The Smiths and a Conservative Party Diwali

October 31^st – Happy Diwali!

Why is it there are some bands/groups/solo artists you just don’t ‘get’? The rest of the populace are all going ape over such-and-such or so-and-so and you’re left standing on the sidelines like a sausage at a Bar Mitzvah? But I have to say, in the case of The Smiths, I was glad to be classed as a plastic-wrapped porker.

There’s a band for which the phrase;

A case full of nuthin’

was invented; IMHO. As is usual in these endeavours and not for the first time even with their supposed right-on street credibility, when it came to divvying the cash, Johnny Marr (born this day in 1963) and Mr. Morrissey considered themselves to be band members apart from the drummer and bassist snatching, 40% each of the due royalty payments. This made for the unedifying spectacle of court cases and counter-claims as to who said what to whom ending up with the judge saying of Mr. Morrissey;

Of the band members he is a more complicated character. He did not find giving evidence an easy or happy experience. To me at least he appeared devious, truculent and unreliable where his own interests were at stake. And even Mr. Morrissey’s own counsel saying of him;

…my client’s attitude betrays a degree of arrogance.

This sort of fall-out meant no real chance of a reunion for the band (thank God) and Mr. Morrissey revealed a level of humour outside of his sometime, whimsical song lyrics when he said of reunion rumours;

I would rather eat my own testicles than reform The Smiths, and that’s saying something for a vegetarian.

I’ve had the pleasure of working a Smith’s gig and what seemed to permeate the whole session from the get-go was a level of blind arrogance that we (the venue) were in the presence of higher beings. What became obvious was that this stain had spread from their lead vocalist and his demands about what food was allowed to be sold both inside and outside the venue and then on through to what the production stage crew could eat, taking in the department heads at the same time, all heaping up to be an anal-experience of the highest order. I don’t think I heard a swell of laughter during the whole, day-long fit-up, gig and strike…not one. That’s what happens so often when a guy with a certain level of talent (and Mr. Morrissey has that, I’ll admit) is given his/her head and all whims and tantrums and misplaced beliefs are catered for by the sycophants who leach their living off’f him/her.

However, what christened it for me was when I heard that David Cameron, when asked what his all-time favourite album was replied;

The Smiths, The Queen is Dead,

Four things occurred simultaneously to me:

1) If The Smiths album, The Queen is Dead is David Cameron’s favourite album then I’m a Crested Celebes Ape.

But

2) If The Smiths album, The Queen is Dead really is David Cameron’s favourite album then that’s the Morrissey/Marr/Conservative Party futures well and truly fucked over.

3) Proof of my suspicions that by combining both David Cameron and The Smiths goes to prove neither of them are worth a light; timely event on this Festival of Light celebration known as Diwali.

4) Even though Mr. Morrissey is no Conservative Party supporter (points to him there) allowing David Cameron an opportunity to seem to be down widda kidz even ever-so briefly is unforgivable and means I'll not be buying any of his works, past, present or future...So, result all round really as I'm sure Mr. Morrissey will be breathing a sigh of relief too.

Oh, THAT Linda Ronstadt...

October 30^th – You know how it is; you’re going through your record collection, just 

browsing really, saying hello to old friends and running by the memories they bring back (really sorry about this, now you have an idea of just how a sad and of how much an old git I am) when summat catches your eye, on the list of backing vocalists used on the album or the guest saxophonist maybe, and you think;

Hmm. I recognise the name...didn't she do Mad Dogs and Englishmen...? Nope, not sure, but am sure I know little to bugger-all about her…wonder what else she's done?

So you start to do a little research and, of a sudden open a Pandora’s Box of talent and ability you never dreamt of finding. I know that you’ll all be so much further down this particular road than me, you guys usually are but, well, to my shame this was me a few years ago when I came into contact with Linda Ronstadt.

The first inkling came as I perused the information on my Paul Simon album, Gracelands. In amongst the list of support for that album was the name (Ms. Ronstadt) against the B.V. for the track Under African Skies. Have you heard that track recently? Her harmonies are nothing short of sublime and, over the years I’ve played that album, that particular track has been a standout for me and never once had I given it a thought as to who it was that was making the track such a haunting, spacious piece of work, I just figured it was one of the other band members’. It’s not. That’s her, and that’s what started me on the quest…bugger me, was I in for a surprise!

How can I possibly have missed out on a performer who’s made 11 Grammy Awards (that’s eleven) two Academy of Country Awards, an Emmy, an ALMA Award, a Tony and a Golden Globe Award nomination and had national and international gold, platinum and multiplatinum albums, worked with Philip Glass, James Taylor, Frank Zappa, Neil Young, Emmylou Harris, performed in a G&S work (Pirates of Penzance) gigged with The Muppets appeared in a dozen or more films and, AND performed in Puccini’s La Boheme at the New York Opera on this day in 1984…now, how is that possible?

So, I started to listen to some of her solo stuff. Now, I have to say, at the outset, I’m not a fan of much of her output (I’m just not a C&W kinda guy) but there’s no getting away from the fact that, as you listen to her back catalogue, it quickly becomes obvious that one is in the presence of someone of real vocal stature and ability, and when that’s added to by her songwriting abilities, well, hat’s off really.

What turned it round for me and also made me a sleeping-follower of Ms. Ronstadt is her political stance and her fearless statements when she sees an arse doing something so wrong that it can’t be countenanced: In 2006, Ms. Ronstadt told the Calgary Sun that she was;

….embarrassed George Bush is from the United States.... He’s an idiot.... He’s enormously incompetent on both the domestic and international scenes. And now the fact that we were lied to about the reasons for entering into war against Iraq and thousands of people have died – it’s just as immoral as racism.

Don’t sugar-coat it, Linda, tell it like it is.

That kind of outspoken stuff has gotten her into hot water with the rich and powerful and, I’d guess, has affected her career (they’re like that, these arrogant tossers, they bear a grudge…for fuckin’ years) but she also followed up that one by saying of the Los Angeles psyche as she left the city where all her recording work was being done and moved to Tucson;

I couldn’t breathe the air, and I didn’t want to drive on the freeways to get to the studio. I also didn’t want to embrace the values that have been so completely embraced by that city. Are you glamorous? Are you rich? Are you important? Do you have clout? It’s just not me, and it never was me.

Not only biting the hand but shredding it and chucking it on the fire too. The tragedy of all this is that Ms. Ronstadt has now been diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease which has robbed her of her ability to sing…is that cruel or what? Yes, she has made a dubious move or two (and of course we never have, have we?) but my goodness, I’ll take her warts and all in preference to any number of modern-day rock divas; can’t hold a candle to her for talent and output…and political conscience.

