospective date of mine turned up in anything resembling those outfits I’d suggest either;

a) a change of clothes,

b) a change of venue (to somewhere darker) or

c) a change of date.

OK, so the clothes worn at the various fashion house shows are meant to be representative of the forthcoming fashions that will be available in the high-street clothing outlets later in the year…so, why can’t we see the models wearing those? I mean, are they going to be so shite as to not deserve the time and trouble of the effete ones? After all, these fashions are modelled on what the fashion houses say are the new colours, cuts, accessories, whatever, so what’s so wrong with reflections of their own work?

OK, I’ll give you that the old, established houses (Chalayan, Gaultier, Largerfeld, Cardin, Clark, et al) have walked the live coals of public ridicule and managed to keep relevant and now, but their achievements are being cheapened by the roll-call of footballer’s wives, soap-stars and general slebs who, it would seem, haven’t really arrived until they’ve got their own fashion line, perfume or shoe chain; Debbie from Eastenders or Molly from Corrie simply have to have it.

In an effort to continue the pedigree of fashion talent which slebs are secretly endowed with (?) on this day in 2007, Lisa Origliasso launched her Veronicas fashion line in Australia. Now, I have to admit that I’d never heard of her, her fashion release or her apparent jack-of-all-trades life until I researched this bit of fluff of mine. It seems in her remarkably short life (29 years) she has distinguished herself as a singer, songwriter, actor and fashion designer; quite enough for several people’s lifetimes let alone one lady. Her resume reads like something from the pages of The Incredibles: performing at five years old, three albums by her teenage times, actor at 16, several bands, US tour, several million dollars to the good, time out for blues and C&W research, animal charity pioneers, political involvement… Blimey. Oh, for the talent and time. Would seem that launching a fashion label was something she could knock off in a lunch break…and my guess is that time limit would be unworthy of my time spent; saucer of milk anyone?

Jesus or the Maharishi....who you gonna choose?

August 24^th – The thing is, when you read this, you have to understand that I’m not a tub-thumping evangelist, but the thing you do need to remember is that, in it’s benign sense, you have to know your enemy.

In no other field of employment are the words;

If you think it’s too good to be true…then it probably is.

more applicable than the music/entertainment business, and there are three things that guide and drive it.

Sex.

Power.

Money.

“What about the talent, Peter?”

Nope. Surplus to requirements.

‘Talent is the last thing I need or want’

as a very highly-placed recording exec once told me.

Talent can be manufactured, gifted, created, grafted on, shaved off…take it from me, A&R people really do think they are the movers and shakers of the ents business…but people such as Simon Cowell are only the power they are in the music industry because we let him be: Us. We dance to his Pied Piper tune, to the music and stars he produces out of the hat containing a collection of easily manipulated, money-making wannabes, because…? Because, in the main we’re too lazy to search out our own; too impatient to let talent and ability grow and improve. Living in this Lottery-Winner society we want stardom, our idols and its rewards to arrive instantly, and by our giving our passive, lazy, soap-filled, proxy vote, we’ve let him and others like him become the arbiter of our personal taste. Yes, there are some decent folk in the game but even back in the  so-called laid-back 60’s and on there were, have been, are and will always be shysters flying by the base of their scrotum through the lines of hopefuls and would-be stars, dick in one hand, rolled-up ten-dollar bill and mirror in the other chanting;

I can make you a star!

and there’ll always be sufficient foolish fish in the barrel who believe the lie of  the hook and gloss over the words of the Canadian band, Rush;

So much style without substance, so much stuff without style.

Let’s break it down:

Sex: Management want sex, thrills, fame by association. They don’t have the talent, good looks or personality to do it or attract it for themselves but do have a talent to promote those that do. I’ve seen it regularly, working in theatre as I do, when the money men come into the venture (and it is still invariably men) with the majority of their brain cells in their cock, sniffing out the birds, boys, booze and bundles of cash with their bravado statements and use of street-slang how the game changes and the dice get rebalanced.

