Donna Summer - The Nation's Conscience?

December 31^st – There’s much that the music industry has to be proud of but, like life, the worthwhile work that goes on is often overshadowed by foolish events that others indulge in seemingly at the behest of the central character but usually for their own selfish and ill-educated reasons.

Goodness that was a damning comment to end the year on. I’ll try and explain and leave my bucket of vitriol at the door.

Conspicuous consumption is one of modern society’s illnesses that seem to show no signs of abating. Never fails to amaze me how the appetite for buying isn’t even slightly assuaged by the run-up to Christmas. For something like ten weeks before the arrival of Santa the shopping drive gradually increases into frenzy and then, after a breather of one day in order to fill the body with food and drink, the hordes return to the front and shop their way into the following year. I understand all the workings of the engine of reasoning that drives this seeming unquenchable thirst to buy and possess, I just genuinely don’t understand it. Can someone explain to me why a dress is worth £150 before Christmas and yet only worth £50 after it; why an electric shaver is worth £220 before Christmas but only £120 after it; why a DVD box set is worth £40 before Christmas but only £9.99 after it? I mean either an item is worth the pre-Christmas price or it’s worth the post-Christmas price, and if it’s only worth the post-Christmas price then, two things; 1) some greedy bugger’s making an awful lot of selfish profit off’f the backs of the populace and 2) why not wait until January; sort of have our Christmas then?

I often blame Margaret Thatcher for many of the ills of present-day society but, in honesty, she was probably only latching onto the trend kick-started in the 70’s for hedonism and selfishness. Not that I’m seeking to find excuses for her appalling behaviour and that of her cabinet colleagues; I still think they laid the foundation for the collapsed building of finance and fairness that we stand on today and, as I’ve mentioned before, courtesy of Malcolm Tucker, if she or they were allergic to piss I wouldn’t piss on her or them. What they hitched onto and found such an eager market for was the trend of disco.

Every generation has had its shady areas of entertainment where folk dress and behave in a way that is outside the mainstream so I’m not singling out disco as evil personified, it was just around at the time. The musical Cabaret documents, in an entertaining fashion, a similar rise of decadence that preceded the rise of Nazism and the onset of WW2 based on Christopher Isherwood’s factional novel Goodbye to Berlin.

There are many reasons that contributed to the fall of Rome and its once world-wide dominance and some of those reasons can be traced in a direct line to what we’re undergoing now in our modern society. Fundamentalist religion grew and the levels of disinterest by the population as to the here and now meant that, just as now with the spend now, pay later ideology promulgated by banks and conglomerates, the lunatics are being given the keys to the asylum. The Romans abdicated their civic responsibilities and gave them over to the barbarians to run (an early version of hiving out public services into private hands and calling in teams of specialists to handle what should be inter-departmental trouble-shooting roles). At the same time the level of available entertainment increased (the bread-and-circuses mentality that amused the mob) and the debauchery and largesse indulged in by the ruling classes, the slebs of the day, became a focus rather than a diversion. As with the modern day when we are all wrapped in our cocoon of earphones and mobile ’phones, where we live our lives not through reality but through the lens of a camera, the Roman nation was sufficiently divided (the divide and rule tactics used by Mrs. Thatcher) and so, when the challenge came, when the slave turned on the master, the people paid the price…well not all of them, of course. The masters, of course, having the money and the early-warning system to get the fuck out of it before it all kicked off and the main slaughter began meant they could gather themselves up to do it all over again in a couple of generations’ time.

Not that I’m positing we’re all bound for hell in a handcart and disco is to blame for the evils of our modern world. Like the paragraph above that’s too simplistic. What contributes to decay and waste are a series of decisions often made by outsiders to the event and who serve only themselves.

Donna Summer, born on this day in 1948, became the epitome of the disco movement and her influence is being felt even today. Considering how she courted controversy by supposedly making anti-gay remarks (which she strenuously denied throughout her short life) it was ironic that she should become the gay icon she did and that her music and outward show became a template for the excesses indulged in by the club-community during the 70’s, particularly the excesses of what were classed as the hedonist crowd. Straight, gay, transsexual, bestial, sadist, masochist, drugs, booze, gambling, costumes, themes on questionable adventures all could be catered for and were, and the soundtrack of the times was that recorded and released by Ms. Summer. Now any self-respecting gay cabaret will include at least one of her recordings in both sound and costume. This OTT attitude was reflected in the clothes and hair of the day as the growing acceptability of looking and being fey became mainstream. The brake applied on these excesses, in both the hetero and homosexual worlds, was the upsurge of AIDS but up ’til then, sexually, there really was no limit to what you could and couldn’t do.

But anything that’s perceived to be on the dark side starts to get tricky when the music industry gets heavily involved. In many cases the performers are from a background that will short-change them when it comes to self-control and moderation. Childhoods steeped in religion, in poverty and hustling, in a deprivation of the intellect, education, social understanding; those living them are happy to pick up and run with this preferred lifestyle as if it’s going out of fashion. Often as not these folk are surrounded by life-coach leeches and management blood-suckers transfused with the blood of avarice that are only too willing to ride the gravy train. So a head-in-sand (as opposed to up your own arse) attitude prevails and instead of actually being aware of what’s going on around one and just how badly one is being fucked over (by others as well as yourself) the never-gonna-die-gimmie-gimmie mantra was the rhythm section that accompanied many to an early grave. It ran on through the 80’s to a point where one (that’s as in 1) member of the band Fleetwood Mac could blow $8m worth of cocaine in a two year stint.

Now the the focus has changed somewhat. Now a band’s carbon footprint when on tour is carefully monitored as it not only fits in with many modern musicians’ ethos but also cuts the cost of the tour, but it wasn’t always the way.

On this day in 1975 the centrepiece of a party thrown to celebrate the release of Donna Summers’ debut single (that’s as in release of a debut single) Love To Love You Baby, a life-size cake modelled on the singer was flown from Los Angeles to New York (that’s a flight of almost 3,000 miles) so’s it could be eaten by the assembled label execs and hangers-on. Carbon-shmarbon, let them eat cake. Whatever 2014 gave you I sincerely hope 2015 will be ten times better…unless you’re an arms dealer in which case go fuck yourself… X!

 Just as an addition to the last 365 days of music comment (rant) from me I’ve been asked to repost my DESERT ISLAND DISC selections:– Not one to disappoint, here they are again, and thank you for reading X!X!

1) Machine Gun – Jimi Hendrix – From the album Band of Gypsies – Live at the Filmore East – Recorded 1970 – Jimi Hendrix/Lead Guitar – Billy Cox/ Bass Guitar – Buddy Miles/ Drums & B.V.

2) Keep On Rockin’ in the Free World – Neil Young – From the album Freedom – Recorded 1989 – Neil Young/Lead Guitar & Vocals – Chad Cromwell/Drums – Rick Rosas/ Bass Guitar – Frank Sampedro/Guitar & BV – Ben Keith/BV

3) The Lark Ascending – Composer – Ralph Vaughan-Williams – David Nolan/Violin – London Symphony Orchestra – Conductor/Vernon Handley

4) Waltzing Matilda – Composed by Eric Bogle 1971 – Recorded by June Tabor 1976 as part of her album Airs and Graces.