The Dead Kennedy's...sober enough to sell out?

October 29^th – Nothing worse than being found to be foolish, is there; even in private? As with any genre of music there’s always a level of hubris that accompanies it. Most periods in pop/rock history have come with a belief or tenet bolted onto them. The bands that get caught up in this cod-philosophy (sometimes not of their own volition, OK, but more often that not they willingly wear the cloak of our manufacture ‘cos it shifts units) are lauded by their followers and publicists alike (particularly by their publicists) as the saviour of all the ills in the world. Their lyrics are scanned and dissected for hidden meanings (like the belief that Dark Side of the Moon was in fact written as a substitute score for The Wizard of Oz) and s often as not the posing and acting they indulge in so they can shift units is taken as an actual way to live by the more gullible of the population (Gangsta/Dancehall Guns ‘n’ Ho’s ideologies being a case in point) and whole swathes of the populace don the uniform of complicity to show their solidarity with the movement; hence the New Romantics, Bowie Androgyny, Teddy Boys, Mods and Rockers and Punks to name a few.

New Romantics loved themselves, Bowie Androgyny folk didn’t know quite who to love but definitely loved someone, Teddy Boys and Mods and Rockers just kicked the fuck out of each other and anyone else too; all have had their moment in the sun but Punk culture in particular was (is?) the one that was (is?) seemingly the most overtly anti-establishment. Not wishing to diss the ideology (I’ve written before here about one of the standout gigs of my life being when I saw Rage Against the Machine in Brixton and how the sight of 3000 people all baying for blood was a chilling and sobering sight; can’t quite see how anarchy solves our world problems but, they were having a damn good time, so…) but those who actually followed the Punk movement, as opposed to the rich pricks who just enjoyed slumming it with the gutter-children for an evening before returning to their suite at the Grosvenor Hotel, did so in the firm belief that they and their companions, and particularly their companions in the bands, were against the man, were against all the bourgeois capitalist slime-balls who preyed on society and only saw the money. That this movement blossomed as the legacy of Thatcherism is beyond doubt; keep a sufficient number of the population in penury but in sight of gross-out largesse by their rulers and even an idiot would know that, eventually, the shit will indeed hit the fan.

To put this in perspective you have to look at the ‘then and now’ and my belief is that, in many aspects, I realise they were right. Look where we are now, post the free market and the grab-as-grab-can-fuck-‘em-all-bar-one-and-bollocks-to-him culture we’re living in now; up shit-creek without a paddle watching the moneyed class sail by us on cruise liners, full champers glass in one hand, giving the bird with the other. Thing is though, you see, as in all these endeavours we’re caught on the horns of a dilemma; in order to continue the movement’s forward progress you have to make money. Bands like Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Clash, Black Flag, The Ramones all called for recognition and changes in society to make it more equal for all. Thing is, if you’re earning mega-bucks, being fed and catered for and have an army of slaves to do the work for you whilst your fans are still at the arse-end of life it’s a difficult circle to square; and once you get used to that style of life it’s an even more difficult corral to break out of; take the tale of The Dead Kennedys for example.

First came into contact with them when I did a gig at Edwards in Brum back in the early 90’s, I think. I was in the company of two mega musicians (Paul and Debbie) who were and are still very precious to me and we were support for a band who’s name I can no longer recall (sorry) but who were, I seem to remember, very good; worthy of the top slot. Their set was OK (I know we were well on a par with them) and one cover they did was a Dead Kennedy’s track called Too Drunk to Fuck. Title alone is enough to get you interested and they acquitted themselves and the cover really well, some nice double-pedal work and an energy that pushed the track  along like a train; very good. After the gig I looked out the Dead Kennedy’s back catalogue and press…they are described as a hardcore punk band; dead right.

Anti-establishment to their toenails they underwent obscenity trials, were banned at various times by radio, TV, press, government, played under pseudonyms because their band name was seen as provocative…oh, really? Well there’s a thing then – but once again we get the alert that the establishment are just a bunch of ignorant fucks with no more right to comment on contemporary society than a seal has to comment on the lot of the penguin ‘cos the name, The Dead Kennedy’s, was chosen to signify the end of the American dream; that’s what happens when squares get in control of rock…

They completely disrupted the Bay Area Music Awards in San Francisco in 1980 when, by invite, they were asked to perform and decided on a track called California Uber Alles; geddit? The A&R men and awards organisers obviously didn’t. The band rehearsed diligently all day and all were pleased with the result. They donned stage uniform (which included a white ‘T’ shirt with a big black ‘S’ on the front) and 15 seconds into the number stopped, flipped black ties from round their backs to drape across the S, thereby turning it into a $ sign, and broke into a rendition of Pull My Strings which, apart from its brutal lyrical breakdown about the ethics of the music industry, held the interesting line,

Is my cock big enough; is my brain small enough, for you to make me a star?

Sweet.

With that as their pedigree then, it was less than edifying to read the coverage of their massive spat in the courts (which opened up on this day in 1998) when the cumulative band dosh was dealt out and certain members considered they had been less than well treated. Anyone in the music biz, it’s worth reading the trial data ‘cos it goes to show that, no matter how close you think you are in band, there’s always going to be one arse who thinks he’s worth more (usually the vocalist) and how things can so quickly and so brutally go tits. My advice (for what it’s worth) is no matter who writes the material it wouldn’t be the success it was without the input and interpretation of the other band members so, equal shares for all; equal.

As for The Dead Kennedys; sad old end to something of worth, I think. Not necessarily their central belief, although it has much to commend it, but certainly using their position and ability to call folk out for what they are. There’s not enough of that these days. We hear of multi-national companies killing, poisoning, defrauding, swindling the populace and yet, in the vast, vast majority of cases their names are never published. Look, if what is happening is shit then its shit and, as I’ve mentioned before, you can’t polish a turd. Thing is folk think it’s OK to roll that turd in glitter, dress up simple statements in cloaks of language (redaction of statements for crossing out or hiding statements so they can’t be read and the truth remaining hidden or being economical with the truth for lying) and so the crime, the criminal and tomfoolery continues…and we let it. You know you’re in alien territory when a song written by a band who espouse to be the spokespeople for their generation, Too Drunk to Fuck, was used by Mr. Tarantino (you know my opinion of him by now) as the backing track to a rape scene: in the words of the DK’s lead singer, Jello Biafra;

This is the lowest point since Levi's… This goes against everything the Dead Kennedys stands for, in spades… The terrified woman later wins by killing Tarantino, but that excuse does not rescue this at all. I wrote every note of that song and this is not what it was meant for…. Some people will do anything for money.