Power: There’s always going to be a level of gangsterism in the business, and by that I don’t mean Al Capone stuff (although it has been known on more than one occasion) but a more sinister kind of coercion. Back in the 60’s/70’s the threat of broken legs or burned-out businesses if such-and-such a band wasn’t booked (or was booked) had a certain level of currency when agents were working to promote their act/s in the face of stiff competition. Today, these same people use their power in a different way. Now it’s schmoozing, trips away, offers of sex (any deviation catered for) and drugs, wads of cash…these things have always been used of course; it’s just that now they’re coupled with more lasting, more subtle bribes. Things like support for a cause (either social or political) or changing the position of decision-making cartels or creating a positive spin on contentious issues or proposals through ‘star support’…and that, unfortunately and in some ways, includes ‘charidee’.

Money: Money talks. Opens doors. Oils wheels. Greases palms. Buys drugs. Pays Payola. Bribes the weak. Pays off the strong. Funds attention. Covers mistakes. Ties a tourniquet round truth. Turns shit into talent.

These are just the three main things that turn the heads of even the most battle-hardened performers and their entourage. It’s hard sometimes to spot the charlatan and react to it with the move it deserves; a swift knee to the groin and the beating of a hasty retreat: not always so, as we shall see.

If I know the above and you know it and, supposedly, everyone else in the business knows it then how come, time after time (Kim Carnes… excellent) how come people get suckered into situations or follow a route even when the signs are all screaming;

Turn again, Tosser?

I mean, even if you are totally new to the business and you’re asked by someone you’d never met to come to their office in the city because they’d seen you on stage, or had read something you’d written, or heard something you’d recorded at home and put up on YouTube, and they were sure they could make you a star, make you millions, make you as important as the date of the second coming and then, when you got to this  office in the city you found it was semi in Dagenham, complete with stained lace curtains and a smell of stale urine and dead cat pervading the rooms, and in one of which was a battered school desk behind which was a guy in string vest and braces looking like something one of those deceased felines had dragged in…well, you’d think;

This isn’t going to be my direct route to the West End

And scuttle the fuck out of there, wouldn’t you?

OK, so what, then, if you were a hardened pro, knew all the tricks, had been round the track sufficient times to wear a trench; what then?

On this day in 1967 (6 years after their first number one, so not exactly new to the game) The Beatles went to London to meet the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi aka ‘The Giggling Guru’. Here was a man from an Indian religious order who preached a life of simplicity, humility and the pursuit of truth over treasure-trove, of a space in ones life for meditation and close contemplation of the self, of poverty and chastity…and so where do you think they’d meet? Wrong. They meet him at the Park Lane Hilton, of course. The reported value of the Maharishi's organization has ranged from the millions to billions of U.S. dollars and, in 2008, the organization had assets of about $300 million…so this is proof of his and the organisation’s frugal lifestyle and charitable outlook; so to all concerned, even battle-hardened stars, the very idea that such a union could or would end badly is totally unforeseeable… totally… yup, totally…

Of course it’s not that simple, but when you have one faith leader saying from the austere confines of the Park Lane Hilton with acolytes and room service buzzing around him/her;

We cannot take away the economic aspects of the movement…even though my message concerns the non-economic fulfilment of life. If initiations were free we could not cover the overhead for spreading the movement throughout the world

and then another saying from the side of the road with the dust and flies buzzing round him/her;

All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you. And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age

Well, who y’ gonna choose?

Both of them purport to living the life they preach and ask you to believe the honesty of their doctrine and what they have will be yours... Well, who y’ gonna choose?

Me? I’d believe neither ‘cos I’m an atheistic old curmudgeon but, if push came to shove, I’d side with the one who promised a profit for my Friday prayers, cynical old fuck that I am.

Gratefully not Dead, just drugged...

August 23^rd – They’re not a band; they’re a commodity, a sales point, a warehouse and marketing opportunity all rolled into one, odd for a, seemingly flower-power-generation incarnation. Some would also say they’re an institution; not me, but some would. What I would say about them is that, as a touchstone for the environment and social change they've rolled over a stone or two.

Formed in 1965, the Grateful Dead (GD) have developed a loyal following of fans; Dead Heads as they are known who, some of them at least, follow the band for months…sometimes years. When Dylan deviated from his expected output to embrace electric he was called a Judas yet with the GD the alteration of their set on tour is part of the gig, it’s what their fans expect. You could go to five consecutive gigs and be treated to five different shows; value for money right there. Their live shows are, like a Ken Dodd gig, renowned for their length. I mean, they even overplayed at Woodstock to such an extent that Hendrix almost didn't go on! Now, I don’t know about you but I consider that an indictable offence worthy of a week in the stocks at least. If he hadn't gotten onto that stage because of some ridiculous overrun by a band that was old enough to know better…? Well, just think no showcase for Star - Spangled Banner for a start.