5) The Mob Rules – Black Sabbath – From the album Mob Rules – Recorded 1981 – Vocal/Ronnie James Dio – Lead Guitar/Tony Iommi – Bass Guitar/Geezer Butler – Drums/Vinnie Appice

6) Dead Cell – Papa Roach – From the album Infest – Recorded 2000 – Lead Vocal/Jacoby Shaddix – Lead Guitar & BV/Jerry Horton – Bass Guitar & BV/Tobin Esperance – Drums/Dave Buckner

7) Just Because – Jane’s Addiction – From the album Strays – Recorded 2003 – Lead Vocal & Programming/Perry Farrell – Guitars & Piano/Dave Navarro – Drums & Percussion/Stephen Perkins – Bass Guitar/Chris Chaney

8) Landslide – Fleetwood Mac – From the album Fleetwood Mac – Recorded 1975 – Songwriter/ Stevie Nicks – Vocals/Stevie Nicks/ Guitar/ Lindsey Buckingham – Keyboard/Christine McVie

Book and Luxury:

Book: - An identification guide to the birds of wherever it is I end up which is boxed with a pair of Carl Zeiss Jena 8 x 40 Binoculars.

Luxury: - A Ludwig drum kit consisting of: Two Bass Drum (One 22-inch, One 24-inch) both with hide Batter and Plastic Undersides – Four DW9000 Bass Drum Pedals – Two Snare Drum (One 14-inch, One 12-inch) with Plastic Batter and Undersides – Six, Rack-Mounted Tom-Tom Drum (Size Range 16-inch to 9-inch) all with hide Batter and Plastic Undersides – Two Floor-Mounted Tom-Tom Drum (One 18-inch, One 20-inch) Both with hide Batter and Plastic Undersides – 10 Zildjian Cymbal consisting of: 1 x 16-inch Sizzle, 1 x 12-inch Sizzle, 4 x Crash Size Range 18 to 12-inch, 1 x 12-inch China, 1 x 14-inch Inverted China, 1 x 14-inch Hi-Hat Top, 1 x 14-inch Hi-Hat Bottom – 10 Mapex Roadtour Cymbal Stands of Various Heights – 100 spare skins for each drum, Batter and Underside – Five sets of spares for each cymbal stand – 5,000 Premier ‘E’ Drumsticks – Cases for all the above.

Brenda Lee's Dog rescue...worth the trouble?

30^th December – I like dogs. All sorts. Don’t really have a downer on any particular breed although I can’t say a Chinese Crested would be my choice…or a Mexican Hairless; a Mexican Hairless dog would be the canine equivalent of the beverage the lady in front of me at the coffee shop asked for today. She asked for a skinny, soya, decaff latte; and I thought;

What’s the point?

Dogs in preference to cats too. Cats are also, to me, another what’s the point animal (I hear the snapping shut of laptops as I write). That’s not to say I think they shouldn’t be a pet for some folk, very happy that people find companionship and solace in them…just not for me. Apart from their aloof and ambiguous attitude, their lack of loyalty and their intemperate approach to life, I can never quite come to terms with their natural hunting instinct that sees them, a perfectly well catered for animal, buggering off into the undergrowth to retrieve shrews, moles, blue tits, greenfinches, butterflies…anything that attracts their hunting instincts, which is just about anything that’s smaller than they are, doesn’t fight back and moves. Mind you, I can say I have come across one or two cats that were worth their salt in the ratting department but it takes a special type of cat to want to forsake a pygmy shrew for a crack at a well-fettled rat. Adult rats take some sorting and it’s not often the feline assailant gets away without some form of injury; I’ve seen toms back off from adult, buck rats.

When I was keepering for Lord Hesketh we used to have two days ratting per year in the old pig sties where we used to keep our corn for feeding the pheasants. We’d use the biggest buck ferrets we could muster between us (3 keepers so around six to eight ferrets per posse) and turn them loose, shooting the rats they didn’t kill as they broke cover with .410’s. It was during these forays that the biggest buck ferrets could encounter a buck rat that was unprepared to give ground and a squabble of gargantuan proportions would break out. Never seen a ferret lose but I’ve seen some close calls. That’s the thing about cats, I suppose, they know their limitations whereas ferrets just want the fight. Dogs with rats are another thing entirely

Kept a couple of terriers back then and one, Teacup, the dog of the pair, was a past-master at rat killing. Best he ever did was 96 rats in 20 minutes, from an old manure pile in the pheasant laying pen. Sore mouth, bloody face, bitten chest at the end of it but a grin and tail wag that spoke volumes. Why Teacup? Well, when I got him as the runt of the litter, he fitted into one and was always small of stature even for a Jack Russell but he had the heart of a lion…and he didn’t like cats either.

Labradors were my other love. Had a fair few through my kennels over the years, all of them good, some of them superb. Working gundogs that would go ’til they dropped (literally in one case) and whose honesty when working was absolutely dependable; if they came back without the bird it wasn’t there…and they all, to a puppy, had an in-built dislike of cats. All of these dogs were very precious to me but I have to stop and consider fully whether I’d be willing to enter a burning building in order to save them. A cat…well, I figure they’re well able to look out for themselves so would find a way out of the conflagration;

I am the cat who walks by himself’

But dogs…? Dogs are more dependable on the human factor and have become more domesticated over the years and so slightly overdrawn in the natural instinct bank, so the question still remains; back into the flames to rescue either an animal that wouldn’t give you the time of day for doing it unless there was a saucer of milk at the end of it, or an animal that wouldn’t know it’d been rescued nor what the danger had been.

On this day in 1962 an 18-year-old Brenda Lee was sufficiently attached to her poodle, Cee Cee, to re-enter the raging inferno that was her house in order to save the pooch. I’m sorry to stereotypically brand any animal but there’re couple of pointers here. Firstly, it’s a poodle. There’s no explanation on whether it was a miniature or a toy but I’ll bet a pound to a pinch of pig-shit that it wasn’t a standard. That’d be a difficult bundle to carry out, particularly as they weigh as much as a well-grown, well-fed Labrador and my guess is Ms. Lee, who was renowned for the smallness of her stature, would have really struggled to bounce out the flames with 80 pounds of petrified dog in her 18-year-old arms. That means that it’s a toy or miniature and so a lap-type dog and so more than normally dependent on the humans in the household. To further that point of conjecture it would seem Ms. Lee had a great deal of affection for it which sort of points to its stature as being small, babyish almost, and so see it as a surrogate child or sister/brother and so her desire to rescue it would have been all the greater.

Thing is, you see, if it had been a cat, as soon as it was presented with the smoke/flame free environment of the front lawn, it would’ve sauntered off into the neighbourhood in search of food (live or dead) or a caterwauling partner with nary a backward glance. No thanks sought or given. A dog on the other hand would have either licked its rescuer to death or, as in the case of Ms. Lee’s poodle, shown its gratitude by dying of the effects of the smoke inhalation two days later leaving behind all the commensurate vet’s fees and heartbreak.