The squabbling and unsightly shallow marketing of their work by the band members (even serving up music for that monster, population skewing corporation Coca-Cola at one point in 2003) only serves to be a reminder that Jello Biafra’ s right in… well, in every respect.

Kenny Rogers - a dangerous man

October 28^th – I guess it’s a sign of the times this predisposition to calling in the lawyers for just about everything…the blame culture is how it’s euphemistically labelled. There was a time… (“FM! Here he goes again…”)…well, that’s as maybe but just sit you down and shut up; y’ might learn summat…there was a time when people actually took responsibility for themselves, y’ know, as in;

If I walk straight over the top of that man-hole I’m gonna fall in it and do myself an injury so, tell you what, here’s novel, I’ll walk round it….

Health and Safety has a lot to answer for, in its use and misuse. For example:

If I erect a scaffold work-tower for myself and others to work from then it’s to be expected that I will take care in assembling it so that I and others are not harmed if it should collapse; and I should also ensure that those people who do use it use it responsibly… And that’s where the change-over comes, where it swaps from my responsibility to your responsibility; right there.

See, I can take all the precautions I like, assemble the scaff-tower perfectly and ensure that certificates and training for both it and the users is all in order, but no matter how much care I’ve taken, if I miss the alignment of the wing-nut on the second tier of the strengthening bars it could go all tits. ‘Cos then it’s possible that some…arse…decides that, contrary to all he’s/she’s been taught, it’d be a cool thing to slide down the outside of the tower, or jump off’f the second-last platform and, in so doing catches his/her jumper on the sticking-out part of the wing-nut…and causes the tower to collapse bringing it and his mate (who’s still at the top) crashing down on top of him…where does the blame lie then? Back in the day?  Him. Now? Me. An abrogation of one’s culpability in a given situation; sue his ass…contact Lawyers are for Themselves and away we go. How bad does it get?

H&S fears stopped people bumping into each other at a Butlins in Skegness…in dodgem cars.

H&S fears stopped women throwing their knickers at a Tom Jones impersonator in case he slipped on them whilst strutting his stuff.

H&S fears stopped Humberside firemen from using ladders as it breached the working at height regulations.

H&S fears stopped council members moving their own chairs in case they injured themselves; they had to call on a member of the council’s portering staff to do it for them as they’d been trained in chair transference.

H&S fears stopped a charity shop from selling knitting needles in case…

H&S fears banned knives from a kitchen in case…

H&S fears banned boiled sweets on aeroplanes in case…

H&S fears banned the use of bath floor mats in case someone tripped on them…

H&S fears banned yo-yos in school in case…

The list is endless and although most of these rulings have been overturned the point is that, in first instance there was never a decision to rationalise it just ban it. WGM.

What this sort of thinking has done is breed a new kind of Homo sapiens; Injury Lawyer Man. At the first sign of a raised kerb-stone, piece of overripe lettuce in a sandwich, spilt cup of coffee or poor stitching on a pair of jeans folk will reach for their Injury Lawyer and, brandishing him/her like a gun, threaten all and sundry with dire consequences should they not feel that the £20,000 injury payout they’ve been offered is sufficient to cover their pain and suffering. This is, in a way, slightly amusing but has its downside, as always.

What has been prevalent for years now is the staged accident where some guy (alone in his car) drives into you (who are also alone in your car) at, say, a traffic island, and then is immediately joined by two other compatriots who claim to have been in the car at the time of the accident, have serious whiplash injuries and are all taking photos and phoning police with gay abandon…and it’s far, far more prevalent than you think. One guy, only just recently (true story) bribed a bus driver to crash into a car (gently) but before the crash filled the bus with his friends (15 of them, I think) who, on the gentle impact, threw themselves around in the bus screaming and wailing in scam-injury pain that was, in some  cases, worthy of an Oscar. The guy in the car, who was in no way to blame for the collision hadn’t a prayer of dodging this one, there were so many witnesses to his supposed stupid driving as, unluckily for him, the on-board camera malfunctioned at just the right/wrong time (you’ll be pleased to know the cops were on it as they’d clocked the phone calls and arrangements as part of surveillance of the individual concerned in the set-up as he’d got previous in such scams and was under their watchful eye but, all the same, could’ve so easily gone the other way, huh? My advice? Although you’ve probably go a mobile ’phone always carry a camera in your car, preferably one that’s got a date and time stamp built in for the snaps, and take a photo of the driver (preferably whilst he’s still in the car – on his own) collar anyone and everyone nearby to act as witnesses, take detailed shots of everyone and everything that’s involved (car number plate, type, damage) as well as names and addresses of everyone who crawls out the woodwork…BUT FIRST AND FOREMOST; CALL THE COPS: IMMEDIATELY.

And the world of rock is not immune from such outrageous behaviour either. On this day in 1999, Kenny Rogers drifted a Frisbee out into the audience at a concert in Dallas. The Frisbee hit a chandelier. Kevin O’Toole put in a claim against Mr. Rogers stating that the resulting broken glass had scarred his face and ruined his sex life whilst his wife sued Mr. Rogers for deprivation of her rightful services of love and guidance from her husband.

You couldn’t make it up could y’? 

Sanatana - the natural progression of Xavier Cugat.....

October 27^th – Santana, when they first hit the scene with their album Abraxas impressed me a lot. Their use of Latin American instruments and rhythms as well as standout percussion and guitar work make it, for me, an absolute must in the collection; if you aint got it, get it.

There’s a predilection by sound engineers (there’s a modern-day oxymoron) these days to come into a venue armed with a tablet (white-gloves-work I believe they call it) and enough white/pink/black noise to dislodge fillings and my question (to myself) is always;

Why?

I mean, what’s wrong with playing music through the system to get a balance. That’s what it’s going to be used for; the sending of sounds created on stage by the performers into the audience for their delectation and enjoyment or the playing of a backing track to augment the performance. Is this just another branch of the technical trouser rolling that more and more folk in the entertainment industry are dabbling in these days? A way of saying;

Look at me, I’m a technical whizz. I can operate all this complicated electronics stuff because I’ve got a degree in sound…and you? You haven’t, therefore this makes me indispensible.

Got news for you, pal. The graveyards are FULL of indispensible people. There was a time when a sound engineer relied on his/her hearing and feel, not only for the music about to be played but for the musicians and the room itself. Seems not anymore. Now we rely on technology to do it all for us (means we can put the blame elsewhere when it all goes tits) much the same way that lighting has gone. Jesus, I’m a miserable old sod today…sorry. Back to Santana.

For those in the sound business who still mix and balance manually/musically for the space’ aural qualities and the music, can I recommend using the track Se A Cabo off’f the Abraxas album as the definitive rule on whether you’ve got the dynamics and distribution from desk thro’ speakers just right? Got it all that track, and it’s a bloody good listen onto the bargain; so much nicer than fuckin’ pink noise, trust me, and the resident crew will thank you for it too so, good result all round.