As I've mentioned before in this chat, GD is the band with probably the most personnel changes (13) and incarnations (12) in the biz. They have a reputation for extended solos (noodlings) as part of their studio reproductions, and these can go on a bit. To date there have been five losses to the band and the majority of the members are/were committed drug users, so no surprises there about potential personnel losses. However, what has to be acknowledged is their other commitment; to the betterment of society. Various sums were spent by the band on rain-forest purchase, community projects (making available free food, lodging, music and health care to all) and the unselfish inclusion of their die-hard fans in all aspects of the band; it has been written that;

They were the first among equals in giving unselfishly of themselves to hippie culture, performing more free concerts than any band in the history of music.

Not a bad legacy, huh? The total reversal of the many and varied charidee sessions the slebs 'give their time' for 'for the people' when we know, all along, it’s also and mostly about and for themselves. And yet, even given GD’s professed peaceful, caring and open credentials still the nutters gather.

I've also touched on the fact that it only takes the unrequested participation of an arse in any sensible gathering to bring what was a peaceful gathering or social change organisation to its knees. On this day in 1987, at the Summer of Love concert, which featured a set by the GD, a man who had escaped from a drug rehab facility sneaked into the peaceful and well-chilled gig. No doubt he thought his drug-using past  gave him automatic entry into the gig, and GD gigs were renowned for their laid-back ease, in fact Police Det. Rick Raynor once famously said;

I’d rather work nine Grateful Dead concerts than one Oregon football game. Their fans don’t get belligerent for a start.

I think the amount of weed smoked at GD concerts might have had something to do with it. Pill-busters, coke-heads, speed-merchants are all on the edge but you’ll never hear of a pot-smoker slaughtering innocent folk and that's usually because they’re too busy admiring the chrome toaster in the kitchen or the intricacy of a small, wind-up toy someone found. On this day there was a volte face and this one unhinged, hard-drug user amongst a sea of benign grass-users shot a policeman. It has to be said he was then shot dead also, so one less cock on the planet, one more cock in the ground; but the fact he had to shoot someone else to get there sort of spoils the outcome, I mean, if he’d been sent on his final mission before he’d had chance to take out someone else then he would've been dead and we would've been grateful.

Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers never had to text....

August 22^nd – For everyone there is someone; or at least we like to think there is, don’t know about you but I do love a happy ending. The thing to do, of course, is not spend too much time looking out the window, but that’s difficult when that’s where most of your dreams are playing.

With that as bait, we do have to spend a little time watching over them (our dreams) but maybe not several hours a day. Just think of all the people we pass by each day, all those people, living all those lives and all looking for…? Well, most of the time they’re looking to get home safe before it starts to persist down, but my guess is that the majority are looking for the same things we are. Some of us have found them, or him, or her, or it, and happy we are about that (I think) but others are still searching for whatever it is…crikey, this is positive chat from me, providing the answers to life, the universe and everything.

What it is, you see, is our passage through life has become more distant from those around us…I mean, the number of people killed or maimed by walking into a passing Volvo whilst they’re texting is growing year-on-year, more than 20 this year so far; and that’s just walking and texting. One step up to the platform of stupid than texting whilst you’re walking is texting whilst you’re driving?! That’s got to be the most idiotic thing in the world, next to creeping up to a sleeping lion and poking it in the eye with a short stick. Wasn’t there a lass killed in her car on her first solo trip out just recently? Her car was hit by a truck that she had pulled out in front of whilst she was texting her friend to say she’d be slightly late…?  Well, my dear, better to arrive a little late than dead on time; got that one as wrong as wrong thing then, didn’t she. But, OK, put this stupidity aside for a second, what about this delightful idea we’ve got now of putting DVD players in the back of seat headrests so the little darlings don’t have to look out the window at the boring old countryside now but can, instead, watch their favourite cartoon characters which is, as we all know, so much nearer the real world. What’s that thing about the video-gamer who went outside once but the greens were very ordinary, the blue of the sky was insipid and as for the trees…hopeless. We seem to be so wrapped up in the technology that is rapidly overtaking us that, mark me, 20 years time, folk’ll be wandering about with those stupid wrap-around dark glasses on as they meander through their chosen landscape oblivious (even more) to the people, events and tactile, interactive world around them.