Creed - Giving art a bad name

December 29^th – I’ve had some interesting experiences working with what one might term left-field theatre companies, certainly back in the 80’s. These were mainly in the small-scale sector of the business as this is mostly where experimental work first happens before it’s taken up by the main-stream and posited as original work by the London-centric creators. Four instances will suffice…stop me if I’ve told you any of these already.

1) What must be classed as the most startling opening to a show I’ve ever seen was as follows:

Blackout – Loud Rock Music – Fade out music to a distant performance of Mozart’s clarinet concerto - Lights up – Enter U/S/R a man wearing a belted and strapped straight-jacket and ball-gag. To the end of his cock was tied a white lanyard which gradually played out as he moved further on stage until eventually there appeared a skateboard attached to the other end on top of which was a portable CD player which was playing the Mozart piece.

That’s how you get an audiences’ attention.

2) Top of the show, three ladies enter U/S/C, two of them dressed as police women one as a prisoner. Within the first thirty seconds the prisoner is stripped of her clothing and the two policewomen begin to thrash her with whips and drench her in beer.

3) A man dressed in penguin suit and clown make-up with a sheathed sword on his belt enters S/L onto a pre-prepared circus ring of sand. Ravel’s Bolero begins to play as, over the next 15 minutes and 50 seconds he places and lights over 200 candles round the ring leaving six gaps at various intervals around the circle. From six boxes placed U/S he takes out and places six, half life-size, painted Madonna’s, one in each gap in the candles. He circles the ring on the inside and as the music reaches a crescendo so his movements begin to quicken and become more frenzied until, at the appointed time in the music he removes the sword from its sheath and, whirling like a dervish, beheads all six statues.

In the silence that follows (stunned?) he replaces all the heads, re-boxes the Madonna’s, douses all the candles with a silver snuffer…then the music kicks in and the routine is repeated…and again…and again.

4) Single O/H spot light fades up to illuminate a huge silver serving dish. Two butlers enter U/S/C and remove the lid to reveal a fruit-covered lady. As she begins to eat the fruit it is discovered she is naked…and all the fruit is not immediately visible.

Most theatre companies working in the small-scale sector have greater licence to push the boundaries of what some would call good taste, and I have to say that probably all of my best theatrical moments have happened at this street-end of theatrical production where original performances leave you speechless and change your life forever or radical re-workings of tired old standards that make you want to revisit the playwright’s other work, many of these performances being still very much a part of me and my informed thinking even after 30+ years. I think what helped in a roundabout way was having Mrs. Thatcher and the Conservative Party holding power throughout the 80’s. People had a figure they could play off’f and theatre writers and performers, as always, were at the forefront of dissention and dissatisfaction with the Conservative ideology and the careless regime they were living under.  What gave these writers and practitioners the right to say these things about the society we were living in and the callousness of our political leaders towards the people they were supposed to be caring for was that we were bearing the brunt of a Conservative government hiving off chunks of services and industries that were once thought of as part of the country’s infrastructure, the absolute necessities that the people had a right to expect to be provided by their government. The essentials to life (food, light, heat, health) that made it possible for them to go to work for the good of the country and pay their taxes to help fund these essentials that were being hived off to the government’s rich friends; here we were watching the wholesale giveaway to greedy fuckers who are still reaping the benefit of the gifts given by people who will never be in want.

This was what gave rise to a theatre that highlighted the iniquities in their society, gave it the right to say it and for once had the courage, instead of blubbing, of saying;

Fuck You.

It gave impetus to the Poll Tax riots and the breakdown of a previously unequivocal servility once afforded the forces of law and order. Now, at last, we fully understood that they were no better than us that, not to put a too fine point on it, their shit stank too.

Music, too, reflected this with punk developing into thrash metal and hardcore punk, and many bands made their name by singing the anthems of the people.

Time has rounded the sharp edges of that time and, from my own humble perspective, much of theatre went soft as it succumbed to the lure of subsidy and overseas tours paid for by the British Council, slipping easily into the city mentality of bonuses and junkets without realising this is just what their political masters wanted; they wanted them toothless, fat and sniping at each other as they fought for crumbs from the big man’s table; that way they were less of a threat, less of a rallying point for protest, less a focus for education on the state of the nation. Now it seems all everybody wants is a mobile ’phone, a Porsche and a big, fat pay-check. What doesn’t help either is listening to the wank-statements of spoiled and unconnected arses trying to justify their stupidity by claiming it’s all about the art.

Creed, an American band who seemed to garner what can only be described as mixed revues (my favourite concerning their particular brand of music is;

…a combination of overwrought power-balladry and Christian-infused testosterone…

Nice; a little unkind but…still; nice)

But they had a massive following of devoted fans. On this day in 2002 the lead singer of Creed, one Scott Stapp, in answer to a law suit brought by four disappointed fans claimed it wasn’t drink or drugs that rendered him incapable of singing the lyrics to the band’s well-established works. No. The reason he’d rolled around the stage mouthing gibberish was because he was having;

…an artistic moment…

Sorry, Mr. Stapp but that’s bollocks. These people in the alternative theatre world take their work very seriously. That’s the sort of response that gives real artists, even ones who behead Madonna mannequins, a bad name…

Gary Glitter - The thinking-man's Pol Pot?

December 28^th – Where do we get our reference points from? I mean, take obscenity; what makes one thing obscene and another not when you know, all along, the bounds of propriety have been well passed on both counts… Sorry, you know how my head works and I tend to write these things as I think them, hence you’ve had to sit through 362 days of gobbledegook… apologies; bit late now but nonetheless heartfelt. I’ll try and explain.

When the Americans got involved in Vietnam I’m sure the reasons they did made sense to those who instigated it; politicians, arms dealers, commie-haters in general, they all owned a tub of balm-of-conscience they could rub on themselves in moments of challenge (I was going to write doubt rather than challenge but those sorts of self-promoting pedants are never in any doubt as to the rightness of their stance, and anyway, Uncle Sam would soon crush those of the backward jungle-hustlers persuaders. I remember the highly-coloured T shirts of the day you could buy and wear with pride. Caricatures of cigar-chomping, muscle-laden US Marines with a blazing machine gun in each hand, two strips of belted ammo whizzing through the magazine, as they rode a drop-top, blown Chevy hot rod with the emblem;

VC FOR BREAKFAST – KILL A GOOK A MINUTE

emblazoned above their head in bold, black-and-red capitals…PC wasn’t all it could have been back then.

I think one of the central things that impressed themselves on me about war, when you watch real action movie footage of actual battles, is the total randomness of the slaughter. Why one person gets killed and another not, why a collapsing building hit by tank fire destroys one group of people and not another. Less puzzling is the systematic slaughter of thousands by leaders who believe they have the vision that others lack and that this vision somehow needs the well-planned murder of anyone outside of the central tenet of their belief; Pol Pot was onesuch.