Preceding Santana and helping introduce the West to the joys of Latin rhythms was a guy who went by the racy name of Xavier Cugat. Got a sexy ring to it, no? Mr. Cugat, who died this day in 1990, was probably the foremost bandleader in the gradual infiltration of Latin into mainstream musical taste and that’s a feat worthy of comment when one considers he was married five times so it would seem had time for hardly anything else. What is it with bandleaders? But then, maybe that kind of persona goes with the territory of someone who started out his performing career with a band called The Gigolos. After fame beckoned he appeared as himself in a number of movies and his artistic tendencies were well advertised (he was a cartoonist as well as bandleader and his brother did the original cover work for the book, The Great Gatsby) and he was musically linked with Rita Hayworth, Fred Astaire and Esther Williams so, moving with the great and good. His sense of style was gleaned from the divas of the day.

I well remember doing a show back in the 90’s with a company called Gay Sweatshop on a show named Threesomes. One section was a static piece with three people stood on spheres U/S, beautifully lit, and they told a story; I know, doesn’t startle the imagination into theatre-gear but trust me it was superbly done; superb. In the cast (if memory serves) was a lady I’d heard many times on the radio, Heather Chasen. Now there was a lady who knew how to use a microphone; outstanding, a master-class in how to use technology not become its slave; brilliant. The point of me name-dropping Ms. Chasen into our conversation was that, on the day she arrived at the theatre she was accompanied by a tanned hunk barely a third of her age who carried her two dogs. He walked three paces behind her as she swept in all furs and perfume…pure Hollywood.

Well that entrance? This was our chap, Mr. Cugat to a ‘T’. One of his trademarks was to hold a Chihuahua while he waved his baton with the other arm; gotta recognise class when it’s socked across your face like that. Alongside that showbizzy stuff, he was also a shrewd businessman heading the orchestra at the Waldorf-Astoria in New York for sixteen years and keeping a close eye on dance trends; that’s what gave him mileage.

I’ve supplied a clip and, in case you don’t realise it, that’s him in the white suit supposedly conducting the orchestra although, to me, it looks like he’s after wife number six…or seven and eight…and no, it’s not on repeat, this is cheap ‘B’ movie production values. You’ll notice that, at no time in this clip does he come even close to breaking into sweat…nice work, Mr. Cugat; save it for the shaggin’…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gT04xzKCDus&list=PL465A8E759F860083

Alma Cogan; what a waist......

October 26^th – You gotta reckon on us being the strangest creatures on the planet, haven’t you?

Here we are a highly complex organism with bits and pieces that have taken eons to develop to their present, sometime suited to their purpose/not quite adequate state and where the balance between being well and being ill is hung on a complex chain of events that can be triggered by the merest alteration in our habits; and what do we do with it? We fill our only breathing apparatus with smoke that contains sufficient chemicals to fumigate a greenhouse, douse our liver with a liquid that can pickle and preserve a body indefinitely, stuff foreign bodies into various areas of our carcass to make them bigger, more round, more pert…just more. We take medications for keeping us happy, keep us awake, medications for making us sleep and medications to make us slimmer or fatter, we soak our hair in chemicals and dyes and attach false outer body parts to some of our most delicate organs…and then get a monk-on when illness calls and puts our life on hold. It’s in our nature to never be satisfied, I think, to always want something we haven’t got and then, when we’ve got it, be dissatisfied with the result because we don’t look like we thought we’d look like.

Interesting that early on colour was the dominant advertiser for what we wanted to be seen as.

White = Purity

Green = Faith

Red = Strength/Passion

Blue = Truth/Love

Gold = Honour

And then designs of crosses or bars or animals were used to accentuate certain traits contained in the wearer, hence the eagle was seen as someone holding imperial power, a stag’s head as someone in the higher echelons of the Company of Verderer’s. These sorts of external tattoos, like the football strips we see now, are all fairly harmless in their intent and exhibition. Not so the penis extensions of the Dani Tribe in the Papua Islands; the extension resembles a carrot over the end of the head. Or the use of Chinese finger-traps attached to the penises of some Polynesian tribe members (see what I did there?) and also, allegedly, the Karamojong Tribe of Uganda, which have a large rock attached to their cock (for years) by twine so as to elongate it. Now that sort of behaviour is beginning to stretch the bounds of credulity (see what I did there?) but it’s when things start to get out of kilter and reasoning goes awry that all can go drastically wrong.

Alma Cogan: anyone? Those not as old as me (and let’s face it, there aren’t many) may not have heard of her. She was a 50’s/60’s singing star in true Hollywood style. Vivacious, bubbly, sexy, great sense of humour, super voice for the material she sang and styled to within an inch of her life, she was marketed as the girl with the giggle by her record company (these shysters will use any and every method to shift stock). She had a string of singles released (80+) and many of them were big hits. Her trademark stage outfits were huge hooped skirts with tight bodices and nipped-in waists, and with these dresses she made several statements.

The huge hooped skirts took the be-bop look that girls were wearing at the time, but added extra flounce and diameter and then some. This meant she was one of the kids but more so. Accentuating her breasts by the use of either plunging necklines or highly pert cupping (or both) advertised her mothering/feminine/sexual characteristics and the tight waistline (the famous hour-glass look) accentuated her fecundity and her libido. But despite all these signs and signals, funny thing was her sexuality was never quite discovered. She was rumoured to be having a long-standing affair with John Lennon, was also rumoured to be engaged to Lionel Bart yet she preferred the company of gay men, was rumoured to be lesbian and never married thereby following one of the first maxims in showbiz - remain a mystery. What can be said, however, was that, at one time and another she had it all.

On this day in 1966 at the age of 34, Ms. Cogan died of ovarian cancer. Back in the day there was little by way of treatment for cancer, not like now and I’d think that, as much then as now, the chances of developing illnesses like ovarian cancer, of developing any cancer in fact, is still a lottery. Time will sort this. The new gene techniques will soon (50 years?) identify any predisposition to such diseases and remedial, pre-treatment will be available.

But even with the levels of diagnosis and treatment being in their infancy and Ms. Cogan’s arresting figure, my guess is what couldn’t have helped her health and well-being was the series of untried and untested injections she underwent in order to control her weight (?) just a few years before she became severely ill.

It was said she was never quite the same after undergoing the course…never enough, is it?

The joys of the sound check...