So, what do we think would’ve happened if these sorts of blinkers to real living and interaction had been around in the 1930’s? Well, I’ll tell you one thing, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers may never have met; and just think how the world would’ve turned out if that’d been the case! Doesn’t bear thinking about, does it? On this day in 1938, their picture appeared on the cover of Life Magazine. With something like 10 movies already done and dusted as a duo they had re-written the standard of dance. I know Mr. Astaire had other partners (Cyd Charisse and Barrie Chase amongst them…and was Ann Miller more than a match for him or is that just my imagination) but his partnership with Ms. Rogers yielded the richest seam of quality dance routines west of the Pecos.

So, switch off that iPhone, unplug those earphones and damn-well pay attention to what’s going on, or you could stand a chance of missing your own Ginger Rogers/Fred Astaire moment.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qtBv6EZjT_0

Mr. Clapton's renown for a guitar collection is better than Rick James' renown for...

August 21^st – Some folk collect stamps, some folks beer mats, glasses, sugar packets…(?)… I mean, I used to collect fag packets…so what have I got to be surprised at. I think I had a collection of about 1500 or two thou when I stopped. It was in my formative years back in the mid-late 50’s and, even though I say so myself, I was quite and expert; no, seriously, I was. I could look at, say, six empty packets of WD&HO Wills ‘Wild Woodbine’ (coffin nails) and point out the different wording, placements of the same wording, the address on the side (sometimes Nottingham sometimes Belfast). I had some real rarities…made my dad buy and smoke some several brands of fancy stuff that were probably 50% camel shit and all for the packet to add to my collection ‘cos that was the only way I’d ever get such unusual makes…and anyway, if dad had developed lung cancer, I’m sure it would have been of a more exotic type so that would have made him feel exclusive…he didn’t, but…

Fag shops back then, tobacconists to the wealthy, were akin to going into a Pokémon card shop today. The bright colours, the different varieties… and the smell… Wonderful: no wonder we got hooked…although, I have to say, as an ex-smoker, that had I been made to smoke a pack of ‘Capstan Full Strength’ then I’d probably never have got past the first draw. By gum they were some strong stuff; almost like smoking road-mender’s bitumen.

In the music field some folk collect guitars (Mr. Clapton owned 75 at one time which is small-fry compared to Joe Perry – of Aerosmith – who apparently owns 600…?). I know drummers have a penchant for snares and cymbals…and probably specific kik-pedals too; perfectly understandable, but 600 lead guitars…? Still, you’d never go cold of a winter’s night would you? Give them a poke; they’d probably burn all night. Gold discs is another collection point, obvious candidates being Elvis Presley, The Beatles, Michael Jackson but, here’s the teaser; who had the biggest collection of detectable, illegal substances in their bloodstream when they were found dead? That’s stopped y’, aint it? Think you can get it? OK; shout when you’ve guessed it…here we go.

This person admitted to spending around $7,000 a week on drugs for five straight years: was sent to jail for imprisoning a girl for 6 days, during which time he physically and sexually abused her whilst on a drugs binge: kidnapped, with a colleague, a music executive (Mary Sauger) and beat her over a 20 hour period: was accused of a serious sexual assault…but got off… how we doin’?

OK. Step forward, Rick James.

With a record career that included hits like Superfreak and Give it to Me, Baby’, with Grammy awards, gold discs and a fan-base of millions, he still managed to run a car-crash of a life that left him a diabetic with a pacemaker and cocaine and crack addiction, and a serious weight problem; when his autopsy was completed following his heart attack…at 56…the number of prescription and non-prescription drugs found in his bloodstream were greater than the average lab rat; alprazolam, diazepam, bupropion, citalopram, hydrocodone, digoxin, chlorpheniramine, metamphetamine…and that good ole’ standby, cocaine; way t’ go, Rick.

AC/DC's new vocalist...Charlie Drake?!

August 20^th – What I really like about the music industry, or at least the people who actually make the music not those tossers who call themselves creative managers or consultants, who rip everyone off just so’s they can waste another half a mill on yet another yacht because, well, you know, you’ve just got to have one in Marseilles and one in Cannes… What I have managed to do, though, is crack the method of reading the pedigree of various, seemingly unconnected performers and building up a family tree. I know, pitiful isn’t it?