This was a man so secretive it took the very best the international community could put together by way of counter-intelligence over a year to figure out that Pol Pot and Saloth Sar were one and the same person. He it was who masterminded the Cambodian communists (CPK’s) resistance against the might of both the Vietnamese and the US war machine…for years. Trouble was, as with just about every leader we’ve had and got, it’s a case of don’t do as I do, do as I say. Pol Pot decided that a return to an agrarian culture would be the best way forward for his people; not for him you understand, just the people. For him, he would live in the manner to which he would like to become accustomed, which meant the best of everything, but the people? They could slog it out in the fields every day (that’s as in every day) and live on a daily, small bowl of rice…between six; besides, honest labour was good for the soil…I mean soul. Dissenters were executed, intellectuals were murdered (those intellectual enough to dare to ask why) non-willing workers were put into forced labour camps and people who became sick because of a poor, inadequate diet, a lack of simple medicines or brutish working conditions were left to die: this ideology accounted for the deaths of around 3 million people; 25% of the Cambodian population in just four years; for those of a fussy inclination that’s 2,400 per day.

Now you’d reckon that even a relatively poorly-armed populace would eventually say;

FM, that’s a-fuckin’-nuff. Get this mad, bad and dangerous to know fruit-loop outta here.

But, no, even after three years of his policies Pol Pot still commanded sufficient influence and support to run it through a fourth. It was an army of Vietnamese forces that eventually cut short his regime (ably supported by outside forces, of course) but even then, Pol Pot escaped capture and melted into the jungles where he was guarded and cared for by the Chinese and a core support group of Khmer Rouge who, one imagines, thought he’d been doing a good job and needed preserving. As governments of pragmatism do in all these cases they elected a repenting Khmer Rouge general (goodness knows how involved he’d been in the massacres) as the new leader of an installed government more to their liking and Pol Pot was declared persona non grata by the bulk of the people who had once fought under his banner; one of the lessons learnt early on by a persecuted populace is when to switch sides.

If you take away nothing else from this chat then carry this with you: in matters of high concern (political power, conglomerate power, monetary gain) you can trust no one; they’ll sell their granny (and yours) for a crack at the title and they don’t care who they fuck over to get and keep it; seriously. Blair, Merkel, Farage, Cameron, Hamid, Medina, Bush, Abbott, Hollande. And this is because they have the ability to brush aside singular deaths for the pursuit of the greater good…make of that what you will.

Thing is you can’t fathom the workings of a population fighting for personal survival and the doctrine of the bullet. In spite of Mr. Pot having presided over and personally orchestrated the wholesale slaughter of his countrymen their was still enough support for him to be a troublesome alternative to what was laughingly called the official governing body by the pragmatist politicians. Amazing isn’t it; slit y’ throat one day, best of pals the next. My guess is rubber and timber had something to do with the need for some sort of settlement to be reached…timber that the wholesale use of the Agent Orange strategy had left standing that is.

South East Asia has something of a troubling reputation for sex tourism, particularly for child-sex tourism. Open touting by Lady Boys and prostitutes of all ages are seen as part of the local colour of the towns and cities, indeed it’s often the only way to earn a living above subsistence level. And for this market there’re many of that persuasion who scrimp and scrape to be able to afford their annual sojourn in order to indulge their little peccadilloes. And although indulging in under-age sex isn’t exactly condoned, still it’s easier to obtain there than in most other so-called civilised countries…or is it that it’s just better concealed in such other civilised countries?

However, even here there’s a certain line over which it would seem even the Vietnamese demand something must be done. When Gary Glitter’s extradition was sought by the UK government on child pornography charges in 2002, on this day he was swiftly ushered onto a plane and deported to face the wrath of the British courts; the process took a matter of weeks.

Now I don’t want to get into an argument with anyone about the merits of a sleb indulging in some under-age sex versus the finding and persecuting of a mass murderer but, does the preceding not strike anyone else as, well, at all odd?

Who y' gonna call? Delaney and Bonnie Bramlett.

December 27th – There are some performers who never really make it in their own right or at least only partially and yet anyone of stature in the music biz rates them, wants to perform with them and uses them for recording work whenever possible.

Eric Clapton is a recognised name who’s worked with many top names as either a jobbing musician or a welcome addition to a recording session. He has a worldwide reputation as someone who can hack it and fit into just about any musical setting that can contain his reputation; but it's not him. The Beatles have what one might class as a following and each individual member has achieved some level of solo success, albeit if only as a narrator for a talking train. George Harrison made a name for himself outside of the Fab-Four crèche and was reckoned to be the most musically adept of the quartet; but it's not him. John Lennon was no slouch when it came to self-promotion of the song-writing kind. His seminal group, The Plastic Ono Band gathered musicians from several areas of the rock business, including a guy many of the top flight musos would have given their eye-teeth to gig with; but it's not him. Dave Mason of Traffic garnered a reputation as a quality guitarist and sitar player and could sit-in on anyone’s session, live or recorded; but it's not him.

IMHO probably one of the best bands ever to be gathered together was that company of talents known as The Mad Dogs and Englishmen who accompanied Joe Cocker (much in the news at present due to his sad demise) on his tour of the same name and acquitted themselves so well in the face of a tour schedule that would fell lesser beasts, an alcohol intake that would fill the dry dock at Falmouth and a chemical intake that the entire six-month output of Hoffman-Laroche would’ve had trouble satisfying. Leon Russell, Chris Stainton, Carl Raddle…these are musicians with a serious amount of ability and experience who would grace any musical gathering and I’d figure some if not all would be instantly recognisable to many.

You may remember me posting, some time ago, a live track of a pick-up band to end all pick-up bands and recorded at several venues including The Royal Albert Hall, Fairfield Hall, Croydon Hall and the Colston Hall in Bristol. The track was I Don’t Want To Discuss It and it featured Eric Clapton, George Harrison, Carl Radle, Leon Russell, Bobby Whitlock, Jim Gordon, Dave Mason, Bobby Keys, Jim Price, Tex Johnson, Doug Bartenfield and Rita Coolidge and was fronted by Delaney and Bonnie Bramlett. How good is the track? Well, it’s a front-runner for my 9th Desert Island Disc if I were allowed such a thing. As far as their solo careers went, I doubt there’s many could name more than two or three tracks of theirs and yet their influence on rock music and several of its key players is the stuff of legend.

Mr. Bramlett, who died on this day in 2008 was the person all the aforementioned top-flight musicians queued up to either play with or have in their band and yet his own musical legacy is highly underplayed, as was the high esteem his wife, Bonnie, was held in. A seemingly highly approachable couple who could always manage to spare time and trouble for up-and-coming musicians, there are many who owe their start in the business to this couple, especially Mr. Bramlett, but it was Bonnie who had the most effect on another, self-appraised genius-in-his-own-opinion of the music scene, Elvis Costello.

Booze often puts people into situations they’d rather not be in and when a drunk Mr. Costello had a bit of a go at the US in general and Ray Charles in particular (remember this was in 1979 when Mr. Costello was still trying to play the part of a hard-nosed punk rocker) he found himself being slapped about by Ms. Bramlett. It took a number of minders and roadies to separate her from him and after the contretemps Ms. Bramlett said:

A lot of people may still remember me as a tough chick, which I was. I’m sober now, but I’m still from East St. Louis and he had rotten things to say. He was cursing my country and my mentor, Ray Charles. I wasn’t trying to make a point to anyone but him. I’d like to think he got the message.

Seems like she didn’t want to discuss it either.

The art of songwriting by Jimi Hendrix

December 26^th – Hope you had a wonderful day yesterday; me? Yup but as it's sandwiched between pantomime shows it has some of the gloss knocked off'f it (cue violins and floods of tears).