October 25^th – I used to do a bit on the folk circuits, vocals and backing stuff. Was never any great shakes but have worked with some fine, fine performers over the years I did it, no-one better than Dave James who is more than a folk singer-songwriter to me, he is a life inspiration. Now there are certain stereotypes that go with folk singing; finger-in-ear wailing; unkempt beards; sloppy Joes; sandals with a full compliment of black toenails; real ale; a proclivity of auditorium vocalists attending the gig who will, at the drop of a key, sing along lustily with the performer adding some harmonies that are off the scale as well as off the key. But as irksome as that last can be, that’s a shared experience that helps to bond the performer and audience and continue the tradition of handing down our oral history to those who follow.

It’s also, unfortunately, a type of music that is treated as background to drinking hubbub, with the members in the bar carrying on their conversations about the best Audi to buy or where the best authentic Cantonese/Vietnamese food can be purchase at normal room level volume whilst some poor bugger is out front trying to convince them that use of the cat ‘o’ nine tails is no answer to a disgruntled schooner crew or that seducing some poor lass in rig of rye is no answer to other matrimonial difficulties. I can remember doing a private party in some big house or other, a charity function, I believe, and one of the main members of the folk troupe I was with got fed up with the level of background chatter and laughter which continued on throughout the set even after we’d been announced. We were at the head of the stairs in this place sort of looking down from a minstrel’s gallery doing our best to compete against the laughter and guffaws that only the rich and privileged can release when, to my delight, as we regaled about the delights of playing in the rushes-o, I heard his dulcet tones coming over our assembled voices with the line;

I strangled woman who was talking her head off, and I threw her down the stairs”

Did they hear? Did they fuck; flat lined…but it kept us amused for a couple of songs so all worth it in the end. Thing is, with folk singing, you need little or no sound-check time. If your engineer knows your style then he can dry-run it if you’re late, and if he doesn’t then it’s usually only a vox mic and guitar pick ups that need balancing. Not so with rock bands…

Then we not only get a plethora of electronic kit that has myriad ways of malfunctioning but we also get ego. I’ve never met yet a rock band muso that, should the FOH sound be shite or monitor levels too high/low/indifferent won’t at first blame either the technology or the technician; never. They may be persuaded that, in fact, although sound engineers can work wonders they have yet to work the miracle of getting your out-of-tune vox in tune or of squashing the horrendous feedback you got at either mic or amp and which removed the front row’s fillings before it could be stifled. That’s why we all have to go through the stultifying, boring business of the sound check. This is a chance for the band and engineer to make sure that all feeds are good and the levels are OK, when we all know that what it actually is, is an opportunity for all band members to moan about the acoustics, the power supply, the lighting, the foldback, the seats, the house lights, the dressing rooms, the height of the stage, the depth of the stage…the list goes on.

All these things are flagged up for one reason; so they can be trotted out as excuses for rubbish work on the night. It’s like a security blanket that smothers their fragile egos in warm folds of Ah, never mind material. Always have to smile a bit when I’ve watched talent come into the theatre, go on stage, stand D/S/C, clap their hands then turn to anybody who’s listening and say;

That’s a lively sound

and I think;

Well, yes, but, you see, it’s empty now. When it’s full of people the room sound will change and that change will deepen and deaden depending on the total number of people who turn up to watch your sorry ass.’

After that we have the full sound check (joy) when markers can be put down as to just who and what isn’t doing it their job properly. I can remember having a band in (can’t remember who) and having to sit through a 45-minute sound check whilst the not very good, not very secure vocalist berated all and sundry about the sound that was coming through his monitors;

Can I have some more bass through this? – Can I have less drums and more backing vox? – Can I have just a little more horns through this? – Can I…Can I…Can I…?

My fuse is reasonably short when I see poseurs and liggers finding fault with others to excuse their own shortcomings so, after about 30-minutes of sitting through this shite I do believe I got up from the seat, pointed at the vocalist’s monitor and shouted out to the sound engineer;

Can you put some fuckin’ talent through this?

So imagine being on the sound crew of Bruce Springsteen’s Philadelphia concert on this day in 1976. Because Mr. Springsteen had not been happy with the sound he was getting during the tour he’d said he’d never play another sports arena. He relented and played the Philadelphia Spectrum BUT not before he insisted and got a 2 hour sound check… Oh, joy…was probably longer than the show.

David Essex - more than just a pretty face?

October 24^th – David Essex, I always thought, was a bit of a mish-mash of styles and lithographs of what’s been done before. Not saying the guy hasn’t got talent, I mean, anybody whose been going since the 70’s with 40 singles and 16 albums making the charts, well, he’s got longevity if nothing else. One thing very much in his favour is that, as I’ve worked on a couple of shows with him in one role or another, he comes across as a decent fella who sees the entertainment industry and his part in it as a job, just like any other, and that’s very refreshing in this day and age of divas, wankers and no-talent toss-pots. As to his musical output, I can’t say I’m a fan, bit too catch-all for me and I didn’t take to his girlie-girlie incarnation when he first started out, you know, when he resembled Cliff on 65 Special and Eddie Cochrane on American Bandstand and Elvis on…well, just about every other music/pop programme of the time. Like most of the singers I’ve met and known (that’s singers as opposed to front men) Mr, Essex was just the vehicle for the song smith. Not that he didn’t acquit himself well, he did with his sometime, Anthony Newley Mockney additions to his songs, all coupled with his boyish charm. It was that boyish charm which was the turn off for me as I saw him as purely a girl’s singer (some guys too, I know, but principally aimed at the girl-teen-puberty market) and I considered Rock On was very James Dean-Gene Vincent and Hold Me Close was very Herman’s Hermits. Thing is, you have to hand it to Mr. Essex, he’s managed to turn his hand to most branches of the ents industry and be fully or moderately successful in them all. Plays, soaps, musicals and, for the point of this chat, films.

I first sort of noticed his talent for movies when I went to see the film, Stardust, which premiered on this day in 1974 and was the follow-on piece from the film, with David Essex and Adam Faith in the lead roles again, called, That’ll Be the Day, released in ‘73’. Together with a host of pop/rock performers playing various sundry characters or themselves (Marty Wilde, Keith Moon, Dave Edmunds, Paul Nicholas, Nick Lowe and Karl Howman amongst them) the double-end story did hold water, with a leak or two here and there, but, on the whole worked well. I’m guessing you all know the story of That’ll Be the Day? Nope? OK, quick recap then. Two fairground lads (Mr. Essex and Mr. Faith) find they have a talent for making Mr. Essex famous. They climb the dizzy heights of rock stardom, taking in the hang-ups that Mr. Essex has about his mum with them, and by using and abusing those nearest and dearest to him, Mr. Essex (all aided and abetted by his manager (Mr. Faith) who’s ruthless streak and love/jealousy feelings for Mr. Essex seem to be the driving force of their success) seems to alienate just about everyone mainly because Mr. Faith makes it clear there really is no level to which he will not stoop in order to preserve and build upon their success.