AC/DC, as you know by now, are amongst my favourite bands. For energy, 4/4 timing, a backbeat that would prop a fire door open and good old heads-down rock ‘n’ roll they take some beating. What I wasn’t aware of was their direct lineage to the great, Russian composer, Pyotr Il’yich Tchaikovsky. That’s stopped you in your tracks, huh?

The 1812 Overture was Tchaikovsky’s testimony to the bravery of the troops who defeated (in a roundabout way) the army of Napoleon at the Battle of Borodino in 1812 (although how a battle that caused at least 100,000 casualties can be called a victory by either side is beyond me). Written in 1880 to commemorate the anniversary of this famous victory, the overture he wrote (1812) called for cathedral type bells, live cannon fire and a large scale orchestra all playing in time and in unison, particularly with the cannon fire which is strictly laid out as part of the orchestration. So tight is this scheduling that no less than 16 cannon need to be used, the length of time required for re-loading not being taken into account by the selfish Tchaikovsky no doubt… Didn’t Charlie Drake do a skit on this overture where he appeared to be playing every instrument and conducting too? Gosh, there’s a name from the past; wasn’t he the sidekick of Jack Edwardes in a TV series… Mick and Montmerency wasn’t it? On the BBC? The orchestra film, I think, it won an award or summat at Cannes or Montreux and featured a triangle player who couldn’t count... Anyway, that’s all by the way; we were tracing the pedigree line from Tchaikovsky through to Angus Young. Right, well, exactly 101 years later AC/DC took another landmark event. That of taking ill-trained, ill-versed in the role of combat, Roman citizens to the slaughter by well-trained, combat-ready, highly skilled gladiators and updating the gentleman-slaughterers/slaughterees code of the time Ave, Ceaser, Morituri te Salutant turning it on its head to suit the modern times by revamping that title to read, Those About To Rock…didn’t Colosseum release an album called Morituri te Salutant back in 1969? Seem to remember they had a stellar line-up, Mr. Heckstall-Smith was one of them…and Dave Greenslade… OK, sorry, right, AC/DC.

The title track of the AC/DC album was used as an opener on some tours and became a kind of anthem, much like it had been used by the Romans but transcending time and outcome, becoming an anthem to the laying down of musical lives to the take-no-prisoners, heavy-metal genre that AC/DC were, at one time, the high priests of. The closing stanzas of that particular composition, which built on the chant-type slow build of the previous three minutes, also contained the repeated firing of cannons as part of its climax…wasn’t there an accident when the 1812 was being played in Italy a while ago? When the first trombonist thought he’d enter into the spirit of the fun by loading a medium-sized firecracker into the bell of his new trombone and then sealing it with his mute. I believe the idea was for him to launch this item high into the air at the appropriate moment in the cannon-firing, outdoor climax to the piece. Trouble was the firecracker went off before he could hoist the trombone to the required elevation, so the jammed-tight mute exploded out the front much like ma bullet does from a cartridge, passed between the seats of the French horn players and the viola section before hitting the conductor in the stomach. This thrust the conductor off the podium and into the audience where he destroyed the first twelve rows of seated gentry by causing a tsunami of folding chairs, all falling back onto the row behind and so on…a domino effect, if you will. At the other end of the action, the flash-back from the firecracker scorched the trombonists face and sent him twelve feet rearwards into the percussion section thereby destroying £12,000 worth of kettle drums and the reputation of brass-players for the next six generations.

So, there we have it the connection we’ve all been looking for.

Pyotr Il’yich Tchaikovsky has a direct lineage to AC/DC by way of  writing the 1812 Overture and giving birth to Charlie Drake’s finest comedy piece via the novelty use of a trombone through to the timely interruption of Colosseum’s greatest work, the baton of which AC/DC picked up and ran with as the centrepiece of their album, Those About To Rock. See, once you see it all written down it makes perfect sense; glad to have been of service.

Ginger Baker's drum army

August 19^th – You really need to compare the two, 1968 to 2005, to appreciate not only how certain things change but also why. On this day in 1939, Ginger Baker was born. Now we all recognise that name, or at least those who like me are either kids of the 50’s (and so teenagers of the 60’s) or just plain music freaks…like me on both counts. What is harder to extract is just what he brought to the land of rock drumming, particularly when you view the 2005 footage of Cream – Live at the Albert Hall. With what’s nowadays seen as commonplace, Mr. Baker’s pedestrian drumming in 2005 hardly stands out; it was not always thus.