Masterpieces take years often a lifetime to create. At the shorter end of the spectrum it took Michael Angelo four years to paint the Sistine Chapel and that’s some good going when you see the quality and intricacy of the work…and the level of H&S that was flouted during the operation concerning the erection of the scaffolding. Mr. Tolstoy also laboured for four years to write War and Peace, supposed by some to be a great work. Can’t say I feel that enthusiastic about it as a story but as an historical document on the minds and manners of the people of the time it holds a wealth of detail. Coming down the scale slightly, Ludwig van Beethoven completed his ninth symphony in just under three years (and he was almost completely deaf when he did it) Benjamin Britten completed his War Requiem in two years, it took Mr. Handel just 24 days to compose the Messiah and Mr. Tchaikovsky wrote the 1812 overture in just a week so, knockin’ on a bit then.

With most works of creativity, certainly those worth more than a nod that is, the gestation period is often as long as the creative act. Most writers will tell you that, in many cases, the quality of a finished novel can often be equated to the years the manuscript spends in the bottom drawer of the dresser. Not true in every case, of course but things do need time to percolate before becoming fruitful; what’s that thing about, if you’re going to write something and it needs research then read and think deeply about the subjects, forget them…then start to write; it’ll all come back but in your own prose.

On the other hand there are artistic endeavours that are of the moment. I was in a heavy rock band called Hooker back in the 80’s, an interesting mix of lunatics that got together over a coffee-followed-by-a-malt meeting. At an early rehearsal it was decided the band had to have a signature tune that people could identify us/it with. The lead guitarist was plinking away during a lull (as lead guitarists are annoyingly wont to do) when he strung together a series of notes/chords that had a certain, guttural flow to them. Long story short, we pieced together a rampaging, take no prisoners track and, in the break after sorting it, I wrote the lyrics to it; took about an hour all told, then a couple of hours the following day to fine-tune the track and it was a staple of the band’s live shows for the three years we were together. Sorry, that all sounds like a brag; not meant to be, honest, it’s just to illustrate a point.

See, no-one’s ever heard of Hooker and the track I wrote has sunk into the sea of oblivion that is known as tracks no-one’s ever heard of. There are reams of these efforts that are reeled off by bands that never make it; suffice to say it takes a real talent to compose something that gains worldwide recognition and becomes the signature tune, not just for a band but for a whole generation.

On this day in 1966 whilst performing at the Uppercrust Club in London, Jimi Hendrix wrote the lyrics to Purple Haze in his dressing room in the break between performances. Now that’s humbling.

Desert Island Discs – You are allowed to take one book and one luxury item; nothing to help you escape just a deviation.

My Book: - An identification guide to the birds of wherever it is I end up which is boxed with a pair of Carl Zeiss Jena 8 x 40 Binoculars.

My Luxury: - A Ludwig drum kit consisting of: Two Bass Drum (One 22-inch, One 24-inch) both with hide Batter and Plastic Undersides – Four DW9000 Bass Drum Pedals – Two Snare Drum (One 14-inch, One 12-inch) with Plastic Batter and Undersides – Six, Rack-Mounted Tom-Tom Drum (Size Range 16-inch to 9-inch) all with hide Batter and Plastic Undersides – Two Floor-Mounted Tom-Tom Drum (One 18-inch, One 20-inch) Both with hide Batter and Plastic Undersides – 10 Zildjian Cymbal consisting of: 1 x 16-inch Sizzle, 1 x 12-inch Sizzle, 4 x Crash Size Range 18 to 12-inch, 1 x 12-inch China, 1 x 14-inch Inverted China, 1 x 14-inch Hi-Hat Top, 1 x 14-inch Hi-Hat Bottom – 10 Mapex Roadtour Cymbal Stands of Various Heights – 100 spare skins for each drum, Batter and Underside – Five sets of spares for each cymbal stand – 5,000 Premier ‘E’ Drumsticks – Cases for all the above…not that I’ve given this much thought, you understand…

White Christmas Bombshell

25^th December – A Very happy Christmas to you all.

Songs, like plays, books or films, will always find resonance with someone; I mean, let’s face it, whether it’s Blasted, Sarah Kane’s bleak play about human brutality of the physical, sexual and emotional kind, American Psycho, Bret Easton Ellis’ work about a serial killer or Martyrs, Pascal Laugier’s revenge film, each have their champions. It’s the price we pay for espousing to live in a society that gives the individual the right to freedom of speech or expression within the bounds of socially acceptable norms, just ask the makers’ of The Interview.

The numbers of appreciative readers or viewers lessen as the subject becomes more polarised in either its content or context, and this is perfectly understandable. My guess is there are many who would enjoy watching three of the four of Andy Warhol’s series of films called, Kiss, Eat or Sleep. I’m not one of them, as I figure would be the same for probably 95% of the populace (unless they were trying to appear cool). The fourth in the series, Blow Job, however, does have a certain attraction; not for me, you understand, just I think there would be a bigger audience for it than, say, Sleep which is five and a half hours of watching someone sleep…suddenly Blow Job becomes more interesting mainly ’cos it’d be over in, like, a minute and a half tops.

There are, however, certain artistic endeavours that tap into the world’s consciousness and become indelibly imprinted on the psyche; one such was White Christmas recorded by Bing Crosby in 1942 and entering the top ten on this date five years later. At the time of its first airing in 1941, the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbour precipitating America’s involvement in WW2 (late) and this involvement laid a foundation for the song’s success. It has just about everything a song needs in order to become what it has; a route back into nostalgia and fantasy that we would all wish was the norm. Written by Irving Berlin it’s ranked number two in the Songs of the Century listings and has sold 50 million copies worldwide (up to 2009). It’s the perfect matching of voice, sentiment, time and orchestration that have enabled it to endure so long. Childhood memories are stirred with innocence and the power of dreams is conjured up, transporting anyone with a soul back into a simpler time. This yearning for peace was uppermost in the ordinary US citizens for the duration of the war, a lesson they failed to learn because within twenty years they were making a hash of Vietnam; not in the minds of arms manufacturers of course, but certainly in the minds of anyone with half a brain and a scintilla of a social conscience. The end of major hostilities (WW2) was brought about by the dropping of two A-Bombs on Japanese cities causing the conservatively estimated deaths of 150,000 in Hiroshima and 75,000 in Nagasaki, the overwhelming number of victims being non-military.

This quintessentially American song, White Christmas, which gained much of its popularity for its lyrical imagery of mom and apple-pie and is also reminiscent of the flaky white-grey fall out post the bomb exploding, has been recorded by over 500 other artists and in many different languages. One of those releases was in Japan, sung in Japanese; the song became a huge hit there…

I leave the final words to Harry S. Trueman:

I realize the tragic significance of the atomic bomb ... It is an awful responsibility which has come to us ... We thank God that it has come to us, instead of to our enemies; and we pray that He may guide us to use it in His ways and for His purposes.

Read ’em and weep.