The follow-up, Stardust, followed the two main protagonists through to a fitting end in a castle in Spain (no plot spoiler).

Now that’s all as an aside to the main crux which is that I found both films housed one of the better portrayals of how careers are forged and fucked up in the industry of that time. Managers were hustlers bordering on the ne’er do well side of gangsterism, performers gradually gained more power, then more and more narcissism and then, oh, so stealthily, began to believe their own press cuttings, girls (any girls) were a throwaway commodity as were feelings and involvement with them, and finally, life at the bottom for manager and performer was just as shit as life at the top. What made both movies was the intelligent script with some delightful, sometime sparkling dialogue, such as:

Charlotte Cornwell as Sally Potter (S.P.) in conversation with Adam Faith as Mike (M.) –

S.P: Are you a Stray Cat?

M.: No, I’m a roadie.

S.P: Roadie sounds like some sort of vagrant. What is that exactly?

M.: It’s like an army batman, only without the uniform. I make sure there’s enough beer, chips and rubbers to go round. I supply the birds, the pills and the pot. And anything else that might be required to satisfy their lust...carnal, or otherwise

Nice. And then there’s David Essex as Jim Maclaine (J.M.) being interviewed on the TV (TV Int) –

J.M.: I remember you from New York.

TV Int: It was nice of you to remember.

J.M.: I forgot to forget.

Nicer still, succinct and accurate.

If nothing else counts for much in his career, Mr. Essex made the part of Jim Maclaine his own and so we have much to be thankful for…and as for Adam Faith; there’s someone else who’d got acting chops reaching far and beyond his past pop career…bay-bee…

Grace Slick; Alice's drug runner......

October 23^rd – We’ve raided the stupidity files here before but it’s a rich vein to mine. Try this one for size.

We all know, anyone with even a modicum of street awareness that is, that there has never been a better piece of propaganda launched than the tired old, War on Drugs threat that successive governments have foisted on a, in the main, totally unresponsive and underwhelmed populace.

If we just cast our minds back (you don’t have to go too far) we can all come up with rabid reasons for recent inter-gang drug cartels all wanting a bigger piece of the action (China, Japan, Mexico, Columbia…the list is endless) and of the arrogance of the west who STILL think they know best and by so doing alienate vast swathes of hard-working people in many countries by destroying the only available farm crop they have, thereby removing their means to earning a livelihood, and of the multi-millions (guilty and innocent alike) who have died because of these policies…and this, we are told, is the best solution to the problem…jeeze, talk about intellects’ the size of weevils. So, in the interests of fairness we have to ask;

Is it working?

I’ll leave you to come to your own conclusions.

In Mexico, where drug-dealing is the direct cause and since 2006, 43,000 people have been killed; the pace of killings is escalating (in just one attack just over twelve months ago, 52 people were killed – mostly women playing bingo – when gunmen torched a Monterrey casino) with more than half the dead, 22,000, killed in just the last 18 months; so that’s a kill-rate of one person every 35 minutes. You wanna think about that for a few minutes…not too long otherwise you’ll be forever behind the total, but it does bear a few moments to consider, if only in respect of the innocents. And yet how can this be when the US alone spends $50bn per year on its misnamed War on Drugs policy. $50bn. Like the charity collections that go on year-in-year-out to help Africa or India or Bangladesh; you wanna try and add up how much these worthy causes have been given over the past 30 years? Figures are hard to come by but suffice to say that US businesses alone have given $2.8bn every year; Oprah Winfrey alone has gathered together $225m from other sources and has personally donated around $40m; in Britain we donate £23.5bn to aid causes…and this is just personal donations mind, no government involvement, no NGO’s and donation by kind, just what we, as individuals, are prepared to give. Now you could be excused for asking; How come we’re still handing over these vast sums? If the situation is still as bad what good has all that money done? I mean, OK, it’s saved the lives of millions of innocent people but if the situation hasn’t improved, if we’re all just waiting for the next one then…what was and is the point? Are we just leaving them to die another day?

I’ll leave you to ponder.

What I wanted to highlight was just what level of idiocy can be achieved with very little effort. That the cul-de-sac mentality of the people we allow to be in charge of such things; drugs, famine, overseas development and such, has, can and will plumb almost any depth in its misreading of the situation.

White Rabbit, a song written by Grace Slick (singer-songwriter-artist) and which we’ve come up against before in this daily guff, was recorded by Jefferson Airplane on the Surrealistic Pillow album released in 66/7. I’ve written of my liking for the track purely on performance grounds, it’s a standout performance by Ms. Slick that for me has yet to be bettered. The background and meaning to its lyrics have been discussed and chewed over for years (not going to do it again you’ll be relieved to know, that’ll be over to you) but we can start with some givens.

1) Yes, it does refer to the stories that many American parents read to their children; that these children read in school; that these children performed in plays about; that was written by a revered children’s author of the 19^th century: Lewis Carroll.

2) Yes, it does make a connection between the Adventures of Alice and the use of hallucinatory products to achieve a similar aim, a similar view on the world.

3) Yes, the original stories contained references to a hookah-smoking caterpillar that Alice meets and has a conversation with and, yes, hookahs are one way of delivering mind-altering drugs.

4) Yes, Ms. Slick used the slow-build of Ravel’s Bolero as the template for the songs trajectory from opening to dénouement.

For me it’s a perfect pop song perfectly delivered and carrying enough subterfuge and literate references to keep it interesting…and as for her voice? But you see, for all it’s literate phrasing and referencing, for those with a stunted enough intellect it has dubious, possibly subversive undertones, and these undertones need to be rooted out of the minds of our children; Amen.

So, as part of their all-reaching War on Drugs policy, on this day in 1998, Fort Zumwalt High School in St. Louis, with backing of the judiciary, the good townsfolk and the federal government’s paid representatives, took a case to the courts which sought to ban the playing of the song, White Rabbit’, by the school’s marching band as it;

Contained drug references.

Yes it does, well fuckin’ spotted. It also contains;

References to feminism, sexual equality, to bigotry, to racism, to the fact that, yes, we can turn to literature to find some of the answers to the human condition, that some of those answers will advice us on how to reverse the fuck-ups being perpetrated daily by money-grubbing conglomerates and all done with our un-requested permission given through our passivity. Yes, it foretells the beginning of a time of oversubscription by doctors of mother’s little helpers and where that will and has led. Yes, it tells of a way to seek enlightenment that isn’t always through the voice of your elders and betters, that answers can be found by looking inward and that, as with any work of fiction (and that’s what this song is) just by taking time to read the lyrics, to read and understand, answers will be found by those prepared to look:

Didn’t see ‘em going to court over that sort of subversive content did we? Well done Fort Zumwalt High School; money and time well spent…

Just taken me one hour and forty minutes to write this…woman, man, child…? There’s another three gone.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hWWsfrfq69A

Beatles-schmeatles....