Mr. Baker likened himself to a jazz drummer, has dabbled extensively in the African drumming traditions and rhythms and has performed with some left-field bands and musos, but it really is in the field of rock drumming that he stands tall. Just about every rock drummer (certainly of note) since Cream’s inception and recordings has copied, adapted, updated or utilised Ginger Baker’s trademark rhythms and styles, drumming patterns and layouts; he really was a trailblazer that had an effect on even such a lowly one as me when I adopted the twin bass drum layout for the duration of my playing career; it was only in the noughties that I adopted the single bass drum/twin pedal layout. But that’s all by-the-by. What I really wanted to look at was if I seem so dismissive of his drumming now, what else was in the package to make Ginger Baker such a standout act.

Cream was a powerhouse trio of the ‘60’s’ who became the blueprint of hundreds of other bands of the time (Taste, Beck, Bogart and Appice, The Jimi Hendrix Experience and their ilk) and the band’s influence still has echoes today with Them Crooked Vultures and Muse. What Cream offered, when they were first formed in ‘66’, was a completely stripped-down version of the group. In performance it was their flaunting of the virtuosity of the musician, a releasing of all the stuff and nonsense that went into making the modern, well-formed pop group, and in their musical choice it was the redefining of the blues standards like Spoonful and Crossroads, all three members dressed in costume that was a return to the days of frills and furbelows, of Beau Brummell and the dandy. All this high-camp was quickly picked up by other bands and immediately miss-read as it led on to the high-pomp and glam-rock of Queen and Gary Glitter. But first and foremost it was the ability of the musicians that attracted the wannabe’s like me. Walls of 4x12 speakers, amps with slave-amps with slave-amps, drum kits that consisted of arrays of toms and cymbals that dwarfed the drummer (and any tall building in the district) were all used to create a wall of sound that could loosen fillings and render large reptiles comatose; that was the power-trio and Cream floated on the top (did you see what I did there…?) However, disregarding Messer’s Clapton and Bruce’s obvious addition to the overall sound (guitarists…if you see a drowning bass player you throw him his amp and the similarity between premature ejaculation and a lead guitar solo is that you know both are coming and there’s not a damn thing you can do to stop it) it was Ginger Baker who was the driving force to the band; a listen to Crossroads off’f the Wheels of Fire double album will quickly convince you. 
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h_aw0Mu0Wus

…well if it doesn’t you have no soul…are deaf…have nothing further to offer the world of music…will probably be refused entry to gates of heaven…no hope, no sense, no feeling, no shit…

The other thing that created the vibe from out of which the legend that is Ginger Baker grew was the times. Much in the way of drumming back then was simple, 4/4 timing and very much in the background, a sort of upgrade from a more melodious metronome. What Mr. Baker did was lift the drummer onto a level platform with the rest of the band to become an integral part of the sound and the performance. His easy flamboyance and intricate fills were, at the time, groundbreaking as the trio’s music become the background to the visions we were treated to on a regular basis; visions of Vietnam, of Chappaquiddick, of Sharpeville, of the environmental devastation predicted by Rachel Carson, of the trio of assassinations (Malcolm X – Martin Luther King – JFK). It was to this footage that Ginger Baker’s controlled devastation of the rhythm section was played out. From thereon others took up the baton and ran with it, carved out their own place in what was once lead-singer territory; Messer’s Moon, Bonham and Mitchell, they couldn’t have done it without him…and in my own very small, tiny, miniscule, humble way, neither could I.

That's the way God plans it, Billy....

August 18^th – You know, no matter how street-wise or sharp you think you are you can always get tripped up by believing in your own inviolability; it’s that starting to believe your own press cuttings thing we’ve touched on before, where those constantly in the news, the curse of the slebs for want of a better phrase, and who fall foul of the law or their fans because of their inability to realise they’re just human, albeit with a lot of money and fame, but human all the same. Let me tell you a true story:

When I was in my teens and in rock bands full-time, I partied quite hard; not quite to the extent of an Iggy Pop or a Keith Richards but hard enough to create a dent or two in my psyche. I think that, being on the periphery of the fame thing, as a support band, I could see from a distance the problems that could be encountered and the car-crash lives that were being lived by many I came into contact with…maybe that scared me a little (no bad thing, I guess) so I was always able to steer clear of the hard stuff. In honesty, in the circles I moved in (working class) alcohol was the prime ingredient with which to enhance one’s social life; the cause of much catastrophic damage to many, I know, but that’s how it was, that was the norm. There are images that stay and I’ve written about before now in this daily shuffle I do…suffice to say that the scene in The Wall when the shot is given to the performer to get him on stage? Seen it done, and more than once too…but I’m sure it was just Vitamin B12.