EIGHTH DESERT ISLAND DISC – Not in any particular order and as at 15/10/13

8) Landslide – Fleetwood Mac – From the album Fleetwood Mac – Recorded 1975 – Songwriter/ Stevie Nicks – Vocals/Stevie Nicks/ Guitar/ Lindsey Buckingham – Keyboard/Christine McVie

Nothing finer exists in the pantheon of self-realisation than this song. Volumes, nay libraries have been written about the same subject matter, this composition condenses it all down to three minutes twenty seconds. Place it together with Ms. Nicks’ tobacco-and-honey vocals, her ability to put over a song’s meaning (an echo of everyman’s explanation) and we end up with the key to the real doors of perception.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WM7-PYtXtJM

Slapstick for a bathtub

December 24^th –

ASTON offers the bag to DAVIES.

MICK grabs it.
ASTON takes it.
MICK grabs it.
DAVIES reaches for it.
ASTON takes it.
MICK reaches for it.
ASTON gives it to DAVIES.

MICK grabs it. Pause. 

Anybody? Name of the play? OK then, writer? The last word should give you the best clue.

Mick and Montmorency were a music-hall TV double-act of the ‘50’s’ who specialised in what we know as slapstick comedy. The usual vehicle for their humour was what we’d call slosh items, a decorating scene with paste brushes, ladders, buckets of paste and planks of wood or a window-washing sequence with wet cloths, buckets of water and ladders, moisture in its various forms being a common denominator where misunderstandings and plain stupidity reigned supreme.

It ran as part of the children’s television of my youth and I can still recall certain episodes and routines that gave me my sense of humour that I still retain today; that of the sight-gag. And oftentimes it isn’t the huge gesture that gets me, it’s the little looks and facial realisations that hold as much humour as the foot-in-bucket – when I nod my head, you hit it kind of thing. It’s that reading between the lines/dramatic set-pieces thing that I enjoy and still informs some of my writing today…not that you’d notice it.

When Bobby Darin was challenged by DJ, Murray The K that he couldn’t write a song that opened with the words, Splish-Splash, a challenge he accepted Mr. Darin produced a single that has had an enduring legacy since it was penned in 1958. You and I may well class it as a novelty song but I’ll have you know it’s attracted some of the finest in the trade, take Bobby Kimball (Toto lead singer) and Bill Champlin (Chicago keyboard player). Acting as the support musicians for a cover of Splish-Splash, who would you put with them to do lead vox? Why, Barbara Streisand of course. I know, I know, I couldn’t quite get a fix on it either.

The UK version was recorded by the character known as Montmorency. It made the top ten in 1958 (there wasn’t much else about at that early time in rock’s history so…) and was another step along the road to fame for Charlie Drake who died on this day in 2006.

18 singles followed, the vast majority also novelty records, and his comedic flair made him a natural choice for the part of a fool in any serious theatrical productions of the Shakespearian kind, as is always the way. Find a comedian with a bit of acting ability and stick him in A Midsummer Night’s Dream or King Lear, or Twelfth Night. They do it all the time with varying degrees of success. It’s kind of an upmarket version of shoehorning a soap star into a panto; there to put bums on seats. Having taken a Montreux Festival award in 1968 with a piece that featured him in every musician’s role in an orchestra (including the conductor) whilst a piece of classical music was played and gradually slapsticked the players, Mr. Drake was a prime candidate for the token popular entertainer in any serious drama all done to prove that the RSC and the ROH weren’t at all elitist…yeah, right…

Thing is, Mr. Drake was good enough not only for these roles but also for taking the lead in Harold Pinter’s, The Caretaker, the play from which those opening lines above come from…which, of course, you all knew. Playing at the Royal Exchange Theatre in Manchester, he picked up an award for his playing of Aston the character whose Electro Shock Therapy treatment sessions have left him brain damaged and who now has no greater desire in life but to build a shed…Pinter remember. Having made such headway it was a downward turn when he teamed up with Jim Davidson (you can probably tell I’m not a fan) to star in the adult pantomime SINderella, playing the part of Baron Hard-On (gosh, typical Davidson subtlety, find some smut then beat people over the head with it).

That aside, I have fond memories of Mr. Drake’s early work and I do believe my ability to laugh at some of my actions as I grow older are, in a large part, due to my sharing rooms with him and all filled with ladders which had a bucket of paste balanced precariously on top of each of them. I’d also like to think that his headstone has, Goodbye, My Darlings chiselled on it…

SEVENTH DESERT ISLAND DISC – Not in any particular order and as at 15/10/13

7) Just Because – Jane’s Addiction – From the album Strays – Recorded 2003 – Lead Vocal & Programming/Perry Farrell – Guitars & Piano/Dave Navarro – Drums & Percussion/Stephen Perkins – Bass Guitar/Chris Chaney

Some of the best fuck you, sleb lyrics set to a drive ‘em all over the cliff musical backdrop and played a bunch of poseurs.

Not a lover of the personal (anyone who drinks wine straight from the bottle to impress an audience is, imho, an arse) but hat’s off for the track.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9UqHxQ8-Zxo

Rock Commentary as vomit recognition

December 23^rd – In the spirit of the times I’d like to begin with a quiz…well not so much a quiz as a question. Before the end of this piece (don’t look at the bottom) name the band, the movie and the speakers:

The official explanation was, he choked on vomit. He passed away.

Yeah. It was actually someone else’s vomit.

There seems to be no end to the inventiveness of man when it comes to exploiting something in order to wring yet another ten cents out of what was a good thing when it first started. I think that’s why I like literature so much, the written word. It seems to represent the purest form of intercommunication we have. Reading a piece of poetry or prose or ploughing one’s way through a novel means different things to different people. That’s why, when we’ve read a novel and it gets turned into a TV series or a film, as the lead actor or central place of action comes into camera we all internally, sometimes externally, say;

She/he/the house looks nothing like that!

And that’s because there is no greater set designer, no better character creator than the human mind. It can transport you anywhere with anyone; its only downfall is that each person’s destination and companion looks different to anyone else’s. The film or play or musical of that wonderful book you read so often fails to live up to what you saw in your mind as you read it and that’s because, with a film or series, you’re looking at someone else’s imagining, someone else’s construction of that tale. Unlike a story in a book, once it’s there, on stage or screen and with those fully-formed characters it can’t be altered; nothing you can do will change it. The most annoying thing about this whole process is, in the main, the reason it’s done that way is just to make/save money.

No, OK, I know, sometimes there are worthy efforts that breathe life into what are seen by film makers as one-dimensional set pieces, but that’s exactly what they aren’t. To each reader they are three-dimensional characters in a complete landscape of places, events and possibilities. But, you see, if they remain in that format there’s no money to be made, so they make movies of best-sellers ’cos it’s one way of the highly nervous film industry partially guaranteeing an audience and nothing makes a film exec. sleep more soundly than a guaranteed audience. But when the movie’s done what then? Well, a DVD? A sound recording of the music? a musical maybe? A stage play? A cut-out-and-keep picture book? An interactive game? Fancy-dress in the style of? The franchise possibilities are endless and often more profitable, and they’re prepared to exploit these money-making gimmicks to the bitter end…and beyond, the franchise outlets often making more than the original adaptation, certainly more than the book. However, these things can sometimes defy the book-to-film conundrum; remember James Bond?