October 22^nd – Any Beatles fans out there? OK, stop reading; go get a paper and catch up with the important things that are happening in our lives, these are just the musings of a very sad individual.

You all know, those of you that have followed these ravings over the past ten months, that I’m not, never have been and, with very few exceptions, never will be in any way, shape or form considered to be a Beatles fan. You’ll remember (Ha!) that IMVHO they’ve done nothing of worth either before or after the release of Revolver, either as a band or singularly. OK, I’ll give you All Things Must Pass, Mr. Harrison’s first solo effort was a brave stab, but only in part as the one enduring track off’f that album was something of a…what is it Mr. Tarentino calls it…referencing, that’s it, it was a reference to summat else, summat famous, and law suits followed…

I can remember hearing Strawberry Fields for the first time on Radio Luxembourg; I was with a guy who was a useful guitarist and I had a hankering to be lead singer and front man for a band we were going to put together…poems, prayers and promises as John Denver would say. Good to have dreams in your life though…no, not good, imperative to have dreams in your life, I’d say. Dreams have made me the BOG I am today. Well, the transcendental-like recording production of songs like Strawberry Fields passed me by completely. All I could hear whizzing round my head was the line;

FM, but they’re an insincere bunch of shysters, these Beatles.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I think, along with probably every other second person on the planet, that they could turn a decent tune; not denying that. But that’s all it was to me, almost all of their back-catalogue was just a decent line-up of successful pop tunes that, far from speaking to me just convinced me that, as a band and as individuals, they had hidden shallows; that what they preached was a recipe for the self, a cheerleader for the hedonism to come. As for this hazy, crazy, mop-top, spaced-out, spokesmen for a generation persona they dressed themselves in…? Uh-uh. Didn’t buy it. Just think it was a smart marketing ploy, like so many other musical movements. Now, that’s not their fault, I know, it’s ours. We’re the ones who gave them new honours and watched them grow with the fertilizer of our adoration so that like our strange garments, cleave not to their mould but with the aid of use.

Well, that was a Facebook friend’s suicide note, wasn’t it? Very happy for folk to try and Beatle-convince me otherwise (or it may be that I’m just a lost cause) but that’s what you get from a Hendrix-lover.

I’m not going to get into a who did you think was the least sincere kinda thing…but…suffice to say that, Paul McCartney always had his shirt-tail showing too much for me. Still, at least, when there’s miserable old curmudgeons like me about it must have given him immense satisfaction when, on this day in 1969, he was able to deny that, contrary to popular press reports of the day he was, indeed, not dead.

Apropos of nothing at all, below is just one of the myriad reasons I never got into Beatle-mania and, at one and the same time, gives reasons for my deep distrust of the right-on philosophy announced by all peddlers of the next big thing, but, in honesty, are really only used as a sales point for us; the slave-labour from which are manufactured fame’s building blocks.

Play-don’t play. WGAF

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G7Mmu66buMA

Marriages made for a car-crash

October 21^st – Don’t you wish sometimes that you’d kept your mouth shut? You know, realised the hole you were already standing in was deep enough without you shovelling yet more shit out of it? That you should maybe have listened to the council of friends?

They say money will buy you everything but in my book not even £10m would be worth selling my credibility and self-esteem for…or maybe there just comes a point…

There are certain hook-ups that you sort of see happening and you think right at the outset;

That’s a car-crash relationship, that one; absolutely.

By that token, my guess is that all was sweetness and light with Pammy and Tommy when they got hitched and I’d figure she was having as much fun as he was when they did all points of the physical compass on the boat whilst he filmed them. OK, I know, but some people like to watch their home movies when they’re in their dotage and remember the good times…perfectly acceptable; you wouldn’t invite the kids round to share a bag of cop porn (oopppsss, Freudian typo there) and a choc-ice whilst you reviewed the footage but, all the same, the memories and all… They do say the break up was repairable right up to the point where Tommy released the footage on the Net …not then it wasn’t. But it afforded some entertaining highlights and a good deal of noise for many millions (so I’m told) so all was not in vain and we have much to be thankful for (so I’m told). The fact that she did it again with Kid Rock (got married that is, not made another home movie…although, you never know) is beyond me; Kid Rock: there’s a face only a mother could love.

Mind you, I’m no oil-painting and no great shakes at these things either having been married twice, and IMHO would face a close run thing in a beauty pageant of warthogs so I know that we can all, for one reason or another, make mistakes, get things wrong, find our head in a noose of lies and deceit…however the fact that some folk not only fashion the noose but test the beam it’s gonna hang from then erect it as well? Now that’s a bit odd. Anyway, onto Ms. Minnelli.

She’s made an appearance here before over one thing or another and indeed, so has her sometime ex-hubby, David Gest. OK, now, honest answer time; would you marry him? OK. Thanks, now the girls…? Thought so. And yet Ms. Minnelli did so, how do we account for that? He must have had summat and that summat was sufficient for Ms. Minnelli to tie the knot, jump the broomstick…whatever. Now it would be fair to say the marriage wasn’t, admittedly, made in heaven (you really do have to be wary when the lady says;

Change my name? You want me to change my name? I don’t think so, make do or piss off

Still, I mean, it lasted eighteen months which, in Hollywood terms is, like, three Botox-lifetimes but I’ll bet there’s more than one person reading this who thought at the time;

Bugger me you two, don’t do it, it’ll end in tears

which, of course it did. Still, you gotta reckon that he must have summat about him to land a feisty lass like our Liza. She’s a hard-living no-nonsense woman so you’d reckon Mr. Gest would be pleased to have the kudos of being able to contain Ms. Minnelli in a marriage; a real feather in his macho-cap. Trouble was, after they separated, Mr, Gest took out a lawsuit against Ms. Minnelli on this day in 2003 for $10m and the affidavit containing the allegation that she;

Physically and emotionally abused him

So, that’s you’re macho streetcred-card played out for the future, I’d guess, which was made even worse when Ms. Minnelli counter-sued claiming;

He only did for the money

Now we have a reputation in tatters, don’t we?

End scene.

Wanda Jackson, a hard-headed woman? Nope, just a woman who knows her place and power.

October 20^th – I think, as I was born in ‘48’, that I was just outside of the Teddy-Boy, real rock ‘n’ roll era. I mean, I was aware of it, we all were, but I was probably just a bit too young to participate fully. Not that I’m complaining, not at all. Every generation has its musical memory-chest for those of the right age and sensibility to recognise it and, for me, the ‘60’s and ‘70’s were the defining musical pathway.