So, not surprising I shunned anything I knew caused early demise; everyone says;

“It’ll not get me.”

I’m here to tell you it will. End of. Sorry, off the story a bit….

When we’d finished gigging, we (the band) would split to various clubs and hostelries we were known to frequent to drink, jabber and connect with the local female population to roll the night away or at least what was left of it. One such watering hole was The Wilson’s Arms in Knowle near Brum. Our vocalist, who you’ve met before, was something of a womaniser, the fact he was engaged counting for nothing in the scheme of touring (what goes on tour stays on tour). He was also very aware he had a certain something that women found irresistible (buggered if I knew what, I mean, I figured I was at least twice as desirable and yet he always got the girl… sod him; but I’m over it now, as you can tell…) He could always be counted on to pull…always… This lent him a certain air of superiority within the band dynamic which, in turn, lent him certain arrogance on stage, essential for the vocalist/front man so no complaints there. So, we finish at some place or other this particular night back in 67 or 68 and we bugger off to the The Wilson’s for a late night game of booze and birds. Our vocalist was, his usual, all swagger and we were our usual Piss off, toss pot unanimous selves…and that’s when he spotted her…stood by herself at the far end of the bar…and she was a stunner…a stunner. Like a greyhound from the slips our vocalist was over there, why, he almost left skid marks on his journey to her side. We all thought; “Yeah, right. Well you’ll find this one a bit above, my lad”

We said it more in anger than in hope but, lo and behold, after a very short time, very, they left together, our boy giving us the Agincourt salute as they linked arms and exited; we, of course, all wished him luck by return.

The following evening we did the collection of the band members on our way to another gig and were all struck by the rectitude of our vocalist to recount his triumph of the previous evening/night/morning. Usually he would regale us with every sordid detail (sorry, ladies, I’m not proud of it, it’s just the way young lad’s talk…sorry) but this time we had to practically drag it out him: I give the details…joined together and absolutely accurate, and in his words…except for my dramatic additions for mood and result (people of a nervous disposition look away now).

“Not only was she a stunner but she also owned a drop-top Sunbeam Alpine…red. Her hands were all over me as we walked to the car then she dropped the hood and we climbed in. Away we sped into the night both of us bent on a night of pleasure. After a short while she drove the car one handed, her other hand slipped across onto my lap and then up to my groin as she began to massage my massive erection…”

Well, I say massive ‘cos that’s the word he used; that was his dramatic addition, I guess; to continue…

“I slipped my hand across and began to massage her firm breasts and then let my hand drop down to her stomach… This was too much for us both and she made a left onto a country lane and pulled into a gateway. Immediately we were into a clinch, indulging in a kiss of such strength and passion that would have removed my tonsils had a surgeon not whipped out when I was seven. She quickly unbuckled my belt and slipped her hand down my trousers as I, not wanting to seem lax, slid my hand rapidly up her skirt and beyond her suspender belt (realising as I did so that she hadn’t put on any underwear) to where my eager hand was filled with the biggest pair of bollocks in the universe… I was up and had vaulted out of that car faster than a 200 metre hurdler. As I ran up the road in a crouching sprint, my one hand grasping at my trousers the other, the one that had so recently been full of testicles, being dragged through the dew-soaked grass verge in an effort to wash away the memory, I heard a voice shout, “Wait, please! Can’t we talk about this!?”

This incident was brought sharply to mind when I read that, on this day in 1991, Billy Preston was arrested on charges of battery after allegedly attacking a 16-year-old prostitute, but only after Preston had discovered he/she was a transvestite. Of all the people; Billy Preston, he of The Beatles, Joe Cocker, The Rolling Stones fame; I mean, you’d have thought;

“Well Billy, if you’ve not learnt by now…that’s the way God planned it.” See, it can happen to anyone, no matter where you are in the fame tree… no, bugger that, it can happen to anyone period.