If a film creation becomes significantly embedded into the nation’s consciousness, like for instance Withnail and I, then it reverses the flow (I await the musical) but for me the outcome is still the same. What is created firstly as a film welds characters and environments to the action and it’s very hard to dislodge those set-in-celluloid creations, but James Bond/Ian Flemming bucked that trend. Remember the difficulties faced when Sean Connery quit being Bond? I mean, who amongst us rated George Lazenby? Honest now. Thought not. That’s not a reflection on the abilities of an Aussie model, I’m sure he’s a very capable performer, just not in that role. And that was because we’d already got our Bond and Mr. Connery probably fitted the character the vast majority of readers had in their heads. My guess is the only reason Roger Moore was so easily accepted in the role was because of his earlier work in The Saint, a ‘60’s’ TV spy series.

OK, time for a helping hand; another quote from the same movie I opened with;

These go to 11.

Got it now, I guess. When This is Spinal Tap was first released in 1984 I figure no one had any idea just how well it was going to do, how it would become part of rock history, and all from a mainly ad-libbed mockumentory that sought, and succeeded, in sending up the rock/heavy metal world of music, nor could they have foreseen that the characters would be treated as real. It’s a widely known fact that Spinal Tap’s bass player, Derek Smalls, was born on this day in 1943. Many of the film’s quotes have passed into everyday parlance and the characters are now a staple of every take on the music industry. It has made millions for all involved in DVD sales and on regular screenings…but, as you well know by now those millions are never quite enough; there’s always another ten cents can be squeezed out of it. To that end they took this fictional band out on tour to heavy metal festivals around the world. Piss-poor shows involving four actors playing at being rock stars doesn’t cut it and the whole franchise, imho, took a nosedive and lost its magic; but that was secondary to making a buck.

Such a shame. As in so many endeavours of an artistic kind it never seems to be enough to have created something of worth, something that will endure in the nation’s artistic DNA. Think I’ll leave the last words to Spinal Tap; You can’t really dust for vomit.

SIXTH DESERT ISLAND DISC – Not in any particular order and as at 15/10/13

6) Dead Cell – Papa Roach – From the album Infest – Recorded 2000 – Lead Vocal/Jacoby Shaddix – Lead Guitar & BV/Jerry Horton – Bass Guitar & BV/Tobin Esperance – Drums/Dave Buckner

A track that reminds me of my demonstrating days past, present and future and to never resort to tears when it comes to serious disagreements with government. Reminds me how government views the majority of its population, of how I need to be secure of my facts when discussing their actions and to use simple, descriptive language when calling their bluff. Reminds me never to be afraid of the consequences as long as I tell the truth and of how to know when turning the other cheek will result in a blow from behind. My revolutionary days are still very much with me.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jZUxC1Yxjxc

Membership of the 27 Club

December 22^nd – Like Morse or Lewis, there’s nothing the press like more than an unsolved mystery as this means it will run and run, always good for copy on a slow-news day. Band fans, too, like their heroes to be enigmatic and there’s nothing more enigmatic than a rock icon dying not only young but in, Dan-der-ran-dan, mysterious circumstances.

Don’t know ’bout you but I like my song lyrics to be a little more challenging than moon-June-spoon. I’m a great poetry fan and in that idiom, too, I like my verse to be of a quality that not only shocks my system with realisation but also taxes my mental agility with wordplay; as you can tell, I’m a wow at parties. By the time the soup’s finished two-thirds of the guests have topped themselves the others having left. So, what do I mean by the foregoing notes about song lyrics and poetry? Well, try this:

Teacher starve your child, P.C. approved

As long as the right words are used

Systemised atrocity ignored

As long as bi-lingual signs on view’

Or

‘PCP - a P.C. police victory

PCP - a P.C. pyrrhic victory

When I was young P.C. meant Police Constable

Nowadays I can't seem to tell the difference

Or how about:

P.C. caresses bigots and big brother, read Leviticus,

Learnt censorship, pro-life equals anti-choice, to be scared of, of feathers

Those words and lines are like a cryptic puzzle and the discovery of what they refer to brings with it a flash of light and understanding that is both attractive and addictive to me (sad old fucker). There are clues in those lines that allow the reader/listener to decipher the nationality of the wordsmith, and from that comes a pathway into the individual/s involved. When the opening paragraph is re-read further information is forthcoming too… But enough of subterfuge, time is short and Christmas is on the cusp.

There’s an exclusive club, The 27 Club to which most of us (those with any sense, a grip on their own reality and an unshakeable belief that they will see 80) would never want to be a member of. Brian Jones, Alan Wilson, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, Pete Ham, Gary Thain, Leslie Harvey and Amy Winehouse (as well as our man of the moment above) are all members, so it’s a pretty exclusive club; however, when the doors close no-one gets to come out.

Deep thinking can greatly increase one’s enjoyment of life and the arts but it’s a double-edged sword. Oftentimes it can depress the thinker and after all their deliberations and reasoning, there’s a realisation seeps in that there’s pretty-well nothing they can do to change a set of circumstances or right a wrong. This can lead to an even deeper depression and can, in certain cases and under certain conditions, seriously threaten the health and welfare of the individual; but depression is just one of the symptoms. Self-harm or dietary punishments often accompany the depression as can the use of outside stimuli in order to gain release or equilibrium, as Steve Lamacq found out when he questioned the honesty and validity of the Manic Street Preachers and, in particular, the authenticity of Richey Edwards, the band’s guitarist and lyricist. Mr. Edwards (born this day in 1967) sought to prove his point by carving 4 Real into his forearm with a razor blade, an action that required 18 stitches to repair.

Those lines of poetry above were penned by Mr. Edwards who, at the age of 27, went missing and is now presumed to be dead even though no body has been found. There’s a story that will run and run. So far he’s been spotted in India, Fuerteventura and Lanzarote and his so-called mystery disappearance hasn’t been well served by his own words. When asked about suicide, Mr. Edwards replied:

In terms of the ‘S’ word, that does not enter my mind. And it never has done, in terms of an attempt. Because I am stronger than that. I might be a weak person, but I can take pain

Well I guess your reaction to the interview with Mr. Lamacq proved that point. Thing is, all that quote did was become a prop to support the belief that you’re still about, sunning yourself on some tropical isle and living off’f the royalties.

Like I said at the beginning, just fodder into the trough of red-top journalists…and a poet of your quality should still be in production, not just resigning himself to membership of the 27 Club.

FIFTH DESERT ISLAND DISC – Not in any particular order and as at 15/10/13

5) The Mob Rules – Black Sabbath – From the album Mob Rules – Recorded 1981 – Vocal/Ronnie James Dio – Lead Guitar/Tony Iommi – Bass Guitar/Geezer Butler – Drums/Vinnie Appice

Socio/political comment set to a roller-coaster of a track that kicks in after 2’ 52” of scene setting and never gives you chance to breathe after that. A drummer’s track if ever there was one.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oO6uBQJ35N0

Elvis van Kuijk

December 21^st – They say behind every great man is a great woman, not so in the case of Elvis Presley; I wonder how he’d have got along without Andreas Cornelis (Dries) van Kuijk?