Rock was (and still is) on the whole and in general, a very masculine trade. Women in rock have had rough travel over the years, always having to walk the line between being seen as either just a sex symbol, there as a plaything for men and a clothes horse for the fashionistas, or a lesbian slapper if they once decided to take control of their own image and promote themselves as a gutsy, full-frontal rocker…that might be worth further development, but not now. What I was intrigued by was the performance style of a lady who was unknown to me until about the late ‘70’s maybe early ‘80’s; Wanda Jackson, born this day in 1937.

Now, having someone perform like she does in, say, the ‘80’s isn’t so remarkable; what is remarkable, however, is that she was doing this in 1958. Thinned out rock ‘n’ roll may not be your bag but the clip below is worth a look even if only to reaffirm your belief in how to do it, that here is a woman who could stand next to Mr. Presley and hold her own. I just think it’s pretty astounding, that dress all frills and a bare midriff, white heels and a guy who plays a double-neck guitar and whose final run down at the close of his solo is done with a panache that would have Mr. Clapton going;

Hang on…can you do that again?

But it’s Ms. Jackson that steals it for me. In her voice you hear all of the modern, smoky-voiced vocalists (Ms. Winehouse, Ms. Joplin, Ms. Smith et al) all rolled into one and also realise that, try as they did, they can’t hold a candle to her.

When Elvis Presley sang, Hard-Headed Woman it became almost a threat. A threat of domestic violence if the woman didn’t toe the line, be subservient; know her place. When Ms. Jackson sings about a Hard-Headed Woman you just know she’s not doing it as an excuse for her behaviour, as a sop to the men to give her room for tears and sorrow. No, rather it’s a warning, succinctly put in the locker-room scene in the only good Beverley Hills Cop film; the first one. Axel Foley (Eddie Murphy) has made a mess up of a job and his boss is very pissed at him. They meet in the station locker room and Foley tries to a bit of kidology to get off the hook, something his captain is wise to and he cuts Foley off with his line;

Don’t fuck with me Axel; not now.

Sums up Ms. Jackson’s performance for me a treat.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pzJ3hiqsi0U

Cyndi Lauper - Judging a book.....

October 19^th – There’s something about accents, don’t you think, that brand the speaker in our fast-to-judge minds even before they’ve finished their first sentence of greeting… I think the BBC did a great disservice when they cleaned up every announcer they employed who didn’t all come from London (as much as the folk like to think that London is the centre of the universe…their universe, maybe, but not for the rest of the country it aint) and taught them the middle-England, Received Pronunciation (R.P.) way of speaking. That became the standard and because a lot of the earlier continuity people, folk like Alvar Lidell (pronounced ALvaR La-Dell), were the voice of the BBC and had come from more privileged backgrounds and uni’s, their plum-in-mouth pronunciation became the way to go if work in the meeja was required.

Now, of course, all that’s changed. Now, in both programme presentation and continuity, we seem to be drowning in a sea of authentic accents, some of them (many of them) completely unintelligible (sorry). The glottal stop is now the accepted way to pronounce, along with street, text-speak phrases and acronyms scatter-gunned throughout for good measure. Problem is what this does is set off recognition filters in the brain.

We not only hear the accent but we make instant value judgements on the speaker; we all do it (unless we’re saints in which case, WTF are you doing reading this crap – piss off and save the planet or summat else useful) and it clouds the background of what is, in all probability, a person well worth getting to know; almost like a form of racism, I guess. Let me try something. I’m gonna do this for me (and as you well know, if this guff of mine is anything, what I write is absolutely true, no lies, no softening, as it is for me; OK?) You can play too if you want, but you’ll just have to be single-minded enough not to read what follows the heading until you’ve considered it for yourself. Then read on; maybe we’re kindred spirits…you should be so lucky. Right; what comes to my mind (without pause for thought) when someone mentions the word:

Geordie

Football – Black and white – Shipping – Labourers – Poverty – Jarrow – Fry-ups – Unhealthy lifestyle – Limited vocabulary – Drunkeness – Paul Gascoigne – Waste – Inability to control themselves – Violent

Etonian

Hockey sticks – Quad – Posh – Privilege – City – Unworthy – Unearned – Unhealthy Lifestyle – Sexual deviancy – Words as smoke screens – Wing collar – Politician – Inability to control themselves – Waste

In the case of both these labels we not only tap into our own background (mine is solid working-class) and also tap into popular culture (film, TV, music, sport etc) but we also tap into a built-in stereotype register that we all carry, no matter what nationality, creed or colour. People jump up and down about it, condemn everyone who gives it credence and shout slogans and write polemics about it, but we all have it: all of us. It’s what we choose to do with it and how we harness it that counts. It’s a series of shortcuts in order to identify, collate and recognise what we are faced with in any given social situation, and that social situation can be threatening or pleasurable. It’s what helps us to decide how much investment we’ll make in the development of such a situation, what we think the return will be on that investment. What you have to be, first and foremost is honest in its recognition. Funny old game being a human, innit? Well, those above things are what kept me and Cyndi Lauper apart for years.

On this day in 1986, Ms. Lauper’s single, True Colors hit the number one spot in the US, became a kind of anthem and has been done to death ever since. Not keen on it all; reeks of nationalism and jingoism too much for me… However, as for her Time After Time single? Perfect. Just perfect.

Thing is, you see, I’d done Ms. Lauper a singular disservice. I’d heard her 1983 release of Girls Just Want to Have Fun and totally fucked up, as I did when I heard her in an interview, when I heard her trying to talk about herself, and I switched into built-in stereotype register mode as she struggled to explain herself and her philosophy: How wrong can one be? Heard an extended interview with her a little later on in late ‘84’, I think, after the release of Time After Time (much of that song co-written with Rob Hymen but the main thrust covering her own lifetime experiences) which I really thought was a well crafted, well turned out song (much to my annoyance) and this time made an effort to get inside her accent and understand what it was she was saying; well worth it. Turns out she’s a brave lady with no shortage of courage, compassion and talent. Her fundraising efforts and support for LGBT and AIDS is huge, as are her human rights’ credentials. In the late 19^th century she would probably have stood alongside Pankhurst; in the 20^th century she’d probably be working alongside Helen Bamber; in the 18^th century she’d probably have been working with Elizabeth Fry. She’s what every century needs; women of courage and conviction that we are prepared to make time to listen to, no matter how many vowels they let slip and what their accent is.

This is my apology to her today; and hearing her back in ‘84’ kickstarted my resolution to put a delay on the light switch in the room where I keep my built-in stereotype register.