When impeached ex-president Nixon finally got his just deserts after Watergate was anyone surprised? There were many who considered that it should have been him and not John F. Kennedy in that car in that parade in Dallas; I’m not so sure, certainly following the revelations surrounding Mr. Kennedy’s lifestyle and peccadilloes. Not that I have bad vibes about him, Mr. Kennedy. To me politicians of all hues and ideologies are, in the vast majority not a race to be trusted; someone called them legalised gangsters. Too harsh? To take liberties with W.S. and butcher a quote from his Julius Caesar;

The good these men do is often obscured by their shenanigans which eventually leads them on to really fuck things up

I bet Bill wishes he’d written that, so much more eloquent than the wordy crap he came out with.

You have to wonder at the arrogance of those in high office who have the luxury of a 30 or 50 year rule, about the things they’ve done whilst in power, you know, like those foreign chappies who pass a law that removes any possibility of them being prosecuted for blatantly breaking the law. Well the 30/50 year gig gagging order is exactly the same. It exonerates them from all prosecution and allows them to play fast-and-loose with a nation and its peoples. We all know the Iraq war was illegal, we had it on paper that the NATO resolution wasn’t given and that lies and obfuscation were applied on a daily basis; has anyone been prosecuted? Has anyone come near to being prosecuted? Nope. Now Bliar is the Middle East peace envoy (there’s an oxymoron of the highest order) and ex-president Dubya is relaxing on a stipend of $3m per annum, charges around $200,000 per speech and is on the verge of gaini9ng further reward if the US is foolish enough to elect his son into high office. Both the above gained rewards for wrongdoing in my book but we’ll never know the extent of that for another 50 years…if ever.

Mr. Nixon was in the same league. A man of little intellect but massive fancy footwork, he managed to trip the light fantastic for years and it was only after Messer’s Woodward and Bernstein fucked him over with Watergate was he forced to step down. His life didn’t turn out so bad even after David Frost got him to admit his wrong doings and apologise on live TV for his misdemeanours…the misdemeanours that had ramped up an unwinnable war in Vietnam and cost the lives of, what, thousands of America’s young men. Prison? Fines? Loss of kickbacks? Nope. You or me? 5 billion years in the slammer on bread and water. Mr. Nixon. Lecture circuit. Development of US ties with China as a special envoy… Happy retirement, Mr. Ex-President.

Andreas van Kuijk showed a rare skill in fancy footwork too as he dodged the powers that be in the US. A shifty con man from the fairground, who was a murder suspect and an illegal alien, he changed his name to Tom Parker in the call up for WW2, because to do otherwise might uncover his illegality. After demob and on the lookout for a way to employ his hard-sell abilities, he came across a young man named Elvis Presley and saw an opportunity to use his fairground skills. He gradually became the driving, guiding force behind Mr. Presley and worked things so well that at one time he was taking 50% of everything his protégé earned. On hearing of Mr. Presley’s death his one overriding concern was to protect the image (and earning potential) of The King and got Mr. Presley senior to sign over all the marketing and management of…well, of a dead man really. Probably the last words should go to Priscilla Presley when she attended her ex’s funeral:

Elvis and the Colonel made history together, and the world is richer, better and far more interesting because of their collaboration. And now I need to locate my wallet, because I noticed there was no ticket booth on the way in here, but I’m sure that the Colonel must have arranged for some toll on the way out.

On this day in 1970 Elvis Presley met Richard Nixon in the Oval Office of the White House where they shook hands for a photo op. It’s hard to work out who made the most on the royalties of that one. My money’s on Col. Tom Parker…

FOURTH DESERT ISLAND DISC – Not in any particular order and as at 15/10/13

4) Waltzing Matilda – Composed by Eric Bogle 1971 – Recorded by June Tabor 1976 as part of her album Airs and Graces.

A Scottish hymn about Australian soldiers fighting Turks in Gallipoli in a world-wide war. A sublime, unaccompanied voice that, every time I hear it, refreshes my own convictions about war (and those who persecute it) as an act of diplomacy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uEMcLcGJ79s

Jethro Tull's Ascending Lark

December 20^th – We’re a bunch of weak-kneed sycophants these days. The incidence of labour fighting for their rights against the bosses seems to be a thing of the past. Gone are the days of Everybody out and secondary picketing, bus-loads of belligerent workers traversing the country in support of their brothers, days of solidarity and comradeship. By stealth and our own complacency successive governments have chipped away at worker’s rights until we barely have the authority to take a crap without seeking written permission. Trouble was we misused our power. Always the same. Get someone in charge, some tin-pot general, and they start to believe their own press cuttings, begin to think they’re Icarus; and it works like this at every level of both power and command. Politicians, union bosses, heads of large corporations, CEO’s, they all have the potential to trample on their own ego and many of them do, to the great relief of the daily news.

Back in the late 19^th Century, Joseph Arch began what became the Agricultural Workers Union as;

…by the light of a solitary lamp, the committee members sat on the old farmhouse chairs or stood on the stone-flagged floor round the table, compiling the list of newly-joined members, counting the union funds heaped in two large tea cups - and discussing ways and means of building the union.

Paints a grand picture. Suffice to say that a rocky road eventually led to the formation of The National Union of Agricultural and Allied Workers in 1906. Mr. Arch became an M.P. and was well respected as a champion for agricultural workers whose job had been made much easier when Jethro Tull invented the seed drill in 1701. Gone were the days of hand broadcasting seed with the commensurate loss of both seed and eventual crop. The hit and miss efforts of before gave way to a precision sowing method that cut costs dramatically in a few short seasons. Thing is, those savings were just pocketed by the landowners and not a cent went to the farm workers. Neither increased wages or bonus payments to the workers for better harvests; no wonder Joseph Arch found fertile ground when he first mooted the possibility of forming a union.

Standing on one leg whilst doing anything is difficult; standing on one leg whilst playing a flute is just show-offy; but it gets one noticed. Ian Anderson of Jethro Tull made it his trademark, an idiosyncrasy that still persists to this day. As the front man for the band Jethro Tull, which was formed this day in 1967, he/they have been continually touring and recording even up to the present day. With the money he made from his albums and touring, Mr. Anderson bought a Scottish estate on the Isle of Skye and invested in salmon farming which gave him and his wife (as sole shareholders) a business worth multi-millions. As a landowner he exploited the landscape (I don’t have time to discuss the environmental consequences of salmon farming here; if you’re interested, read up on it…it’s not a pretty picture) and, it would seem, turned the original Jethro Tull legacy on its head.

THIRD DESERT ISLAND DISC – Not in any particular order and as at 15/10/13

3) The Lark Ascending – Composer – Ralph Vaughan-Williams – David Nolan/Violin – London Symphony Orchestra – Conductor/Vernon Handley

Quintessential English music, based on The Lark Ascending, a beautiful and evocative poem by George Meredith. Hearing this takes me back to my childhood, of summer days spent bird-nesting with my father and pushing cattle aside to drink from ice-cold trough-springs to slake my thirst. For soldiers in war, in any war but particularly 1914-18, the landscape Mr. Vaughan-Williams creates was their reason and their reasoning; not the music but the emotion the music stirs, a reminder of all that can and should be preserved about England, all that is worth fighting (and dying?) for.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZR2JlDnT2l8